Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Read online

  ‘Jules speaks highly of you, M’sieur Holmes, and with no small justification. How is he? Really, I mean. Was he badly wounded?’

  ‘He will limp for the rest of his days,’ Holmes replied. ‘But the matter could have been worse.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I am, of course, familiar with your reputation, and can only thank you for the service you have already performed for my family. Saving Gaston’s life … well, that is not something I am likely to forget. I am in your debt, sir, so please – ask of me what you will.’

  ‘The matter is a simple one, m’sieur. For reasons I do not yet fully understand, I believe your son has become an unwitting participant in a plot to kill your brother. Fortunately, the murder attempt failed. But then Gaston himself became a target, and it is my conviction that whoever is behind the plot will make another attempt to silence him. Therefore, I am here to ask your permission to take him from his prison cell in Amiens and hide him away until the matter is resolved.’

  Though shocked by the news, Paul said without hesitation: ‘Of course.’ But before he could say more he stopped, choked by emotion, and quickly turned his face away. Holmes waited patiently, half-expecting Berthe to make some attempt to comfort her husband. She did not.

  After a few moments Paul cleared his throat and turned back to him. His dark eyes still swam with tears. ‘Forgive me, m’sieur, but I am just relieved to know that Gaston did not take it upon himself to attempt murder – that he was forced into it.’

  ‘How is he?’ asked Berthe.

  ‘He has withdrawn into himself, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Who made him do this dreadful thing?’ asked Paul.

  ‘That is what I am still trying to find out,’ said Holmes, adding: ‘I believe Gaston has a history of … emotional problems?’

  ‘Yes. But that was not always the case. He is the eldest of our four children, and a brilliant scholar, but sometimes brilliance can be as much a curse as a blessing.’

  Holmes offered no comment, but knew only too well how true the statement was. ‘Your brother also speaks highly of him,’ he said.

  ‘That is no surprise, m’sieur. Jules spent much time with the boy, more even than I. And Gaston was never happier than when he was in Jules’s company. In my brother he found an intellectual match, someone with whom he felt … comfortable. Jules took him around the world, even arranged a very good job for him in Paris. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way …’ His voice faltered. ‘M’sieur, are you sure I can rely upon your confidence?’

  ‘I give you my word.’

  ‘Then please judge neither Gaston, nor Jules, nor indeed me, too harshly. But it seemed to me that Gaston became … possessive of Jules – even jealous when not in his company.’

  ‘Did you ever mention this to your son?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He became quite angry with me. He said I was imagining things.’ Paul sighed, troubled. ‘To be honest with you, M’sieur Holmes, I found his actions distressing since I felt that the emotion was wholly … unnatural.’

  Betraying nothing, Holmes said: ‘Did Jules do anything to encourage this behaviour?’

  ‘I do not like to think so. In any case, I felt uncomfortable with the relationship and requested that Jules distance himself from Gaston. This he did, though I know it pained him greatly to end their friendship.

  ‘As for Gaston, he was distraught. It was this, I believe, that finally unhinged him. He grew belligerent, complained that he was constantly being followed by the police and began to talk of going to live in England. Eventually he had a nervous breakdown and we had no choice but to admit him to a sanatorium in Blois.’

  ‘And it was from this sanatorium that he escaped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After a pause Holmes said quietly: ‘Do the initials “V.D.C.” mean anything to you, m’sieur?’

  Paul thought for a moment. ‘I am sorry. They mean nothing.’

  ‘Do you keep any pistols, sir?’

  ‘I have a shotgun which I use occasionally for pheasant, partridge and dove, but no. No pistols.’

  ‘Has Gaston ever shown any interest in guns?’

  ‘No. He was always an aesthete, M’sieur Holmes, in the very truest sense of the word. From an early age he cultivated an unusually high sensitivity to all that was beautiful in art and nature. He found violence abhorrent. He was truly the “Dreamy Mouse” Jules always called him.’

  ‘And yet you said just now that he grew belligerent.’

  ‘He did, and it was wholly out of character. When the mood was upon him, however, he would challenge anyone and everyone to a duel. But his weapon of choice was always the sword.’

  Holmes pondered for a moment. ‘If it is possible,’ he said then, ‘I would like to examine Gaston’s room at the sanatorium, and see for myself how he escaped. Would you write me a letter of introduction, giving me the authority to do that?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘If it will help.’

  ‘It may.’ Holmes abruptly got to his feet. ‘Well, thank you, M’sieur Verne, you and your wife have been most helpful. Before I go, however, I have one final question.’

  ‘Ask it.’

  ‘Does your brother have any enemies that you know of?’

  ‘None,’ Paul replied. But then his face clouded and he said, almost to himself: ‘But then, I do not know everything about him.’

  Holmes left Paul Verne’s residence and got directions for the telegraph office on Quai Brancas. Here he sent a terse message for the attention of Dr John H. Watson, in care of Number 2 Rue Charles Dubois, Amiens:

  ANSWER IS YES STOP PLEASE ARRANGE

  WITH ALL DISPATCH STOP

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Busy Day

  The following morning Watson took the telegram directly to Jules Verne, who was at his desk overlooking the cathedral, trying vainly to concentrate on his writing. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, ‘but I thought you would like to know that your brother has agreed to let us hide Gaston away until this matter is resolved.’

  Verne read the telegram and nodded. ‘You are not disturbing me, Docteur. I have read this same page at least three times without taking in a single word.’

  ‘Have heart, sir. Everything will soon get back to normal.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ sighed Verne. ‘But to more important matters; how do you propose to spirit Gaston out of Amiens? And if these “enemies” of mine are as powerful as M’sieur Holmes suggests, how can we guarantee that they will not follow you?’

  ‘My place is by your side. Holmes has, after all, entrusted me with your safety.’

  ‘Then we must wait for Holmes to return.’

  ‘I do not think we dare wait. Holmes said we should act with all dispatch.’ Watson thought for a moment. ‘I wonder if we dare entrust Inspector Mathes with the task? We know we can trust him.’

  ‘True. But he has a job to do here in Amiens. He cannot just drop everything to undertake a favour for the likes of us – and certainly not without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘Is there anyone you feel you could trust?’

  ‘Normally I would have said my publisher, Pierre-Jules Hetzel. He is a man I would trust with my life. But unfortunately he is gravely ill. In fact, his doctors do not expect him to last out the week.’

  ‘There must be someone.’

  Verne considered briefly, then managed to smile. ‘I believe I have the very man, Docteur. His name is Gaspard-Felix Tourachon, though he is better known under the alias “Felix Nadar”.’

  Watson frowned. ‘Should I have heard of him, m’sieur?’

  ‘It is quite likely,’ Verne said. ‘Did you by any chance see the deathbed photograph of Victor Hugo that appeared in the papers last year?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Felix was the photographer. He is something of a polymath, Docteur. Not just a gifted photographer but also a journalist, a cartoonist and many other things besides. I have known him for more
than twenty years. The man is absolutely fearless, and utterly trustworthy.’

  ‘Where do we find him?’

  ‘In Marseilles.’

  Surprised, Watson said: ‘Marseilles! That’s on the other side of the country, isn’t it? It overlooks the Mediterranean! It must be at least eight hundred kilometres away.’

  ‘Closer to a thousand, I fancy.’

  ‘With respect, sir, we need someone rather closer than that, I fear.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Verne said determinedly, ‘he is our man. Come, Docteur, there is much to do if we are to make this thing work. First we must enlist Nadar’s assistance. Then I think I should see my own doctor, ostensibly about this troublesome leg wound of mine, but in reality to find a safe place where Gaston can be held and treated.’

  He struggled to his feet and reached for his crutches. Watching him with concern, Watson said: ‘Are you sure you want to take so much upon yourself, M’sieur Verne?’

  ‘Anything is better than sitting here and brooding,’ the author replied with feeling. ‘Besides, I owe it to Gaston. He is of my blood, Docteur, and someone has taken him and corrupted him and attempted to use him against me. I do not take kindly to that. Nor will I stand for it. Now, if you would be so kind, my friend, please ask Honorine if she will have my carriage made ready. Then we will set to work.’

  Verne was as good as his word. The coach took them to the post and telegraph office on Rue Gambetta. Here Verne sent a telegram to Felix Nadar, saying only that he needed Nadar’s assistance in an urgent personal matter. He also added the phrase ‘Six-Quatre’ to the message.

  Watson frowned. ‘What does that mean, m’sieur?’

  Verne smiled. ‘Felix will know.’

  Their next stop was the surgery of Verne’s doctor, where the author made a great show of hobbling painfully through the crowded waiting room. Behind closed doors, however, he dropped the pretence and came directly to the point.

  ‘I need your help, Simonet, and I rely upon your oath to keep what we discuss here between us.’

  The doctor frowned and looked from Verne to Watson and back again. ‘Naturellement. What is the problem, Jules?’

  Verne told him as much as he felt the doctor needed to know. When he was finished the doctor said: ‘There is a small, exclusive sanatorium just outside Le Combeau that I believe would suit your needs. It is fairly isolated and they have an excellent reputation. But I warn you, it is expensive.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Verne. ‘Can I rely upon you to arrange for my nephew to be admitted?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then please, I beg you, offer up an alias so that we may keep this thing as quiet as we can.’

  ‘I will see to it, and have all the details delivered to you by this afternoon.’

  ‘I cannot explain why,’ Verne said, ‘but I would prefer you to handle this matter yourself. It may sound melodramatic, but you must entrust this matter to no one else, Simonet.’

  They returned to the telegram office on Rue Gambetta and Verne collected a reply from Felix Nadar. It said simply:

  JUST TELL ME WHEN AND WHERE STOP

  Their next stop was the central police station on Rue de la Republique, where they were immediately shown into Inspector Mathes’s office.

  ‘In light of the attempt made upon my nephew’s life two nights ago,’ said Verne, ‘Sherlock Holmes feels that we should remove Gaston to a safer location known only to a few of us, and I can only agree. But we cannot do this without your help, Inspector.’

  Mathes said immediately: ‘You have it, M’sieur Verne. I have only been holding him pending instructions from his family. When do you propose to take him?’

  ‘Tonight, at midnight. Can you arrange it?’

  ‘I will hand him over to you myself,’ the inspector said. ‘I have the greatest admiration for you, M’sieur Verne. To decide against pressing charges against the man who shot you and then to help him as you are doing now … well, you are a humanitarian, sir, and I salute that. Would you care to see Gaston while you are here?’

  Verne shook his head, and looked down at the tips of his shoes. ‘I think not. He was – is – a dear boy. It is too painful now for me to see what his tormentors have made of him.’

  There was a brief, awkward silence. Then Watson took Verne by the arm and, thanking the inspector, they left the station.

  For the third time that day they stopped at the post office and Verne asked the clerk if he might consult an atlas. After a few moments of hurried calculation, he finally scribbled a new message and had it sent to Felix Nadar. It read simply:

  00:00 STOP 49° 53’39.45” N STOP 2° 14’19.81” E STOP

  Looking over Verne’s shoulder, Watson said: ‘Forgive me, but am I to understand that you expect M’sieur Nadar to be here by midnight? From Marseilles?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Verne replied confidently. ‘He will be here.’

  Watson had trouble believing him but decided not to press the issue. ‘And now, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Now, Docteur, let us go and get something to eat. There is a café just across the street, and their pastries are excellent. But don’t take my word for it. Let us go there now.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lydie

  Jules Verne was right – the pastries were indeed excellent. But as it turned out, the company proved to be even better.

  ‘I am very much a product of my times,’ Verne admitted, watching as the people of Amiens walked past. ‘I was born and raised in Nantes, an exciting city even then, and watching the ships on the Loire, wondering where they had come from and where they were going, inspired my love of travel and adventure.

  ‘I was also lucky to have Brutus de Villeroi as one of my teachers at college. He went on to create the American navy’s first submarine, you know – the USS Alligator. And of course, this too had a profound effect upon me.

  ‘I sometimes think I was born with the urge to write, to perform in some way, to entertain. When I went to Paris to study law, I spent more time writing operettas than anything else. My father, himself a lawyer, was furious when he found out, and without his financial support I had no choice but to abandon my writings and find work. I became a stockbroker, and a moderately successful one, but my heart was always in writing, just as I suppose my head has always been in the clouds.’

  He smiled wistfully and muttered: ‘How sad it is when a father finds only disappointment in his son.’

  Just then a shadow fell across the table and when Watson looked up, the breath caught in his throat. Standing before them was the woman who had complimented him upon his French just a few days before. Today she was wearing a three-quarter-length jacket over a snow-white blouse, and a full, ankle-length skirt in dark burgundy, her ensemble complemented by an ornate straw boater.

  At once he sprang to his feet and inclined his head courteously. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. It is a great pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘I am so sorry to bother you, gentlemen,’ she said somewhat self-consciously. ‘But I have been awaiting the chance to speak with you, M’sieur Verne, and seeing you here at this moment, quite by chance … well, it was too good an opportunity to resist.’

  Verne clearly did not wish to be interrupted, but he was nothing if not a gentleman. ‘You will forgive me, mademoiselle, but the last few days have been something of a trial for me—’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I arrived in Amiens the very day you were shot. Indeed, I was just approaching your house when it happened. I … It was terrible. Thank goodness you were on hand, m’sieur,’ she said to Watson, who shrugged modestly. ‘I did not realize at the time that you were a doctor, but it is fortunate for M’sieur Verne here that you were.’ She hesitated briefly before adding: ‘You are John Watson, are you not? The man who records the exploits of M’sieur Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘I have that privilege,’ said Watson.

  ‘Then I am doubly fortunate. But please, forgive me. I can only blame my lack of manner
s upon my excitement at meeting not one but two great literary figures. My name is Lydie Denier. I am a journalist. Well, that is to say, I am trying to become a journalist. But it is not so easy for a woman. At present I write for L’Amoureaux des Livres, a small-circulation literary magazine in Paris. In order to prove my worth, my editor has challenged me to produce an interview with a major literary figure. I had settled upon you, M’sieur Verne, and was on my way to request it when the, ah, unfortunate situation happened. Now I see an opportunity to return to Paris with not one but two interviews!’

  ‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle Denier, but this is not the best time,’ said Verne.

  ‘Such a shame,’ she said, disappointed. ‘But of course, I understand.’

  Verne and Watson exchanged a look. She had seemed so enthusiastic, and of course she was so pretty….

  Verne relented. ‘Let us see what the morrow brings,’ he suggested. ‘You obviously know where I live. Come at, say, two o’clock, and we will try to oblige you with some useful quotes.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Oh, thank you, messieurs! You have no idea what this means to me!’

  ‘De rien,’ Watson said gallantly.

  He took her hand, kissed it and looked into her eyes. He was pleased to see that she did not blush or look away. Instead she smiled fetchingly.

  Delighted, he remained standing as she walked away. A lingering breeze flooded his senses with her perfume. She smelled of orange blossom, lavender and honeysuckle, and he found the combination as intoxicating as the woman herself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Intruder

  By the time they got back to Rue Charles Dubois it was late afternoon and Verne was beginning to tire. It had been a busy day and he looked drained. When Honorine suggested that he rest for a while, he offered no objection.