Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (5 page)

BOOK: Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts
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A
light wagonette ambulance arrived shortly afterwards and Verne was taken to hospital. As Holmes and Watson took their own leave with a promise to return the following day, Watson shook his head in disbelief.

‘What a day!’ he declared. ‘We witnessed the murder of one man and the near-murder of a second! I don’t mean to sound callous, Holmes, but I shall be very glad to return to our hotel and the promise of a little peace.’

‘Indeed,’ Holmes replied distantly. ‘But first we have one last errand to perform – we must reclaim our luggage before it is sent on to Henri.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I believe we shall be staying here rather longer than first thought,’ explained Holmes. ‘There is far more to this business than meets the eye.’

‘Oh, come now—’

‘Verne is not telling us the entire truth.’

‘That is his prerogative.’

‘According to his wife,’ Holmes continued, speaking almost to himself, ‘Gaston asked Verne for money and Verne refused. Is that a strong enough motive to then try to murder a beloved uncle?’

Watson sighed. Around them the day was drawing to a close and the streets of Amiens were gradually becoming less busy. The sky had turned a deep Prussian blue and as Holmes had
predicted, it had started raining again, though just a light drizzle.

‘Gaston is clearly not of sound mind,’ Watson replied at last. ‘Who can tell how such a man’s thoughts work?’

‘Nevertheless, he came here with a clear purpose, Watson. And where did he get that rather distinctive gun he used? It was, I believe, a Perrin and Delmas pistol of 1859.’

Watson shook his head in admiration. ‘You certainly know your weapons, I’ll grant you that.’

‘I know that
particular
weapon. It was the first successful double-action, centre-fire pistol ever manufactured in Europe. Furthermore, Verne told me that his nephew was confined to a sanatorium in Blois, following a nervous breakdown. So why did we first encounter him on the station at Boulogne-
sur-Mer
?’

‘Perhaps Boulogne-sur-Mer is
near
Blois.’

‘It isn’t, you know. It is some five hundred kilometres in the opposite direction.’

‘I had no idea your knowledge of France was quite so
encyclopaedic
.’

‘It’s not,’ Holmes said. ‘But Verne is a keen geographer, and as you may have observed, the sitting room into which you took him was replete with maps. I merely consulted one of France during our conversation.’

Watson considered the matter briefly before asking: ‘Is it not possible that Gaston was released from the sanatorium?’

‘It is possible, but unlikely. You saw him earlier. Did he appear in any way cured to you?’

‘Well … no.’

‘In any case, the matter is easily answered. We shall send a wire to the sanatorium first thing tomorrow morning, asking after the facts surrounding the young man’s release.’

Watson halted abruptly. ‘Holmes,’ he said, ‘need I remind you that one: this is no concern of yours, and two: you are supposed to be here on holiday?’

‘Call it natural curiosity if you like,’ said Holmes. ‘Ascribe it to our sixth sense. But I can feel in my very core that there is more to this matter than meets the eye. And talking of eyes, were I to turn a blind one to this matter then, as you so rightly pointed out yesterday morning, I would be negligent not only to my profession but also to a friend.’

‘Holmes—’ Watson began, then stopped. He saw something in Holmes’s expression that had been missing for far too long – purpose. Although he personally felt that the matter was, as Verne had said, little more than a family squabble that had gotten out of hand, he was willing to indulge Holmes if the investigation of the matter hastened his recovery. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Where do we start?’

‘First we shall reclaim our luggage, and then we shall return to the Hotel Couronne for a good night’s sleep.’ Holmes paused and wearily squeezed his brow. ‘You are right, old friend. Travel
does
tire a man out. And I have a feeling that we shall need all our wits to deal with this case. This thing, I believe, is going to get worse before it gets better. Possibly
much
worse.’

E
arly the following morning they paid their promised visit to Verne, only to be told by Honorine that, while the writer had passed a comfortable night and was expected to be discharged from hospital later in the day, the operation to remove the bullet from his shin had not gone according to plan.

Fighting back tears, she continued: ‘I do not profess to understand exactly what went wrong, but it appears that the surgery caused more damage than the bullet itself, which is still embedded in his shin and will now probably remain there for the rest of his life.’ She wrung her hands, her voice choked with emotion. ‘He will be crippled for the rest of his days. It will be the ruin of him.’

‘I think not,
madame
,’ said Watson, kindly. ‘He is resilient, and by nature looks to the future. I speak from experience when I say that a limp is nothing. It will soon become as natural to him as blinking or breathing. Besides, from what I saw of your husband last night, I believe it will take
considerably
more than that to slow him down. He is the very personification of durability.’

‘It is kind of you to say so,’ she said graciously. ‘And I
appreciate
it.’

‘Has there been any word of Gaston?’ asked Holmes.

Her face clouded. ‘I sent a wire to his father, Paul, late last evening, and received a reply within the hour. He said that
Gaston had somehow managed to escape from the sanatorium where he was being treated a little less than a week ago.’

‘And his father did not see fit to inform you of this at the time?’

‘He did not wish to worry us. Besides, he fully expected Gaston to be recaptured within a matter of hours.’

‘And yet he was not,’ muttered Holmes. ‘Forgive me if I appear to speak out of turn,
madame
, but I sensed from your reaction upon seeing him yesterday that you have little love for Gaston.’

She gave a shrug that was typically French. ‘He had just shot my husband,
m’sieur
.’

‘You were certainly not pleased to see him before you knew that for a fact.’

‘Let us just say that he is not an easy person to like. Too serious. Too … intense.’

Holmes nodded his understanding, but a glint in his grey eyes suggested that he believed there was more to it than that. ‘Thank you,
madame
. Perhaps we could call again later today?’

‘Please do,’ Honorine said. ‘It will do Jules good to have
visitors
. This matter has quite understandably left him shaken.’

‘I have just one favour to ask before we leave,’ Holmes added as Watson picked up his hat and cane. ‘Would you be so kind as to provide me with a letter of authority so that I may speak with Gaston?’

Her face darkened again. ‘Why must you do that,
m’sieur
?’

‘As you know, crime and its motives are my stock-in-trade, if you will. I hope that I might be able to learn something of both from Gaston.’

‘And
I
beg you to leave the matter be,
m’sieur
, if only as a favour to Jules. There has, I fear, been an unhappy history between them. Best to let it lie.’

‘As you wish,’ Holmes replied. ‘Please forgive me for asking.’

Outside, Watson said: ‘Well, that rather scuppers your
investigation
,
doesn’t it? The police won’t allow you to see Gaston without the necessary permission.’

Holmes shrugged vaguely, his mind elsewhere. ‘No matter,’ he replied after a moment. ‘There are more ways than one to skin a rabbit, old friend.’

The stooped, bookish old man with the cracked leather writing-case folio tucked under one arm turned onto the Rue de la Republique and stopped briefly at a corner flower stall. After some deliberation he plucked a single blood-red rose from a vase of water and deftly slid the stem into his
buttonhole
. He then paid for his purchase, nodded his thanks to the vendor and hurried on his way.

He was a fussy-looking man in his sixties, with dusty grey hair, a heavy moustache and a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez hanging from a ribbon around his neck. He wore a
double-breasted
frock coat, a grey shawl waistcoat, black trousers that were baggy and stretched at the knees and two-colour,
button-up
ankle boots.

When he arrived at the central police station all was quiet and Sergeant Gabriel Bessette, who was manning the
reception
desk at the time, was trying to catch up on some long-overdue paperwork. The bookish, hunched-over man went directly to the desk and rapped his knuckles sharply against the scratched counter to get Bessette’s attention.

Bessette looked up, irritated at being disturbed. He was a brawny forty-year-old with a hard, humourless face and
thinning
brown hair that was already losing its colour. There was nothing of welcome in his manner when he snapped:
‘Oui?’

‘Excuse me,’ said the newcomer, his voice a high-pitched crackle. ‘I am here to see Gaston Verne.’

Bessette scowled. ‘And who are you?’

‘I am Lucien Menard, of Desmarais, Brun et Chevalier. We have been appointed legal representatives to M’sieur Verne.’

‘Upon whose authority?’

‘Upon the authority of the accused’s uncle, M’sieur Jules Verne.’

‘You have papers to this effect?’

‘We have only just received his instructions,
Sergent
. The necessary papers are presently being drawn up. I have been sent to take preliminary details of the case.’

Bessette studied the lawyer’s clerk a moment, then growled: ‘Come back later, when you have the necessary authorization.’

Menard’s rheumy eyes widened. ‘Do you know what you are asking of me?’ he demanded, indignantly fixing the pince-nez to the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you know how long it has taken me to walk all the way here from Rue de Mercey? And me with my rheumatism?’

Bessette raised his hands, showing Menard palms that were curiously red. ‘All right, all right, keep the noise down.’


Non
,’ said Menard with a fervent shake of the head. ‘Do you know who Jules Verne
is
? He will not take kindly to your obstructive attitude,
Sergent
. Let me see the officer in charge of the case! Perhaps he will take a different view!’

‘No need for that,’ Bessette said. He considered for another moment, then looked over his shoulder and called: ‘Trudel! Take this man down to see Verne – not that he’ll get much out of him.’

The
gendarme
nodded and led the lawyer’s clerk down a short flight of cold stone steps to a basement area. From there they hurried along a narrow, ill-lit corridor between two rows of sturdy strap-iron doors, into each of which was set a small, covered eye-hole. They stopped before one particular door and the
gendarme
gestured that Menard should submit to a search. The clerk cooperated fully.

When the constable was finished, he unlocked the door, opened it and said: ‘Visitor for you, Verne.’

As the door closed behind him, Menard looked around the small cell. The only light came through a narrow barred window at the very top of the wall, which was at pavement
level when seen from outside. Gaston sat on the edge of his small mattress, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He looked thoroughly preoccupied with other matters, and unmistakably fearful.

The lawyer studied him for a few moments. Then, after glancing once over his shoulder to make sure they were not being watched through the eye-hole, he underwent a curious transformation. He straightened from his bookish hunch until he stood much taller than he had outside. And when he spoke now, his voice was stronger, more authoritative – the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

‘Gaston?’ he said softly.

No reaction.

‘Listen to me, Gaston.’ Holmes set his folio down and dropped to one knee before the young man. ‘You are in serious trouble. Very serious trouble. And I am here to help you.’

Gaston didn’t answer; didn’t even seem aware of his presence.

Slowly, deliberately, Holmes removed the rose from the buttonhole in his lapel. Gaston looked at the flower, watching it with the slightest frown.

Holmes held the rose up in front of Gaston’s face. Then he placed the forefinger and thumb of his free hand around its neck. Carefully, he slid his fingers down the length of the stem, avoiding the thorns and squeezing gently as he went. The water the rose had previously absorbed in the vase at the flower stall now gathered at the end of the stalk, and under Holmes’s gentle pressure began to drip to the floor.

The effect it had on Gaston was dramatic. His eyes grew large and fearful. He swallowed hard and shook his head several times. Then he backed up against the wall as if to get away from it, and tucked his legs up in front of him.


Non
…’ he whispered.
‘Pas à nouveau!’

Holmes held the blood-red rose closer to him. The movement dislodged another drop of water. Gaston’s eyes saucered and he flattened fearfully against the wall.

As Gaston watched in undisguised horror, Holmes slowly crushed the flower in one hand and then threw it into the corner of the dismal cell.

‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

But Gaston’s reaction had told him all he needed to know. It also confirmed his suspicion that there was more to all this than had first appeared.

‘I want you to think of me as your friend,’ Holmes said quietly. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer them truthfully and I will do everything in my power to help you.’ Holmes paused to let his words sink in, then said: ‘Why are you so frightened by dripping water?’

Gaston opened his mouth, but seemed unable to form words. The best he could manage was a nervous shake of the head.

‘It’s all right, Gaston. I am here to
help
. I know you were coerced into shooting your uncle. What I need to know now is who coerced you? And why?’

Gaston tucked his chin into his chest and looked up at Holmes from beneath incredibly sad brows. His lower lip
trembled
. He started to rock back and forth, clearly agitated.

‘Who hit you?’ Holmes asked, gesturing to the all-but-faded bruise on Gaston’s jaw.

Gaston shook his head.

‘You will be punished for what you did,’ Holmes told him. ‘But unless you help me, whoever made you do it in the first place, they will walk free. That hardly seems fair.’

Gaston turned away from him, huddled into a protective ball and continued rocking.

‘What did they do to you, Gaston? Whatever it was, I promise they shall never harm you again.’

More rocking.

‘Who
are
they, Gaston?’

Gaston turned to face him again. The sadness in his eyes was almost depthless. He leaned forward, again seemed about to speak, then shook his head and hugged himself tighter.

Holmes considered briefly; then, on impulse, took out a scrap of paper and a pencil. He offered them to Gaston. ‘Give me their names, and I will see that they are brought to book for this.’

Gaston stared at him for a long moment. In his expression was a mixture of confusion and helplessness. Then, as if reaching a decision, he reached out one trembling hand and took the scrap of paper and pencil. Holmes stood back, waiting. Verne’s nephew sat a little straighter and rested the paper on one knee. He started crying as he scrawled:

V D C

‘What does this mean?’ asked Holmes, taking the paper when Gaston offered it back to him. ‘What do these letters stand for?’

But Gaston’s only response now was to shake his head and start sobbing. Holmes reached for him, intending to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. But the younger man flinched away from him. Holmes withdrew his hand and nodded to show he understood. ‘It’s all right,’ he assured. ‘I know you’re afraid of me. But if I’m to help you, Gaston, you
must
trust me.’

Gaston only curled back into a foetal ball.

With nothing more to be had from the man, Holmes once again allowed his shoulders to drop, hunched his back so that he appeared shorter, and knocked on the cell door. ‘You may let me out now,’ he called in Lucien Menard’s high voice. ‘I am finished here for the time being.’

BOOK: Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts
4.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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