Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (3 page)
Read Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Online
Authors: Steve Hayes
A
miens is a picturesque city that lies north of Paris and south-west of Lille. The capital of the Somme departement of Picardy, the metropolis is filled with wide, tree-lined
boulevards
and narrow canals, impressive Gothic cathedrals and street after street of quaint little shops, each of which appears to lean crookedly against the next. With a population of some 90,000 inhabitants, it was built largely upon the manufacture of textiles – predominantly linen, wool, silk, cashmere and velvet.
The rain had finally stopped by the time their train pulled into Gare du Nord amidst much belching of smoke and blowing of whistles. As they made their way out of the terminus, with its grand brick and glass edifice, Holmes and Watson were just in time to see the clouds to the west break apart and reveal a long-awaited glimpse of blue sky.
But Holmes could only grimace. The station’s impressive façade was plastered with posters calling for the resignation of Charles de Freycinet, the country’s Opportunist Republican prime minister. ‘Now we are
guaranteed
a surfeit of political chit-chat when we see Henri,’ he lamented. ‘I am afraid I have been so … distracted … of late that it quite escaped my notice that France was in the throes of election fever.’
‘It isn’t,’ Watson replied. ‘At least not officially. As you know, de Freycinet has only been in power for two months, but apparently there is a feeling here that he has somehow betrayed the people.’
‘How so?’
‘He was elected upon a whole raft of election pledges, but so far has focused upon only one – the expansion of France’s colonies, which, as you know, means little to the man in the street. Even his own party has expressed its disappointment in him.’
‘And so the people are calling for him to go.’
‘According to
The Times
, he will not last out the year.’
Holmes offered a humourless smile. ‘If there is one thing history has taught us, it is that prime ministers do not last long in the Third Republic.’
Watson stopped and listened. ‘Is that
fireworks
I can hear?’
Holmes thought a moment before saying: ‘Of course! Lent is almost upon us, Watson. The locals must be celebrating it with a carnival.’
‘Then it is not
all
doom and gloom,’ said Watson, guiding his friend to one side of the entrance. ‘Wait here, while I go back inside and make arrangements for our luggage to be taken on to Henri’s.’
But Holmes wasn’t listening. Again his attention had been taken by the young man who had earlier been so fascinated by the weather. Now the fellow strode past them, breaking step abruptly when he noticed the last of the rain dripping from the entrance overhang. Pausing, he stared up at it for a moment, his mouth slackly agape. Then he pushed aside a political canvasser who tried to hand him a leaflet calling for de Freycinet’s removal and marched determinedly along the centre of the facing street, splashing through puddles and shouldering a path between the crowds as if he had no idea they were there.
‘Charming fellow,’ Watson muttered.
Shaking his head, he limped back into the station to make the necessary arrangements for their luggage. When he saw an attractive woman in a deep purple walking skirt and matching
jacket coming towards him from the opposite direction, he moved quickly to open one of the heavy station doors for her.
‘Merci, m’sieur,’
she said, smiling up at him.
Beneath the feathered jockey hat and velvet train that completed her attire, her glistening blue-black hair was brushed to the back of her head, where it was caught up in a cascade of short curls and bound in with a heavy plait. Her face, he thought, was as close to flawless as it was possible to get. She had wide, intelligent green eyes, a short, straight nose, delicate pouty lips and a strong, pointed jaw. She was, he guessed, about thirty.
Touching the tips of his fingers to the brim of his
camel-coloured
derby, he replied gallantly: ‘The pleasure is all mine.’
Her smile broadened, revealing excellent, bone-white teeth. ‘English,
m’sieur
?’
‘Oui.’
‘Your French is very good,’ she said in careful English.
He beamed at her. ‘Why, thank you,
ma’amselle
.’
As he continued on his way, there was a new spring in his step.
By the time he got back to Holmes, the sun was shining but a brisk wind continued to peg the temperature back. Reporting that their luggage would be forwarded to the Gillet residence by the next available train, he added proudly: ‘I obtained
directions
to Verne’s house while I was about it. You know, Holmes, my French must be better than I thought. There were no communication problems at all.’
‘You always were a man of many talents, old friend,’ muttered Holmes.
‘Well, according to the baggage clerk, Rue Charles Dubois is only a short walk from here. Are you up to it?’
‘I am not an
invalid
, Watson.’
‘My dear friend, that is precisely what you
are
at present.’
They set off through crowded streets filled with a carnival atmosphere, and a leisurely ten-minute walk eventually brought them to their destination.
Verne’s house sat at the corner of a countrified, tree-lined street that was reached by way of the broad, busy Boulevard Longueville. A narrow, wrought-iron gate was set into a
lichen-covered
red-brick wall. It opened onto a paved courtyard bounded on two sides by a charming but somewhat irregular two-storey building flanked by the type of short, round tower so beloved of French architects. Neatly tended flowerbeds added colour to the scrupulously clipped lawns.
As they made their way towards a half-glass conservatory hall that was filled with yet more plants and flowers, so as to form a sort of ‘winter garden’ that reflected its owner’s taste for the exotic, Watson glanced around and noted that the left wing of the house was occupied by various out-buildings and stables. It was such an unusual property that it would not have looked out of place in one of Verne’s own fantastical stories.
A procession of light stone steps led up to the front doorway, where Watson tugged on the bell. Somewhere inside the great house a dog began to bark. A few moments later a small woman in a high-necked black dress answered the summons, accompanied by a jet-black spaniel that gambolled around her feet with great enthusiasm.
The woman’s grey hair was pulled back from her thin, severe, olive-skinned face and tied in a knot at the back of her head.
‘Oui, messieurs?’
she asked, looking from one to the other.
Watson cleared his throat, determined to again show off his masterful command of the language. But Holmes beat him to it, speaking with an ease and fluency that quickly deflated Watson. Not that he should have been surprised – Holmes’s grandmother
was
of French extraction, after all.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my companion, Dr John Watson. We have come to see M’sieur Verne, if he is home. We did telegraph ahead.’
The woman smiled and nodded. ‘Of course. M’sieur Holmes and Docteur Watson. M’sieur Verne told me to expect you. But
I am afraid he is not here at present. He had a prior
engagement
at the Union Club that he could not postpone at such short notice. He will not be back until five o’clock.’ She took a step backwards, adding: ‘You will come in and wait?’
‘Thank you,
madame
, but we have no wish to impose upon you. We shall come back later.’
‘As you wish,
m’sieur
.’
As they retraced their steps to the street, Watson checked his pocket watch. ‘Splendid! That gives just enough time to find ourselves a billet for the night and then do a spot of
sightseeing
.’
‘Right now I would prefer a cup of coffee,’ said Holmes … and for the first time Watson realized that the symptoms of opiate withdrawal were manifesting themselves again. Holmes’s thin face was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration and he was shivering noticeably.
‘Come,’ he said, taking Holmes by the elbow. ‘We passed a coffee shop on the way here.’
They returned the way they’d come. Holmes was quiet, his breathing deep and laboured. It was a relief when Watson was finally able to seat his friend at one of the café’s pavement tables and gesture for service.
The worst of the attack had passed by the time their coffee arrived. A hint of colour returned to Holmes’s hollow cheeks and his hands, when he reached for his cup, seemed somewhat steadier. ‘Perhaps you were right to save me from myself after all, old friend,’ he managed ruefully.
Watson shrugged. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he replied, trying to make light of it, ‘and there is nothing quite like travel for tiring a man out. I suggest we simply rest here until you are fully recovered.’
Holmes raised his cup. ‘Then may I propose a toast to our absent friend?’
Watson smiled. ‘To Jules Verne,’ he said.
W
ith the beginning of Lent just days away, the carnival was being held in a park across the road. A raucous
combination
of circus and street party, it was an opportunity for the city’s traditional Christians to indulge themselves to the full before beginning their prolonged period of fasting and
penitence
. It also provided Holmes with a welcome distraction, and before long he announced that he was fit enough to go in search of a hotel for their overnight stay.
They chose the Hotel Couronne on Rue Laurendeau. After booking two single rooms, they made their way slowly back to the carnival.
There was simply no avoiding it. An enormous Ferris wheel threw its slowly turning shadow down across a midway packed solid with shuffling crowds. Here they spotted a clown juggling before a group of small children; there a gathering of young men and women in gaily painted animal masks trying to burst balloons with darts. Others were trying to climb rope ladders in some sort of race, mostly with comical results. And
everything
was played out to the accompaniment of tinny calliope music, the clink and cheer of people throwing hoops over bottles to win bagged goldfish and the snap and pop of air rifles at the striped shooting gallery tent.
‘Try as I might,’ Watson said, grimacing as a group of young men passed them in pink pig masks, ‘I simply cannot reconcile carnival with religion. The one is so vulgar, the other so dignified.’
‘And yet the two are entwined,’ Holmes reminded him. ‘Look to your Latin, Watson. What does the word “carnival” actually mean?’
‘Something to do with meat – as in “carnivorous”?’
‘Correct. But more precisely it refers to the
removal
of meat from one’s diet – in this case, for a period of forty weekdays.’
Before Watson could respond, a small but clearly militant knot of men came shouldering through the crowd, waving banners and placards calling for Prime Minister de Freycinet to be replaced by an Independent Republican candidate named François Fournier. As Holmes and Watson stood aside and allowed them to pass, a second group – comprised mostly of young men out to enjoy themselves – started yelling that the activists were spoiling the fun and should take their nonsense elsewhere.
The leader of the Independent Republicans quickly wheeled around and pinpointed their critics. Harsh words were exchanged, already excitable tempers flared and abruptly the confrontation turned violent.
As a scuffle broke out, the crowd quickly fell back to give them a makeshift arena in which to fight. Both sides hurled themselves at each other. Fierce struggles broke out. One young man went down and was kicked repeatedly by two Independent Republicans. Another staggered away from the mêlée, clutching a bleeding forehead.
Watson was about to lend assistance to the wounded man but Holmes held him back.
‘Let me go, Holmes—’ Watson protested.
A second later there was a sudden scream. One of the young men who’d been arguing with the protesters fell to his knees, clutching his stomach.
The handle of a knife protruded from between his bloody fingers.
Several women started screaming.
Watson paled. ‘Holmes, let me go! I have to—’
‘There is little you can do for that poor wretch,’ Holmes snapped. ‘I know a killing wound when I see one – and so do you.’
As the young man collapsed onto his face and lay still, someone in the Independent Republican group shouted for them to run. They quickly started shoving through the crowd in all directions, casting their placards aside as they went. In the distance a flurry of police whistles could be heard.
One of the protesters, a burly man in a large cloth cap, came running straight towards them. He clearly expected them to make way for him, as everyone else had. But Watson was having none of it. Instead he stood his ground and clenched his fists. This man was an accessory to murder, and Watson wasn’t about to stand by and watch him escape.
When he realized that Watson wasn’t going to yield to him, the protester swerved at the last moment, intending to go around him. Hurling his cane aside, Watson made a sudden lunge at him. It was a tackle that would have warmed the hearts of his former team-mates at Blackheath Football Club. He wrapped his arms around the fleeing man’s chunky waist and his own weight and momentum did the rest. Both men crashed to the muddy ground.
As his cap flew off, the protester swore and tried to push Watson away. But Watson refused to relinquish his prize. He drew back his fist and punched the Frenchman flush on the jaw. The protester’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell back, stunned.
A moment later several dark-clad, kepi-wearing
gendarmes
poured into the area. Intimidated, the crowd became
respectfully
quiet. They knew the
Gendarmerie Nationale
were free to deal with any public gathering of more than a dozen people in whichever way they felt appropriate.
As one officer knelt to examine the dead man, Watson dragged the groggy protester to his feet and gestured to a nearby police sergeant.
‘Over here!’
‘What is going on here?’ the sergeant demanded, stamping over.
‘This man was part of the group responsible for that poor fellow’s murder,’ Watson explained, breathing hard. ‘It’s possible he may be able to give you the name of the devil who actually wielded the knife.’
Some nearby onlookers nodded to confirm Watson’s story.
‘The killer’s first name, at least, is Rémy or René,’ called Holmes. ‘Immediately after the fight one of his companions called to him, but unfortunately I did not catch it clearly enough to tell you which it is.’
Holmes, who had gone to retrieve Watson’s cane, now came back and handed it to him. ‘The man you are looking for,’ he informed the
gendarme
, ‘is about five feet four inches – let us say, approximately one point six metres – and some fifty-seven kilos in weight. He has an olive complexion and dark features, short black hair, large brown eyes, a long nose, a heavy brow. He is wearing a well-worn, tan-coloured sack coat, grey twill trousers and elastic-sided brogans, the left heel of which has recently been replaced. You can see that quite clearly by the tracks he left in the muddy ground. He is also missing the tip of his left little finger and has a small beverage stain upon his right sleeve, just above the cuff.’
The sergeant stared at Holmes in amazement. ‘H-How do you know all these things,
m’sieur
?’
‘I have eyes,’ said Holmes. ‘I merely
used
them.’
Recovering from his surprise, the sergeant grabbed the protester, roughly turned him around and handcuffed him.
‘Merçi, messieurs
. I will, of course, require statements from you both.’
‘Naturally.’
As Watson brushed himself off, he muttered: ‘Perhaps I should emulate your methods in future, Holmes. It is
considerably
less strenuous than the alternative.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Never mind.’ Watson looked up, and noticing the expression of admiration on his friend’s face said: ‘What? What’s the matter?’
Holmes gave one of his rare smiles. ‘You never fail to amaze me, old friend. One moment you are as meek as a lamb, the next as fearsome as a lion. You truly
are
the most redoubtable of companions.’
It was high praise indeed, coming from Holmes.
Watson flushed, embarrassed. ‘Yes, well … that’s enough excitement for one afternoon, I think.’
But the excitement, as he was just about to discover, was only just beginning.