Read Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Online
Authors: Steve Hayes
Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (18 page)
I
t was late afternoon by the time Holmes returned to Verne’s house. Even before he confronted Watson in the sitting room and saw the bruising around his companion’s right eye, he sensed that something had happened in his absence.
‘Another attempt was made upon Verne’s life,’ Watson confirmed upon questioning. He went on to recount the events of the morning, then said quietly: ‘I owe you an apology, Holmes. It appears that you, uh … were right about Lydie.’
‘I take no pleasure in that,’ Holmes replied bleakly. ‘However, she did exactly as I expected her to – she travelled to Paris, and then on to a location either in or beyond la Fôret Domaniale de Malvoisine. Unfortunately I could not follow her to her exact destination for fear of being discovered.’
‘But she very nearly led you to the headquarters of the Knaves?’
‘That is what I believe.’
Watson cursed under his breath. What a fool he’d been to accept her at face value! And how ridiculous to have clung to the belief that Holmes had been wrong about her in the face of almost overwhelming evidence! He felt immature and
thoroughly
humiliated. But more than that, he felt disappointed. He had fallen for her glib tongue … and fallen for her in other ways, too.
‘It has been a long day, Holmes,’ he sighed, heading for the door. ‘I think I will go for a walk.’
‘To the Cheval Noir?’
It was on the tip of Watson’s tongue to say no, but there was little point: Holmes had always been able to read him like a book. ‘If we are to make any real headway in this case, then I think perhaps a little straight-talking with Mademoiselle Denier is in order,’ he said.
‘She’s gone, old friend.’
Watson blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Since there was nothing else I could do in Paris, I came back to Amiens ahead of her and awaited her return in a coffee shop across the street from Gare du Nord. When she finally arrived she took a cab directly to her hotel. A little later she
reappeared
with her bags packed, and returned to the station. There she bought a passage to Lyon.’ Again he said: ‘She’s gone, old friend.’
Watson’s brows pinched together. ‘Without a word…? But why?’
‘Perhaps her presence is no longer needed in this affair. Perhaps word of the second failed attempt upon Verne reached her superiors and she was dismissed.’
Watson’s lips thinned. ‘I have been such a damned idiot.’
‘You are not the first man to allow his heart to rule his head.’
‘Not just about Lydie,’ Watson replied, lowering his voice. ‘About Verne, too … You know, I was so ready to condemn him, and I
did
condemn him. I still cannot condone his behaviour, of course. I never will. But given the difficult relationship he had with his son, I suppose I can at least …
understand
it, after a fashion. That was something else you were right about – that I would change my opinion of him.’
‘Then you are in credit,’ Holmes said gently, ‘for you have now learned two valuable lessons from this business, and they can only make you a stronger and wiser man.’
Watson nodded morosely. Holmes may well have been right in what he said … but just then it was a very small consolation.
That night, over dinner, they discussed Jules and Honorine’s forthcoming party at Versailles.
Though Verne himself appeared to have no real enthusiasm for the affair, he was adamant that it should go ahead. Too many people had been invited, he said, and he would not disappoint them. Besides, Honorine had spent weeks planning it. ‘There is only one thing I will not do on the night,’ he finished, and gesturing to his wounded leg said: ‘I very much regret that I will not be able to
dance
with you, my dear.’
‘You may surprise us yet,’ Honorine said.
The couple had certainly chosen a memorable location for their celebration. The Château de Versailles lay approximately twenty kilometres south-west of Paris. Built by Louis XIV in 1624, originally as a hunting lodge, it had become the home of the French royal family some forty years later and remained so until the Revolution in October 1789.
In the century or so of its royal ownership, four major building campaigns had been undertaken to enlarge and expand the palace until it became one of the largest in the world, and with its 1800 acres of parkland, certainly the largest in Europe.
As Holmes pored over maps of the palace after dinner, the true scale of Versailles became almost too much for even his keen intellect to grasp. The statistics alone were
awe-inspiring
. Versailles contained more than 700 rooms and very nearly seventy separate staircases. It occupied more than 19,000 acres in total, making it larger than Manhattan Island. Spacious enough to accommodate up to 5,000 people, and with stable-space for 2,000 horses, it also included a faithful replica of a farm, known as Le Hameau de la Reine, to which Marie Antoinette often fled in order to escape the demands of royal life.
It was at Le Hameau that Verne’s party was to be held.
‘It is a virtual settlement in itself,’ he explained. ‘There are meadows and streams, a lake, and a number of buildings – a farmhouse, a dairy, barns, a mill, even a tower built to resemble a lighthouse. It is a most unusual location.’
‘And your guests will have complete run of this, uh, “
settlement
”?’ asked Watson.
‘Of course. The location is too unique to ignore. Weather permitting, I fully expect that most of the festivities will take place out of doors.’
‘Where you will be at most risk,’ said Holmes.
‘And where I will be surrounded by more than seventy family members and friends,’ Verne countered. ‘Witnesses all, should the Knaves make another attempt upon me.’
‘The area should be secure enough,’ said Honorine. ‘No one will be allowed in without an invitation. Anyone not on our guest list will simply be turned away.’
‘That may be true enough,’ said Holmes. ‘But there will also be caterers, serving staff, musicians – and these we cannot vouch for.’
‘Then we will just have to risk it,’ Verne said firmly. ‘There is no cancelling the event now.’
Holmes studied the map for a moment longer before saying: ‘Your staff here can, of course, be trusted?’
‘Implicitly.’
‘Then we will enlist their help on the day, and place them at strategic points around Le Hameau, with orders to watch for anything suspicious.’
‘I too will play my part,’ Michel said earnestly.
‘We
all
will,’ added Watson, smiling at Verne. ‘Even, I suspect, Inspector Mathes.’
Without warning, Verne turned away and hobbled to the fireplace.
‘Are you all right, Jules?’ asked his wife.
He nodded without turning around. ‘Yes,’ he replied at last. ‘But I am humbled. The events of the past week … Gaston …
the unwanted attention of these so-called Knaves … well, it has been a trial. And yet here, tonight, I stand among so many good friends, friends willing to lay down their own lives to protect mine.’ He turned back to face them, his eyes moist. ‘I am indeed blessed,’ he said softly.
Later that evening Holmes collected his hat, coat and cane and allowed Watson to accompany him to the door. There, Watson said softly: ‘Regardless of what we’ve said to the contrary, this party of Verne’s is an open invitation to the Knaves, you know.’
‘Of course it is. But you heard the man. He will not cancel. All we can do is take every precaution as we can to protect him.’
‘Just you and I? Verne’s son, Inspector Mathes and a handful of domestic staff?’ Watson’s expression was doubtful. ‘Somehow I do not fancy our chances.’
‘What choice do we have?’ asked Holmes.
Watson made no response. But as he closed the front door behind his friend he thought:
What choice, indeed?
W
hen Holmes returned to Verne’s house the following morning, he received a surprise. As Honorine showed him into the sitting room and then sat beside her husband and Michel on the sofa, she said: ‘Docteur Watson left early this morning,
m’sieur
. He said he would not be back until this evening.’
Holmes stared at her. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘No,
m’sieur
.’
‘And you did not ask?’
‘Surely, the doctor’s business is his own.’
‘Did he take your carriage?’
‘No,
m’sieur
, he left on foot.’
Verne said: ‘Is he not entitled to a little time to himself,
m’sieur
? After all, the past week has been a strain for all of us.’
‘Watson would not have left your side without good reason.’
‘And you are wondering what that reason is?’
‘I am indeed.’ Holmes knew that for Watson to desert his post at any time, much less now, was wholly out of character and did not bode well. ‘Did he receive any visitors either last night or this morning?’ he asked.
‘
Non
.’
‘A note, perhaps?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And his manner when he left this morning?’
‘He was his usual self,’ said Honorine. ‘Perhaps a little more serious than usual, but….’
‘He did not appear agitated, as if he were acting upon some sudden impulse?’
‘No,
m’sieur
.’
‘What can we do?’ Michel asked.
Holmes looked at each of them in turn. His face was a mask that betrayed nothing of the very real concern he felt. ‘Nothing,’ he said calmly. ‘I shall attempt to locate him myself.’
Excusing himself, he left the house.
He started at the most obvious point, the Cheval Noir. But the desk clerk was adamant that no one fitting Watson’s description had enquired after Mademoiselle Denier either the previous evening or this morning. He asked among the cabbies outside Gare du Nord if they had picked up a passenger of Watson’s description that morning. Once again the answer was no. At Gare du Nord itself Holmes asked if a man answering Watson’s description had bought a ticket, and if so, where to. The railway clerk told him that he had only come on duty at ten o’clock and really couldn’t say.
It was always possible, of course, that Watson hadn’t left the city at all. But his comment about returning by this evening implied that he was going further afield. Where? Lyon? It was doubtful. The round trip alone would take at least twelve hours; too far to allow him to return by evening.
Had he remembered something significant that Lydie had told him at dinner the evening before last? Something he had decided to check out by himself? Holmes focused all his energy on solving the mystery, but when he returned to Verne’s house two hours later, it was in defeat.
There had been no word from Watson, not that he had really expected any. All they could do was await his return … and hope that indeed he
would
return.
Watson rang the doorbell a little after seven o’clock that evening. Holmes sprang from his sitting-room chair to answer
it. Watson came inside without a word of explanation and took off his overcoat.
‘We have been concerned for you,’ Holmes said, when it became clear that Watson wasn’t about to volunteer any
information
as to how he had spent his day.
‘There was no need. I left word that I would be back this evening.’
‘Still, it is out of character for you to simply disappear.’
‘I should hardly call it “disappearing”,’ said Watson. ‘It has been a difficult time for everyone. I felt that I needed some time alone, that’s all.’
Holmes didn’t believe him. There was more to it than that, he felt certain. But he knew better than to pursue the subject. He knew from experience that Watson would under no
circumstances
appreciate that.
There was to be one more major upset for Verne that week.
The following evening, a Thursday, dinner was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of Verne’s servants. He handed Verne an envelope which he said had just been
delivered
. Conversation around the table faded as Verne opened the envelope and read its contents. A moment later his shoulders slumped and a curious moan escaped him.
Honorine quickly moved beside him. ‘What is it, Jules?’
‘It is Hetzel,’ he managed at last. ‘He is dead.’ He bowed his head and murmured: ‘Good Lord, will the bad news never stop?’
Later, in the smoking room, the author recovered enough to explain that Pierre-Jules Hetzel had been his publisher for almost a quarter of a century. ‘But he was much more than that,’ he went on. ‘He was a wonderful friend, an astute
businessman
and the best possible editor any man could wish for. He took a dismal writer and showed him how to really construct his work. He told me to add humour, and I did. He told me to excise great, selfish passages in which I had extolled
my own political beliefs, and I did. He dismissed my sad endings and told me to write happy ones, and I did. And through his guidance I became the writer you see before you today.’ He swallowed a lump. ‘I shall miss him.’
‘His death was in no way suspicious?’ asked Holmes.
Verne shook his head. ‘The man was seventy-two, M’sieur Holmes. He had been in poor health, and the news was not entirely unexpected. But even so, it is hard when a man loses such a friend.’
‘We shall cancel the party,’ Honorine decided, ‘as a mark of respect.’
‘No,’ said Verne. ‘Pierre would never have stood for that. No – the party will go ahead, but in addition to celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our first meeting, we shall use the occasion to celebrate his memory.’