Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (9 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Something to Hide

H
olmes left the police station and took a cab directly to Verne’s house. Watson answered the bell with the spaniel, Follet, growling warily by his side. Relaxing visibly when he saw Holmes through one of the conservatory hall windows, Watson dropped his old service revolver back into his jacket pocket and quickly opened the door.

‘What has happened, Holmes? Your note told me to be on my guard.’

‘In a moment, Watson. All is well here, I trust?’

‘As quiet as a—’

‘—graveyard?’ finished Holmes. ‘Where is Verne?’

‘Upstairs, writing.’

‘I must see him at once.’

Honorine was waiting in the hallway, an anxious look on her face. ‘Has something happened,
m’sieur
?’ she asked as Holmes approached. ‘When the boy came with your note—’

‘There has been a development,’ he said.

‘Something to do with Gaston?’ she asked, almost fearfully.

‘Indirectly,
madame
. Now, if you will be so kind as to join your husband, I need only explain everything the once.’

She nodded and turned to a door on her left. Watson hurried to open it for them, and revealed a circular staircase beyond. He and Holmes followed Honorine up to a small but
well-appointed
set of rooms, outside the smallest of which Verne stood leaning on his crutches.

‘M’sieur Holmes,’ he cried. ‘What news is there? Is Gaston—?’

‘He is safe and well,’ Holmes assured him.

‘Thank God!’ breathed Verne.

He ushered them all into the small room behind him, which was clearly his workroom. Two cluttered wooden desks sat beneath a window that offered a spectacular view of the slender spire of Amiens Cathedral. Behind it Holmes noticed a small camp-bed and frowned. Catching his expression, Verne explained self-consciously: ‘I begin work every morning at five. By eleven I have to rest.’

The room was bare of all ornamentation save for two busts, one of Molière, the other of Shakespeare, and a watercolour of a yacht known as the
St Michel III
.

Verne gestured to another door. ‘Please, come through to the library.’

The library was a much bigger room, in the centre of which sat a large table stacked high with newspapers and
periodicals
. Nearby, a set of little cardboard pigeonholes was jammed tight with the notes Verne habitually kept on almost every subject.

‘Now, sir,’ Verne said grimly as Honorine slipped her arm fondly under his. ‘What has happened?’

‘I believe there can no longer be any doubt that your life is at risk,’ Holmes said gravely. ‘Someone, somewhere means you harm, M’sieur Verne. They broke your nephew out of the
sanatorium
where he had been placed and by the most sadistic of means convinced him to kill you upon their behalf. When that failed, an attempt was made to eliminate Gaston – an attempt Inspector Mathes and I were able to foil last night. But the man who tried to kill Gaston was himself murdered this very morning.’

Honorine paled at the revelation. Verne and Watson exchanged a glance. Clearly this affair could no longer be dismissed as a product of Holmes’s imagination.

‘Someone wants you dead, M’sieur Verne,’ Holmes
continued, ‘and they are determined and ruthless enough to cover their tracks by any means possible. Are you sure you cannot think of anyone who might want to hurt you?’

‘No.’

‘No one with the initials “V.D.C,”?’

‘No,
m’sieur
.’

‘Need I assure you that anything you choose to tell us will be held in the strictest confidence?’

‘I appreciate that, but … I cannot think of any reason why anyone should want to kill me.’

‘However …
sensitive
… that reason might be?’

A nerve in Verne’s face twitched at Holmes’s use of the word. ‘I am not sure what you are implying,
m’sieur
,’ he said stiffly.

‘I believe you are, sir. I believe you know
exactly
what I am implying. What’s more, it will make this investigation go easier if you confide in us.’

Verne reddened. Then, pulling away from his wife, he leaned on his crutches and crossed the room to a window. ‘There are some things a man must keep to himself, M’sieur Holmes.’

‘Even if by doing so he condemns himself to death? Condemns his
nephew
to death? Allows the perpetrators of the crime to go unpunished?’

‘
Oui
. Even then,’ Verne said stubbornly.

Holmes squared his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, sir, we must take every step to guard you until the enemy is brought to book – at which time whatever you choose to withhold from us now may well become public knowledge whether you wish it or not.’

‘What do you suggest?’ asked Honorine. ‘We will cooperate as much as we can. All I ask – all
we
ask – is that you do
everything
in your power to protect Jules’s good name.’

‘Then I strongly advise that we begin by moving Gaston to a nursing home, the location of which will be known only to us and your most trusted friends,’ said Holmes. ‘Until this is over, he is a target, too, and we must afford him every protection.’

‘Of course,’ Verne agreed. ‘But that is a decision only his father, my brother Paul, can make.’

‘Where does he live, M’sieur Verne?’

‘Nantes. I will send a telegram at once—’

‘We dare not risk that, I am afraid. A telegram could easily be intercepted.’

Verne’s eyes widened. ‘Do you really believe that these people, whoever they are, would attempt such a thing?’

‘They are powerful, and they are everywhere,’ Holmes replied simply, ‘and because of that we cannot take the risk that they will
not
intercept it. No – it will be better if I visit your brother in person, and explain everything to him face to face.’

‘You will not possibly be able to make the return trip in one day,’ said Honorine.

‘I will stay over and return either tomorrow or the day after, depending upon where my subsequent inquiries take me. Now, if you will excuse me, I will return to my hotel, collect some things and then make my way to Nantes. If you will supply me with a letter of introduction,
m’sieur
…?’

‘At once.’

‘
Merçi
. As soon as I have an answer from your brother, I will wire you with a simple yes or no.’

Watson said: ‘Come, Holmes. I’ll walk you downstairs while M’sieur Verne prepares his letter.’

When they were back in the conservatory hall he added quietly: ‘Have a care, old chap. You are here to convalesce, remember.’

‘I am fine, Watson. Never better.’

‘Still … how have you been, in yourself? You look somewhat pale.’

‘It is nothing. I feel
energized
, old friend. Truly, I could ask for nothing more.’

‘Well, as I say, have a care, Holmes. You have been quite desperately ill, whether you choose to believe it or not. Don’t try to run before you can walk.’

Shortly, Honorine came downstairs and handed Holmes an envelope, upon which Verne himself had scribbled his brother’s name and address. ‘God speed, M’sieur Holmes,’ she said.

Watson extended his hand. ‘And remember what I said, Holmes.’

‘I will, old friend.’ They shook hands. ‘But have a care for
yourself
, too, Watson. I still believe you will find more danger here than I will in Nantes.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Paul Verne

A
five-hour train journey brought Holmes south and west to Nantes just before dusk. He stood on the platform for a moment, checking the faces of the debarking passengers. He recognized no one. Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he headed for the exit.

As he stepped out of the Grand Gare, the setting sun threw a garland of orange and gold, pale pink and powder blue across the darkening sky. He hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the address Jules Verne had supplied.

The journey proved to be illuminating. Nantes was a vibrant, progressive city settled on the banks of the River Loire, where the Rivers Sèvre Nantaise and Erdre met to form the Loire’s left and right tributaries. Though it was no longer the major commercial port it had once been, ocean-going ships could still be seen navigating their way inland from the Atlantic, which lay no more than fifty kilometres south.

At length Holmes reached his destination: a double row of connected, three-storey, grey-stone houses with wrought-iron balconies on a narrow, cobbled street that wound its way up a gentle incline. Holmes double-checked the address Honorine had given him, paused before a tall red-painted front door and knocked.

Paul Verne answered after a brief wait. Holmes introduced himself and explained briefly why he was there. Though surprised to find himself talking to a detective of Holmes’s
repute, Paul invited him in and led him into a dimly lit, modestly furnished sitting room. There, he offered Holmes a glass of port, which Holmes graciously refused, and then excused himself to notify his wife that they had a guest.

He returned shortly, sat on a sofa facing Holmes and the two men began to talk. Studying him, Holmes estimated that Paul was a year or so younger than his brother and only vaguely resembled Jules. His hair was thick and dark, worn with a
left-side
part. He had direct eyes, a slightly hooked nose, full sideburns, a thick moustache and a chin-beard.

Though he was a stockbroker by trade, Holmes knew that he shared something of his brother’s creative streak. He dabbled in writing and composing, but his real love had always been the sea. Unfortunately, fragile health had denied him the mariner’s life he had so desired.

Not that he showed any bitterness about it. In temperament he was far more cheerful than his somewhat dour, pessimistic brother, and though he and his wife, Berthe – a rather
cheerless
younger woman who now entered – treated Holmes warily at first, Paul’s attitude thawed rapidly once he read Jules’s letter of introduction.

‘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