Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Murder is Attempted

A
fter giving their statements to the sergeant, they wearily made their way back along Boulevard Longueville. The broad street was filled with the dispersing crowd and revellers from the park and they were bumped and jostled by people hurrying past. They had almost reached their destination – Verne’s house on Rue Charles Dubois – when Holmes noticed a stocky man in a long, navy-blue overcoat and peaked cap walking towards them on the other side of the street. ‘I believe that is our man,’ he said softly.

‘Verne?’ asked Watson.

‘Verne.’

Watson looked more closely at the fellow. In his late fifties, he had a full grey beard, walked with a sailor’s rolling gait, and resembled an old sea-dog.

As they watched, the man turned right into Rue Charles Dubois. A second man, one of Verne’s neighbours, waved to him from the front of his own property. Verne, head down and clearly deep in thought, offered no acknowledgement.

He reached the wrought-iron gate in the lichen-covered wall and was just about to open it when another man stepped out from behind one of the beech trees that lined the street.

His face was obscured by a white mask with dark, sad eyes and a downturned mouth: the face of tragedy.

In his left hand he held a pistol.

Spotting the weapon, and momentarily wondering if his eyes were deceiving him, Watson exclaimed: ‘Good grief!’

Having seen the same thing himself, Holmes was already looking for a break in the busy traffic so he could cross.

Unable to find one, he decided to chance it anyway. He dashed out in front of an oncoming cab, and the trotting horse shied and reared up in its traces. Holmes leapt aside, raced on and narrowly escaped being crushed from the other direction by the wheels of a drayman’s wagon filled with heavy barrels.

‘Watch where you’re going!’

‘Look out, you fool!’

As Holmes sprinted onto the opposite pavement, he heard the man in the mask yell:
‘Salaud!’

Then the man fired his pistol.

The weapon spat flame and stone chips flew from the cement frame around the gate. Startled, Verne looked around, perhaps wondering if he had mistaken the sound of the shot for a carnival firecracker or the report of an air rifle inside the shooting gallery tent.

The masked man fired again.

This time Verne felt a searing pain in his left leg. Crying out, he fell against the wall and slid slowly to the ground.

As the masked man came closer, Verne shouted:
‘Stop him!’

Across the street, his shocked neighbour heard him but fearing for his own life, hesitated to get involved.

Holmes had no such compunction. Without stopping, he hurled himself at the gunman and they both crashed against the wall. As the man’s hat flew off, his light brown hair spilled across his mask.

Holmes tore the gun from the would-be assassin’s hand, fully expecting him to resist. But he seemed strangely unaware that he had been thrown against a wall, much less that he had just attempted murder. Puzzled, Holmes dragged the man back to his feet and tore the mask from his face.

As he had expected, he found himself looking into the face of
the young man they had first seen at Boulogne-sur-Mer – the troubled watcher of raindrops.

Up close, the remnants of a fading bruise could just be seen upon the young man’s chin.

Now that the danger had passed, the neighbour regained his courage and came hurrying over to help. Still the would-be assassin just stood there, motionless, a sad, vacant look in his unfocused hazel eyes.

Cursing him, Verne’s neighbour got him in an arm-lock and pushed him face-first against the wall. The impact drew blood. Still the young man offered neither resistance nor reaction.

Catching his breath, Holmes turned to Verne. By now Watson had reached the fallen author and was carefully removing his left high boot and sock so that he could examine the wound. The bullet had struck Verne deep in the lower shin, a few inches above the ankle. It was an ugly wound and it was bleeding fiercely.

A crowd had started to gather. As Watson removed his tie and set about fashioning it into a makeshift tourniquet, he caught a distinctive flash of purple off to his left. Glancing that way, he saw the attractive woman who had complimented him on his French at Gare du Nord standing among the curious, chattering passers-by. He nodded at her and then continued tending to his patient.

Behind Holmes and Watson the gate in the wall now opened and a servant rushed out. Drawn by the sound of the shots, he looked at Verne and exclaimed:
‘M’sieur!
What has happened?’

‘He’s been shot,’ Watson said. ‘Summon an ambulance at once!’

‘As for you …’ snarled Verne’s neighbour, manhandling the vacant-eyed young man, ‘I ought to crack your head open!’

‘No, Fréson!’ cried Verne. ‘Do not hurt him!’

The neighbour looked at Verne in surprise. ‘
What?
But,
m’sieur
, this man just tried to kill you!’

Verne, face as pale as damp parchment, shook his head. 
‘Leave him be, I say. He meant no such thing. Of that I am certain.’

‘How
can
you be certain?’ demanded Fréson.

Verne hesitated, then said: ‘Because this man is my nephew, Gaston!’

CHAPTER SIX

The Dreamy Mouse

 
F
or one fleeting moment there was total, stunned silence. Then the onlookers started chattering again and Holmes, realizing that someone had to take charge, snapped orders to Verne’s servant. ‘Help your master inside. It is cold out here and there is the threat of more rain. Watson – help him.’

‘Of course….’

Watson had been looking for the woman in the purple dress, but she must have left while he was treating Verne. Now he helped the servant gently lift Verne to his feet, and together they assisted him through the gate towards the house.

A dog – the same black spaniel they’d seen earlier – was still barking furiously. A woman in a long brown dress and pearls was standing in the middle of the darkening courtyard. Hands pressed anxiously against her cheeks, she watched as they helped Verne limp towards her.

‘Jules?’ she called, alarmed. ‘Jules! What happened?’

‘It is … nothing, Honorine,’ he said weakly. ‘Nothing of … consequence.’

But she knew better. As soon as she saw his leg wound, the dark, intelligent eyes beneath her delicately arched brows widened in horror. ‘My God, you’re bleeding!’

‘He has been shot,’ said Watson. ‘But do not worry,
madame
, I do not believe the wound to be life-threatening.’

The woman – obviously Verne’s wife, Honorine – was about the same age as her husband. She was above average height
and of portly stature, her round, clear-skinned face reflecting a kindly nature. She had a long straight nose, a wide,
determined
mouth, and wore her silver hair in a centre-part, pinned close to her head.

‘Dear God,’ she said, ‘we must get him inside, quickly!’

Holmes watched the exchange, then turned to Verne’s
neighbour
and said: ‘I will take charge of this man now.’

‘You are welcome to him,’ Fréson said, pushing Gaston roughly towards Holmes. ‘Should I call for the police?’

‘I imagine they have already been summoned.’

Taking Gaston by the arm, Holmes led him through the gate. Gaston was still docile, hardly aware of his surroundings. As if in a daze, he stumbled up the steps on his way into the house. The spaniel rushed up to meet him, happily sniffing around his legs and wagging its tail. Gaston ignored it.

As Holmes led his prisoner into the hallway, a floorboard creaked underfoot. Honorine, who was watching Watson tend to her husband from the sitting-room doorway, heard the noise and turned around.

Recognizing Gaston, she frowned and said angrily: ‘You! Did
you
do this?’

Gaston merely tilted his head to one side and stared down at the rug.

‘Gaston!
Answer me!’

Again, Gaston ignored her.

‘Madame Verne?’ Holmes inquired.

With effort she drew herself up and stifled her obvious anger.
‘Oui, m’sieur.’

‘I fear we have not yet been introduced. I am Sherlock Holmes.’

‘O-Oh, yes, of course….’ Honorine stopped glaring at Gaston and offered Holmes a troubled smile. ‘Jules said you were coming. He was most excited about it, in fact.’ She again glared at Gaston before adding to Holmes: ‘Forgive my rudeness,
m’sieur
. But as you can imagine, all this has come as a dreadful shock. Did you see what happened?’

‘Yes.’ Over her shoulder Holmes could see into the
dark-walled
, copper-ceilinged sitting room where Watson was tending to Verne’s injured leg. ‘Gaston tried to shoot your husband. Do you have any idea why?’

‘None,’ she replied, her face creased with emotion.

‘You are quite sure of that?’

Honorine didn’t answer for a moment. Then, ‘I am sorry,
m’sieur,’
she apologized. ‘My mind is elsewhere at present. Yes, I am quite sure.’

‘
Madame
, is there somewhere quiet I can put Gaston until the police arrive?’

Verne’s servant appeared at Holmes’s elbow. ‘Certainly,
m’sieur
. Please come with me.’

He led Holmes along the hallway to a large kitchen at the back of the house. Holmes sat Gaston in a chair at the table and knelt before him. Gaston gave no indication that he knew Holmes was there. Holmes waved a hand before his face. Still he continued to stare blankly ahead. Under the servant’s curious gaze, Holmes tilted the young man’s face towards the window and looked into his eyes. The pupils dilated normally. He was not under the effects of any drug, then. And yet –

He straightened up again, looked at the servant and said: ‘Watch him. I daresay the police will be here shortly.’

‘Oui, m’sieur.’

He was just about to turn and leave when he realized that Gaston was still looking towards the window. Holmes followed his gaze, but saw only Verne’s landscaped gardens beyond the glass, bordered at their furthest edge by a row of gigantic beeches.

Then he realized that Gaston was not looking out the window, but rather at the copper-lined sink immediately below it … and the tap that was slowly dripping water into it.

He looked back at Gaston. Gaston was staring intently at the tap, his lips twitching as if in anticipation as every
successive
drip formed, grew heavy and finally splashed into the sink. With every drop he appeared to flinch infinitesimally.

‘I shall be back,’ Holmes told the servant.

In the sitting room Verne was now resting comfortably in a big easy chair, a glass of brandy in one unsteady hand. He was a big, bluff-looking man with a high forehead and curly silver hair. ‘M’sieur Holmes,’ he said wearily, ‘I am so sorry that you had to witness this unfortunate episode.’

‘Do not concern yourself unduly,’ Holmes said, shaking hands with him. ‘I am only glad that we were on hand to make sure the business ended in no worse a manner.’ He indicated Watson. ‘You have already made the acquaintance of my friend, Dr John Watson, of course?’

‘He has been most kind,’ said Verne. ‘But what of Gaston?’

‘He appears to have retreated into a state of near-catatonia.’

Watson rose. ‘Perhaps I should take a look at him.’

‘If you would.’

After Watson had gone, Holmes asked Verne: ‘Do you know why your nephew would wish to shoot you,
m’sieur
?’

Verne fought a battle with emotion that he did not entirely win. ‘
Non
.’

Sensing the author wasn’t being entirely truthful, Holmes said: ‘I do not mean to contradict you, M’sieur Verne, but are you absolutely certain of that?’

Again Verne battled his emotions before replying: ‘
Oui, m’sieur
. Quite.’ He paused, sighed heavily and then smiled as if his thoughts pleased him. ‘Gaston – my dreamy little mouse, as I always call him – is very dear to me. I love him as my own. Speaking candidly, M’sieur Holmes, his company was always preferable to me than that of my own son. We have travelled extensively together, to your own country, as well as Scotland, Holland, Denmark…. He is a serious boy, studious, but it was his very seriousness that I always admired.

‘However, some months ago Gaston suffered a nervous
breakdown and was hospitalized at Blois. I did not even know he had been released.’

‘Perhaps he wasn’t,’ mused Holmes. ‘He may have escaped.’

‘Either way, it is of no consequence,’ Verne said firmly. ‘Aside from this injury, no harm has been done. I fear Gaston is suffering far more than I.’

Holmes glanced around the room. It was neat and homely, its walls lined with framed maps that reflected its owner’s great passion for geography. ‘Still,’ he persisted, ‘there must have been some reason why he sought to harm you.’

‘Please, M’sieur Holmes,’ Verne said tiredly. ‘I beg you to let the matter go.’

‘I know of one,’ said Honorine, behind him.

Holmes turned to her. ‘Which was…?’

‘Gaston wrote to Jules recently, asking for money,’ she explained. ‘He said he wanted to move to England. Of course, we knew that his father, Jules’s brother Paul, would never allow it. So Jules wrote back and refused the request.’

‘And that is all?’

‘M’sieur Holmes, we appreciate your concern,’ Verne said firmly. ‘And you have my deepest apologies for any distress this incident may have caused you. But I must ask you to accept this matter for what it is – nothing more than a silly family argument that has been blown out of all proportion.’

Holmes inclined his spare shoulders. ‘As you wish,
m’sieur
.’

At last three
gendarmes
arrived. They were accompanied by a short, slim, dark-eyed detective who introduced himself as Inspector Vincent Mathes. Mathes removed his flat-topped derby hat, finger-brushed his naturally curly black hair, tugged at the cuffs of his black frock coat and quickly checked the knot of his burgundy silk tie. Then he nodded gravely to Verne and his wife. He was perhaps thirty, with bushy brows, flared nostrils, thick lips.

‘M’sieur Verne,’ he said with a click of his heels. ‘May I ask what happened here?’

‘It was nothing,’ the author said uncomfortably. ‘Merely a small and insignificant personal matter. I do not intend to press charges.’

‘Perhaps not,
m’sieur
. But a gun was discharged on the streets of Amiens. Whether you wish to press charges or not, that is a serious crime. You have the man in custody, I believe?’

‘He is being kept under watch,’ Holmes said.

Mathes turned to him. ‘And you, sir, are…?’

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’

Mathes stiffened as if he’d been slapped. ‘Are you making light of this matter,
m’sieur
?’

‘This man
is
Sherlock Holmes, Inspector,’ Honorine confirmed hurriedly. ‘He and his colleague, Dr Watson, had just come to pay my husband a visit when the shooting occurred.’

Mathes studied Holmes with new interest. ‘You witnessed the shooting,
m’sieur
?’

‘I did.’

‘Then I am indeed fortunate,’ said Mathes, offering his hand. ‘Your reputation precedes you, sir. I am a great admirer of your methods. Truly, I could wish for no better witness.’ He gestured for Holmes to be seated. ‘Please, let us hear the matter as you saw it. Then I will arrest the guilty party.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ asked Verne, his expression wretched.

‘I’m afraid it is, yes.’

‘Then I beg you, treat him charitably. He recently suffered a breakdown, and is not himself.’

Mathes studied the writer for a long moment before nodding brusquely. ‘For you,
m’sieur
.’

‘Merçi.’