Read Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Online
Authors: Steve Hayes
Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (6 page)
L
ater, back in his room at the Hotel Couronne, Holmes began removing his disguise. ‘I am more convinced than ever that this is no mere family squabble,’ he told Watson. ‘Indeed, I am afraid that Verne may be dealing with an enemy who has considerable resources and no small degree of
sophistication
.’
Watson was watching him from a chair on the other side of the room. Not for the first time he was amazed by Holmes’s ability to alter his appearance. Clothes, hair, posture, speech … everything would change. He would not simply pretend to be someone else, he would
become
that person. And he would skilfully apply stage makeup from the small kit he rarely
travelled
without until the illusion was complete.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked as Holmes now used a sponge to remove the sallow colour of ‘Lucien Menard’s’ skin.
‘You have met Gaston. Do you for one moment believe that he could escape from a lunatic asylum, much less obtain a gun, travel five hundred kilometres to Boulogne-sur-Mer, then vanish or avoid detection for one entire week before coming here with the specific purpose of killing his uncle? No, my friend, he had help every step of the way – and that takes considerable resources.’
‘And the sophistication?’
‘Have you ever heard of Hippolytus de Marsiliis?’
‘I cannot say that I have.’
‘He was a fifteenth-century lawyer who invented a method of torture by which drops of water are allowed to fall upon the victim’s forehead at irregular intervals and thus drive that person insane. After sufficient exposure to such treatment, the victim would be only too happy to reveal his secret, confess to a crime, or indeed agree to do anything his or her captors requested of him.’
‘I have certainly heard of water torture, but—’ Watson stopped. ‘Are you saying that Gaston has been subjected to such treatment? Holmes, this is monstrous! By whom?’
‘Let us first consider for what purpose.’
‘You mean it wasn’t just to drive the poor fellow mad?’
‘Watson, Gaston Verne is already hopelessly insane. But his fascination with dripping water, his very real fear of it, tells me that he has been subjected to the treatment for an
altogether
different
purpose – to focus his otherwise disordered mind upon one single objective, to kill the man he has been convinced is responsible for all his woes.’
‘But why Jules Verne? The man is not only his uncle but a writer, beloved by millions!’
‘That is the very thing we have to find out.’
‘Again, I say – who did this dreadful thing?’
‘This is our only clue,’ said Holmes, offering up the scrap of paper.
Watson looked at it. ‘“VDC”? What does that mean?’
‘I do not know, yet – and it was all Gaston could do to
write
it, much less
explain
it.’
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’
‘The only thing we can do at present, Watson. Wait for them to make their next move, whoever they are … and be ready for them when they do.’
At lunchtime Sergeant Bessette left his post and hurried through the city until he reached Hautoie Park. Given the choice, he would sooner have made a detour to his favourite
café first and fortified himself with a cognac. But that would have to wait.
It was a pleasant day and the park was crowded. He strode purposefully through an avenue of plane trees, followed a gravel path past a line of poplars and at last reached a row of benches that overlooked the sizeable, wind-rippled lake that was shaded from the sun by a row of spreading Cypresses. He paused briefly, then casually approached a bench upon which sat an attractive woman. About thirty, she was dressed in a distinctive purple walking skirt and matching jacket.
‘May I?’ he asked.
She nodded, and he sat down.
‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he said.
‘I am Lydie Denier, yes,’ she replied, continuing to watch the lake. ‘What is the problem, Sergeant?’
‘I’m not sure there
is
one, yet. But a man came to the station this morning, some crotchety old lawyer’s clerk engaged by Jules Verne to defend his nephew against all charges. He asked to speak with him.’
‘And you let him?’ Lydie asked, still gazing at the lake.
‘I could hardly refuse without blowing the matter out of all proportion.’
She considered that for a few moments. Finally she said: ‘Do not worry. I doubt he would have learned anything of use from Gaston. The man is now little more than a shell.’
There seemed to be a hint of regret in her tone. But Bessette, wrapped up in his own thoughts, missed it.
‘There’s more,’ he said.
Turning from the lake, she looked at him. ‘Go on,’ she said tightly.
‘Another man arrived two hours later. He too claimed to have been engaged by Verne, to represent Gaston.’
She frowned. ‘An imposter?’
‘Non,’
he replied. ‘I know this man. I’ve seen him at more
court appearances than I can count. His name is Depaul. He’s genuine.’
‘Then who was the first man you allowed to see Gaston?’
‘He gave his name as Lucien Menard. I made some enquiries. No one has ever heard of him.’
‘Then who is he?’
Bessette looked almost sick. ‘I think I know,’ he confessed uncomfortably. ‘You were there just after Verne was shot. Did you notice the two men who immediately came to his aid?’
‘Oui
. I spoke to one of them at Gare du Nord, when we arrived yesterday afternoon.’
‘You have heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘He was one of them. The other was a man called Watson. His companion, I believe.’
‘Are you
sure
?’
‘I checked the witness statements.’ He paused, then said: ‘Do you think Verne has engaged this man Holmes to investigate the matter?’
‘I cannot think why. We have been careful to observe complete secrecy throughout. He would have had no call to engage a detective. As far as he is concerned, the matter is cut and dried. But I have to confess, I do not care for this man Holmes’s interference.’
Suddenly she turned a little. She was now facing Bessette directly, the anger in her eyes making him flinch. ‘You fool!’ she hissed. ‘You have been uncommonly stupid.’
‘How was I to know –?’
‘Absalon expects us to know
everything
,’ she reminded him.
It was true.
‘I can take care of it,’ he said timidly.
‘You will do nothing,’ she snapped. ‘Do you understand me? You will do nothing until I have referred the matter to a higher authority. Sherlock Holmes is known throughout Europe. To
attack him will only draw attention to us – attention we can certainly do
without
.’
‘But what about Gaston? May I assume he has outlived his purpose?’
‘Assume nothing!’ she said, rising. ‘Just await my orders.’
‘Very well.’
‘I will contact you by the usual means, and under the usual alias, when I know more – probably before the end of today.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ he promised. He watched as she walked away. He now needed a drink more than ever.
W
hen Honorine ushered Holmes and Watson into the sitting room that same afternoon, they found her husband resting on a chaise longue in the bay window with his bandaged left leg resting on a stool. ‘You will forgive me if I do not rise,’ he said, weakly extending his right hand.
They shook hands with him and then, at Verne’s urging, took seats.
‘How are you feeling, sir?’ Watson asked.
‘I am alive. What more can I ask for?’
‘And Gaston? Have you heard how he is?’
‘We have sent Jules’s lawyer to represent him,’ put in Honorine. ‘Our hope is that he can convince Inspector Mathes that what happened was merely a silly misunderstanding, and allow him to be returned to the Sanatorium de Russy.’
Holmes narrowed his eyes. ‘When did you dispatch your lawyer?’
‘I believe he went down to the police station shortly before lunch.’
Holmes and Watson exchanged a look.
‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but is something wrong?’
‘M’sieur Verne,’ said Holmes. ‘For reasons I do not yet
understand
, I believe your life to be in danger.’
‘Mine?’ Verne gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I have the greatest respect for your talents, as you know, but I cannot see why that would possibly be.’
‘Nevertheless, I should be grateful if you would exercise the greatest caution until the matter is resolved.’
‘What matter?’
‘That, I cannot say. But I have strong reason to believe that Gaston was acting under duress when he made his attempt upon you yesterday.’ He paused, allowing his words to sink in, then stared questioningly at Verne. ‘Can you think why that should be?’
‘
Non
.’
‘Is there anyone, man or woman, you know who might be driven to such lengths?’
‘
Non
. I have always tried to keep my business affairs as cordial as possible. You may ask anyone.’
‘Do the initials “V.D.C.” mean anything to you?’
Verne ran them through his mind briefly and then shook his head.
‘Then all I can ask is that you indulge me, and take extra care,’ said Holmes. ‘You
do
have enemies, M’sieur Verne, and I am convinced that they will make another attempt upon your life. You must be on your guard.’
‘And you, my dear friend,’ countered Verne, ‘must understand that, without a scrap of evidence to support your claim, I cannot take such a threat seriously.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. But it is in pursuit of evidence that I must shortly take my leave. In the meantime, I should be grateful if you would allow Dr Watson here to stay on as your guest.’
Verne and his wife exchanged a puzzled glance.
‘I do not wish to overestimate the threat, M’sieur Verne,’ Holmes continued, ‘but you will be considerably safer with Watson by your side. He is as fearless as any man I have ever known, and by far the most reliable.’
‘Then if it sets your mind at rest,’ Verne said graciously, ‘I should be very glad of his company.’
A
polished black coach was waiting for Lydie Denier when her train steamed into Paris. The driver opened the door for her and she climbed inside with neither a word nor a glance in his direction. She sat back in the upholstered seat and again found herself wondering what Absalon was going to say when he heard the news. He was not a man to lose his temper. He was too well bred for that. But he
was
a man who despised failure and complication, and here she was, coming to report both.
As Paris fell behind them and she watched the emerald countryside rush past in a blur, she wondered how many times she had been to the magnificent but isolated chateau fifty
kilometres
to the east. Since Absalon had recruited her twelve months earlier, perhaps eight in all. And yet the prospect of having to come back again, for any reason, never failed to make her uneasy. And more than once during the two-hour train ride from Amiens she had found herself questioning the wisdom of accepting Absalon’s invitation to join the
organization
in the first place.
Not that she had been given any real choice in the matter. She had no idea that he – they – had been watching her for as long as they had. She still had no idea how she had first come to their attention. She had always been careful, or so she thought. And yet they had eventually made their move.
She had been renting a comfortable
appartement
in Lyon at the time, and life had been good – though never quite good
enough for Lydie, of course. One afternoon there was a discreet rapping at her door, and when she answered it, the man who called himself Alexandre Absalon had entered her life.
He was a tall, spare man of about fifty. His prematurely snow-white hair swept back from a high forehead in a sharp widow’s peak. His eyebrows were thin, grey, his penetrating hazel eyes set deep in their sockets. His nose was long and straight, his mouth wide, almost lipless. His neatly trimmed fork beard gave him an unsettling Mephistophelian aspect.
‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he had asked.
‘
Oui
. And you are…?’
‘Alexandre Absalon.’
The name, then, had meant nothing to her.
Without waiting to be asked, he had brushed past her and into her
appartement
.
She should have tried to bar his way, or demand that he turn round and wait until he was invited inside, but instead she did nothing. His bearing and appearance spoke of wealth, and if there was one thing Lydie prized above all else, it was money. So all she did was close the door behind him and wait expectantly for him to explain his presence.
He took his time about it. He chose the most comfortable chair in the room and sank gracefully into it, then very
deliberately
removed his exquisite hand-cut and -sewn leather gloves finger by finger. Once he had laid them on the arm of the chair, he tugged fastidiously at the crease in his
brown-striped
cotton twill trousers.
‘I represent an organization that can promise you money and power, in almost unlimited quantities,’ he said. ‘And we know from our enquiries that you possess a nearly insatiable appetite for both.’
She had made a token protest of innocence, of course. ‘I’m sorry,
m’sieur
, but I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Oh, come,’ he said. He had a gentle, reassuring voice that was entirely at odds with the hard, unreasonable taskmaster
he eventually proved to be. ‘We are both busy people. Let us waste no more of each other’s valuable time than we need to. We know all about you, Mademoiselle Denier. Or should I call you Adele Veillon, or Josette Corbeil, or Suzanne Morace?’
Although Lydie tried not to betray anything, she knew her expression gave her away. She had no idea that any of her many aliases were known to anyone other than herself.
‘You are a con artist,’ Absalon said bluntly. ‘A very good one. You have worked your tricks from Brest to Monaco and just about everywhere between the two, with enviable success. I might say that you are the best in your chosen profession – and that is what we require,
mademoiselle
; the very best.’
‘To do what,
m’sieur
?’
He gestured vaguely with one soft, manicured hand. ‘To arrange. To manipulate. To coerce. To guide. To listen and report back. To act as a go-between or a spy. To blend in or be noticed, as the task requires. And if you serve us well, you will be amply rewarded.’
‘And if I reject your offer?’
Absalon sighed. ‘Then we should be forced – most
regrettably
– to release the dossier we have compiled upon you and your activities to the
Gendarmerie Nationale
, with the
insistence
that they hunt you down and arrest you with the utmost dispatch.’ He paused momentarily to give her a chance to think about it, then said: ‘We can do it, too. We are more powerful than you will ever understand.’
There it was, then. Lydie had no choice but to accept. And yet, was that so bad? Absalon was right. Because she had been born into poverty she had very early on acquired an
all-consuming
desire for the finer things in life. She had watched her father die when she was six, her mother when she was eight. Both had died from an endless struggle to do the one thing that should have been so easy – simply, to
live
.
Oui
, she had seen the poverty in which they had lived and expected her to live, and she had despised it and decided that
she would never go cold, or hungry, or barefoot, ever again. From the time she was fourteen, she had decided that. And she had made good upon that promise.
At first she had started with the so-called ‘badger game’ – using her looks to compel prominent married men to take her to bed, only to later claim to have become pregnant and threaten to tell all if they didn’t provide for her and the baby … the baby, of course, who never existed.
Over time she had graduated to the lonely hearts columns, contacting wealthy, lovelorn men by letter, telling them
everything
they wanted to hear and then agreeing to meet them … if only they could first send her some money to pay for her travel and perhaps some new clothes so she would look her best for them.
It had never failed to surprise her just how many men fell for it. Equally surprising was how many paid up in the
expectation
that she would actually go through with it and meet, then marry, them.
She next turned to fraud. The money was especially good during that period. But so were the chances of arrest and
incarceration
. So she took up a different type of con – befriending lonely, elderly widowers, gradually gaining their trust and then coaxing them into spending their money on her. Of all her cons, this was her least favourite. She could override her conscience when it came to conniving money from wealthy professionals or businessmen, but emotional robbery was something else; and troubled by their grief, she soon realized she could not justify her actions or ignore her conscience any longer, and started searching for other ways to con money from the rich.
Lydie had always been careful – or so she’d thought. But somewhere along the way she had come to the attention of this man Absalon and his mysterious employers.
Common sense told her that she should call his bluff, simply say no and then do as she had done so many times before – vanish overnight, set up somewhere new, as
someone
new.
But he had promised money and power. And the way he had promised them told her that he knew well that these were as necessary to her as food and drink, something she needed for her very survival.
‘Very well,’ she said at length. ‘I accept your proposition. When do I start work?’
He smiled, and the smile, like the forked beard, was devilish. ‘We will be in touch.’
And a month later they were.
The jobs consisted of travelling around the country under a variety of aliases, showing interest in the workings of local politics, getting to know the public and private sides of various officials and councillors, and reporting back to Absalon. She had no idea why she carried out most of her duties, and knew better than to ask. Absalon would never come right out and tell her. But she was happy with that. Absalon scared her. The nameless organization for which he worked scared her. The less she knew, the safer she felt she would be.
So she resigned herself to being a good little foot soldier in Absalon’s army – and it
was
an
army
. Whoever he was, whomever he worked for, Absalon had minions everywhere, digging, bribing, listening, reporting back. And at the centre of his web yet more minions collated and deciphered and
interpreted
that information.
To what end? She had no idea. At least, not at first. But inevitably her curiosity grew and she began to wonder.
Eventually it was the very name of the organization that gave her the answer. And then she understood what Absalon had meant about almost limitless power.
At last the coach slowed enough to tell her they were nearing the end of the journey. She composed herself as best she could. It would do her no good to let them see just how much this stone-and-slate chateau tucked away at the heart of the Forêt Domaniale de Malvoisine intimidated her. She had to present
confidence, dedication to the cause … whatever the cause might be.
The coach followed one of the two gravel drives through a mixture of formal lawns and Italianate terraces. Though it had fallen into decay following the Revolution of 1848, the chateau had been rebuilt during the reign of Napoleon III and now stood in magnificence at the centre of seventeen hectares of land. It had its own lake, a guesthouse and numerous outbuildings, and was hidden away behind a protective
enclosure
of box and yew trees.
A few moments later the coach pulled up before the wide stone steps that led to the house. One of Absalon’s other agents, alerted to her arrival by the telegram she had sent from Amiens immediately following her meeting with Bessette, was waiting to meet her in the cathedral-like
reception
area, with its cold flagstone floor and central cantilever staircase.
This was Lacombe; she had never discovered his first name and had no particular desire to do so. He was a short, portly man in his mid-forties with a jowly face, a constant shadow to his soft jaw and unruly iron-grey hair that always seemed to be in need of a trim. He was devoted to Absalon, or at least gave that impression. And he had never bothered to disguise the lust she saw in his grey-blue eyes every time he looked at her.
‘You’re late,’ he said. His voice was soft and breathless, the voice of a man who could be almost unimaginably dangerous.
‘I am right on time,’ Lydie replied.
He shrugged and led her into the spacious downstairs family room that Absalon had converted into his office.
The room was a picture of elegance. Ornate mirrors in
solid-gold
frames hung beside fifteenth-century paintings on the flawless buttermilk walls. Thick burgundy drapes gathered at each of the windows and clustered in fashionable spills on the patterned carpet. Fine furniture was scattered everywhere –
satin-topped benches, chaise longues, armchairs with velvet cushions and rattan-backed chairs. Two crystal chandeliers sparkled in the weak sunlight.
Absalon was down on one knee before a large brown-
and-black
Chubb safe, sorting through some papers. The safe, she saw, was filled with files, folders and chunky box folders.
He heard them enter, then quickly rose to his full height and hurriedly closed the safe’s two doors before spinning the combination dial. It was the first time she had ever seen him taken by surprise, and she realized with just a hint of
satisfaction
that he was human, after all.
And also that the safe must contain material of particular importance to him.
After Lacombe had left, Absalon said, ‘There has been trouble,’ knowing she would not have come otherwise.
Lydie nodded. ‘Gaston did as he was instructed, but Verne was only wounded.’
‘I know that. The newspapers are full of it. But there is more, isn’t there?’
‘
Oui
. There were witnesses to the shooting.’
‘We expected as much.’
‘Of course. But we did not expect Sherlock Holmes and his companion, John Watson, to be among them.’
Absalon was silent for what seemed like a very long time. He stood so still, and for so long, that she fancied that he might suddenly have turned to stone.
At length he said: ‘Ah.’
Lydie hesitated before saying: ‘Sergeant Bessette told me that a man purporting to be a lawyer’s clerk working for Verne visited Gaston this morning. He proved to be no such thing, and upon checking, Bessette discovered that there is no such man.’
‘Did this “lawyer’s clerk” see Gaston?’
‘Yes. But it’s doubtful he got anything out of him.’
‘Still …’ began Absalon. He fell silent again.