Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (7 page)

Lydie, knowing he wasn’t finished, didn’t say anything.

Presently he said matter-of-factly: ‘Have Gaston killed. He is of no further use to us.’

It was all she could do not to flinch at the utterly callous way he’d given the order. ‘And Holmes?’ she asked.

‘Find out what he is doing in France, whether or not there is any connection between him and Verne. It could just be
coincidence
.’

His tone said that he doubted it.

‘And Verne?’ she asked.

‘According to the papers, he was wounded in the leg.’

‘Yes. The wound is not life-threatening.’

‘No. And yet, if blood poisoning were to set in….’

‘Do you want me to arrange it?’

‘Not yet. We’ll give Verne another few days. He has no reason to suspect the real reason he was targeted. Hence, he cannot tell Sherlock Holmes anything he doesn’t know. But eventually he may become more … cautious.’ He fixed her with a steely glare, his plans made. ‘Get close to him. Find out what he thinks or suspects – if anything. And then arrange for that unfortunate case of blood poisoning.’

‘Is that all?’

Absalon nodded.

‘So for now it is just … Gaston?’

‘Just Gaston. Oh, and Lydie?’

‘Yes, M’sieur Absalon?’

‘Tell Bessette there must be no more mistakes. I do not take kindly to disappointment, and neither do the men for whom we both work.’

‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘There won’t be.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Of Titles and Plots

A
s night fell over Amiens, Jules Verne stroked the head of his black spaniel, Follet, then looked at his guest and said: ‘I began to write at the age of twelve. It was all poetry then, and quite dreadful poetry, too. But even then I remember spending a long time over my writings, copying and correcting, and never really feeling satisfied with what I had done. And that method of work has clung to me throughout my life. In all modesty I may say that I don’t believe I have ever done a slovenly piece of work.’

It was a little after seven o’clock, and they had dined well on spinach salad and beef short ribs braised in Cabernet, served with pasta, pearl onions and mushrooms. They had topped the meal with toasted
pain d’épices
, a mouth-watering mixture of gingerbread and hazelnuts that Madame Verne herself had prepared in honour of their guest.

Afterwards, the two men – Verne swinging himself along awkwardly between a pair of crutches supplied by the hospital – withdrew to a small lounge Verne referred to as ‘the smoking room’. Here they settled into comfortable chairs either side of a large Regency fireplace, each to enjoy one of Verne’s excellent Havana cigarros.

‘I am surprised to hear you talk of poetry, sir,’ said Watson, who had found the Vernes to be charming hosts and so far enjoyed every minute of his stay. ‘I had taken you for a man of science.’

‘I cannot say that I was ever particularly taken with science,’ Verne replied, much to Watson’s astonishment. ‘But I suppose I have always had a fascination for mechanics. When I was a lad I used to adore watching machines at work. My father had a country house at Chantenay, at the mouth of the Loire, and near there is the government machine factory of Indret. I never went to Chantenay without going into the factory and watching the machines at work, sometimes for hours at a time.

‘This taste has remained with me all my life, and today I still have as much pleasure in watching the engine of a fine locomotive at work as I have in contemplating a picture by Raphael, say, or Correggio.’

‘But do you not feel that science has added so much to our knowledge and ability?’

‘It may be the answer to
some
of our problems,
Docteur
. But I am convinced that in the end it will only create new ones. In fact, my very first book was written to illustrate that very point. But my editor, who is a wise and generous man, persuaded me not to publish it, at least for the time being. And so
Paris in the Twentieth Century
, as it was called, remains locked away in his safe – for now.’

Watson blew a smoke-ring. The evening was so pleasant and peaceful that it was hard to believe he was here more as an unofficial bodyguard than a house guest. ‘May I ask what you are working on at present?’

Verne organized his thoughts momentarily before saying: ‘It is a story of pride, rivalry and vengeance. The central
character
is a mystery man called Robur, about whom little is known. However, he has invented and pilots a huge,
heavier-than
-air rotorcraft, which is able to fly thanks to the artful arrangement of its many propellers.

‘Robur is a man of great strength and intelligence,’ he continued, ‘but one who is also ruled by anger and vanity. When he is rejected by his peers, he abducts a number of
people and takes them aboard his craft to prove that he has indeed mastered the power of flight.’

‘It sounds thrilling, sir,’ said Watson, hanging on his every word. ‘May I ask what it will be called?’

Verne smiled ruefully. ‘There, sir, you have me. You know, I have never yet had a problem with writing, but with titles it is a different matter entirely. I agonize over them.’

‘What about …
Robur the Conqueror
?’

Verne thoughtfully considered Watson’s suggestion, then nodded. ‘Yes … yes, I like it.’

‘Or perhaps …
The Clipper of the Clouds
.’

‘Excellent!’

‘Then you have a choice, sir. You may use one or the other.’

‘Or both,’ mused Verne. He winced suddenly, as his
bandaged
leg gave a twinge. ‘You know, I am sure I must be ruining your holiday, Dr Watson.’

‘Not a bit of it, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, I cannot help but think that M’sieur Holmes has left you … how would you say it? “Holding the baby”?’

Watson smiled. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. Although I wish the circumstances had been different, I have truly relished this opportunity to spend time with you.’

‘And it has been good for me also, to have someone like
yourself
to talk with,’ confessed Verne. ‘I make no apology for it, either. I enjoy the company of men. I always have. They make excellent travelling companions, and as you may know, I adore travel. And men of science like yourself – and a
Scotsman
, too, for I have a deep and abiding love for that country! – are the best of all.

‘My wife … she is a fine woman, but she has never read a single one of my books, and knows little of the world I inhabit … nor indeed the loneliness I so often feel.’

‘Loneliness, sir?’

‘My wife was a widow when first I met her,’ Verne confessed. ‘She had two daughters from that earlier union and she dotes
upon them both. I,
Docteur
, have only one son, and he and I … I suppose you would call us
estranged
.

‘He has never taken life seriously, and his cavalier attitude has always been at odds with my own, and at times has cost me dearly, financially as well as emotionally. Perhaps I seek the company of men because, deep down, I really crave the company of my son.’

Watson held his silence. There was little he could say to the statement, and in any case sensed that the writer did not expect a reply. He was in some way trying to unburden himself, so Watson simply allowed him to talk uninterrupted.

‘You know,’ Verne continued, almost to himself, ‘I am ashamed to say that Michel’s behaviour eventually forced me to send him to the Mettray Penal Colony.’

He noticed the surprise on Watson’s face and laughed suddenly. ‘No, my friend, it is not a prison as such, though the regime is certainly hard. No – it was simply my hope that such an ordered environment would instil self-discipline in him, but of course it did not.

‘When he was nineteen he eloped with an actress and singer he met at our local municipal theatre. He did not do it for love, I think. He did it expressly because I forbade the union. But what can you do? I am close to sixty now,
Docteur
. Next year I celebrate my thirtieth wedding anniversary, and indeed am supposed to be celebrating the thirtieth
anniversary
of my first meeting with Honorine with a party at Versailles next week.

‘Sooner or later a man begins to think of his own mortality, and realize that he must make amends while he still can. So I swallowed my pride and gave the couple my blessing – at which point Michel promptly abandoned his bride and took up with another woman, this one a mere child. Sixteen, she was. And already they have one child out of wedlock and another, I believe, on the way.

‘It seems that anything he
can
do to spite me, he
will
do. But
such is the way of things in our family.’ He hesitated
momentarily
, then murmured: ‘Insanity runs through it, you know. It is hereditary.’

Again Watson did not reply immediately. Finally he said: ‘Do you know that for a fact,
m’sieur
?’

‘Oh yes,’ Verne said with sad certainty. ‘I tell you all this because I trust you,
Docteur
, and know that this conversation will go no further. But I also tell you this for another reason. I am afraid that if M’sieur Holmes continues to poke around in my affairs, however laudable his motives may be, he may somehow encourage … speculation … about my family that I would prefer to avoid.’

‘Holmes is the epitome of discretion, sir, I assure you.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Verne said, uncomfortable now, ‘I would prefer it if he were to leave this matter be. Do you think you could persuade him to do this for me?’

‘It is for you that he is investigating at all, sir.’

‘And do you think he has grounds for his suspicions?’

‘There you have me, M’sieur Verne. You and I may spend a week, a month or a year looking directly at a thing and not detect within it the things Holmes will detect in a trice. I cannot claim to understand his convictions in this matter, but I have no doubt that they are true.’

‘Even though he has been … unwell?’

Watson sat a little straighter. ‘I am not sure what you are implying, sir.’

‘Please,
Docteur
. We are friends, and I mean no disrespect. But facts are facts. Holmes has been ill. You yourself told us over dinner that the purpose of this trip was to help him convalesce. Is it not possible that he has convinced himself that there is some dark conspiracy at work here, where in fact there is nothing more than an unfortunate family argument which has been blown out of all proportion?’

Watson frowned. ‘It is possible, of course,’ he allowed. And he cursed himself for not having realized as much himself. But
after so many weeks spent cloistered in his room, the central player in a drug-fuelled haze, Holmes had finally come back to life. And he, Watson, had been so delighted to see it that he had not even thought to question whether or not the conspiracy to which Holmes had referred only existed within his own
overheated
imagination.

‘We can only await developments,’ he said at last. ‘But please,
m’sieur
, set your mind at rest upon one thing. Neither Holmes nor I shall do anything to besmirch your family name.’

Verne stared into the fire and muttered cryptically: ‘It may already be too late for that.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jailhouse Ruck

S
ergeant Bessette went off duty at four o’clock and spent the next hour or so drinking cognac at the café opposite the post and telegraph office on Rue Gambetta. It worried him that he had made such a foolish mistake that morning. He should have insisted on seeing identification before he allowed the fictitious Lucien Menard to see Gaston Verne. What worried him even more was that he knew he was in the employ of men who seldom tolerated mistakes.

At first he had feared that punishment would be swift, that the dossier they had compiled on him, listing all the bribes he had taken over the years, all the evidence he had fabricated on behalf of others to ensure that their rivals were discredited and removed from the scene, would be delivered immediately to the
Ministère de la Justice
.

He had spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to concentrate on paperwork, snapping irritable orders at the
gendarmes
around him like the condemned man he believed himself to be. But with every minute that passed, his
misgivings
eased. Perhaps they were going to give him another chance. If they did, he would not fail them again. He daren’t.

Finally he wandered over to the post office and asked if anything had come in for Emile Devereaux, an alias his secret employers had bestowed upon him when he first went to work for them.
Non, m’sieur
, he was told.
Nothing yet
.

He went back to the café and drank more cognac. He was
drinking more and more of it lately. Around him, men and women, the girls from the school just along the road all went about their business, blissfully unaware that they had never truly been much more than puppets. Their fates, and the fate of every Frenchman, had nearly always been directed, to one degree or another, behind the scenes.

Bessette had realized this early on. And in a country where there were but two groups, the rulers and the ruled, Gabriel Bessette would side with the rulers every time.

He checked his pocket watch and sighed. He had just spent the slowest half-hour of his entire life. He got up and went back over to the post office. Was there anything for Emile Devereaux yet?

This time the clerk said yes.

He handed over the telegram and went back to work. Bessette went outside, tore open the flimsy envelope and read the artfully coded message within.

The news was both good and bad.

On the one hand, he had been given another chance to prove himself.

On the other, he had to kill a man.

He had to kill Gaston Verne.

He folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket. Later, at his little
appartement
in one of the city’s least-
underprivileged
banlieues
, he would burn it and dispose of the ashes just as he had been instructed.

Now, as he fought the urge to have one more drink and instead forced himself to walk slowly away from the café, he thought about his orders; firstly whether or not he could
actually
carry them out, then
when
he would carry them out, and finally …
how
he would carry them out.

It was almost midnight when Bessette unlocked the access door set into one of the double wooden gates that led into the central police station’s back yard. The city was silent, in
darkness
.
The night was cold, and he saw his breath steaming in the faint moonlight.

He closed the door behind him and paused for a moment to listen to his surroundings. He could smell the stables, off to his left. A horse shifted, snorted and fell quiet again. To his right loomed the silhouettes of two parked wagonettes and three coaches. From where he stood, moonlight made the cobbled yard shine as if damp.

At length he moved again, this time ghosting across the yard, keeping his weight on the outer edges of his feet to
minimize
any sound. He reached the door in the station’s rear wall and gently inserted another key from the chain attached to his belt.

With the softest of clicks, the door swung open.

He stepped into a darkened, brown-painted corridor. Around him the station was more like a mortuary. Sergeant Lepage would be manning the desk tonight. Close to retirement, he was old and fat and dozed a lot. There might be one or two
gendarmes
in the staff room, but everyone else would be out patrolling the streets.

There was a door in the facing wall. He went to it and
carefully
turned the dented brass-ball handle. The hinges squeaked softly and he winced, but the noise did not betray him. He peered through the crack between door and frame. A large, desk-filled room lay beyond. And yes, there was Lepage seated in a chair at the counter, his back to him, his double chin resting on his chest, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically.

Bessette smiled grimly.

He let himself into the room, closed the door behind him and turned quickly to the right. He went through another door, descended a flight of cold stone steps and found himself in the basement cellblock. Still everything was quiet.

His heartbeat accelerating now, he hurried quietly along the corridor until he reached the cell he wanted.

This was going to rely on speed, if he was to get away with it. He could give the prisoner no chance to cry out. He had to be silenced quickly, permanently, and then Bessette had to hope he would have similar luck in leaving the station
undetected
.

He drew a breath. This was murder, plain and simple. But he knew also that it was kill or be killed. For if he failed the organization again….

He fumbled with his key ring. Suddenly his hands were trembling, his fingers stubborn and unresponsive. His breath sounded loud in his ears. His pulse raced. He’d never exactly been an angel, but neither had he ever committed murder before.

He stopped, closed his eyes, drew a deep breath.
Calm down
, he told himself.
Calm down!
After a moment, he did.

He unlocked the door, entered and closed it behind him.

The prisoner was huddled beneath his single grey blanket, snoring softly. Bessette’s shadow fell across him. It took
something
from one pocket – something long, slim and deadly; a knife – and then drew back his arm to deliver a single killing blow.

The figure beneath the blanket seemed to explode.

The blanket flew back like a departing spirit and the man beneath it sat up fast. Bessette caught a bewildering flicker of movement, and then something cold poked him hard in the sternum, keeping him at bay.

It was the brass ferrule of a cane.

‘Give it up,
m’sieur
!’ snapped a voice that did not belong to Gaston Verne.

Bessette cursed himself for being a fool. No wonder it had been so easy to get in; the whole thing was a trap – and he had walked right into it!

Desperation boiled up in him and he lashed out, knocking the cane aside. At the same time he whirled around and lunged for the door. His intended target, the man he had
believed to be Gaston Verne, sprang up from the cot and brought the cane down on his forearm as he reached for the door. Pain sawed through him. He yelped, turned and threw himself at his opponent.

For an indeterminate time they grappled, each struggling to get the upper hand. Bessette’s knife was knocked from his fingers and fell clattering on the stone floor. Cursing, he punched wildly at his opponent’s head and missed. His
opponent
pushed him away. Bessette slammed against the opposite wall. Breath knocked out of him, he lunged forward again in a desperate charge.

The other man came to meet him. Just before they collided, he half-turned so that he led with his shoulder. Then, crouching slightly, he deftly thrust his shoulder into Bessette’s armpit and twisted quickly at the waist.

Bessette went over the other man’s shoulder and crashed heavily to the floor. All the air was knocked out of him and stars popped in the darkness before his eyes.

Gasping, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. The other man crouched over him. Regaining his wind, Bessette was about to launch himself back into the fray when the cell door flew open. He froze, suddenly illuminated by the gaslight that brightened the corridor outside.

Inspector Mathes barked: ‘Bessette! Don’t move, man, or I’ll shoot!’

Bessette, seeing the 12mm single-action Galand revolver in Mathes’s hand, grudgingly obeyed.

The inspector glanced across at Bessette’s opponent, the man who had posed as Gaston Verne, and said: ‘Good work, M’sieur Holmes. It seems I was right to trust your judgement in this matter, after all.’