Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Lamb and the Lion

  With 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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Murder is Attempted

  After giving their statements to the sergeant, they wearily made their way back along Boulevard Longueville. The broad street was filled with the dispersing crowd and revellers from the park and they were bumped and jostled by people hurrying past. They had almost reached their destination – Verne’s house on Rue Charles Dubois – when Holmes noticed a stocky man in a long, navy-blue overcoat and peaked cap walking towards them on the other side of the street. ‘I believe that is our man,’ he said softly.

  ‘Verne?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Verne.’

  Watson looked more closely at the fellow. In his late fifties, he had a full grey beard, walked with a sailor’s rolling gait, and resembled an old sea-dog.

  As they watched, the man turned right into Rue Charles Dubois. A second man, one of Verne’s neighbours, waved to him from the front of his own property. Verne, head down and clearly deep in thought, offered no acknowledgement.

  He reached the wrought-iron gate in the lichen-covered wall and was just about to open it when another man stepped out from behind one of the beech trees that lined the street.

  His face was obscured by a white mask with dark, sad eyes and a downturned mouth: the face of tragedy.

  In his left hand he held a pistol.

  Spotting the weapon, and momentarily wondering if his eyes were deceiving him, Watson exclaimed: ‘Good grief!’

  Having seen the same thing himself, Holmes was already looking for a break in the busy traffic so he could cross.

  Unable to find one, he decided to chance it anyway. He dashed out in front of an oncoming cab, and the trotting horse shied and reared up in its traces. Holmes leapt aside, raced on and narrowly escaped being crushed from the other direction by the wheels of a drayman’s wagon filled with heavy barrels.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’

  ‘Look out, you fool!’

  As Holmes sprinted onto the opposite pavement, he heard the man in the mask yell: ‘Salaud!’

  Then the man fired his pistol.

  The weapon spat flame and stone chips flew from the cement frame around the gate. Startled, Verne looked around, perhaps wondering if he had mistaken the sound of the shot for a carnival firecracker or the report of an air rifle inside the shooting gallery tent.

  The masked man fired again.

  This time Verne felt a searing pain in his left leg. Crying out, he fell against the wall and slid slowly to the ground.

  As the masked man came closer, Verne shouted: ‘Stop him!’

  Across the street, his shocked neighbour heard him but fearing for his own life, hesitated to get involved.

  Holmes had no such compunction. Without stopping, he hurled himself at the gunman and they both crashed against the wall. As the man’s hat flew off, his light brown hair spilled across his mask.

  Holmes tore the gun from the would-be assassin’s hand, fully expecting him to resist. But he seemed strangely unaware that he had been thrown against a wall, much less that he had just attempted murder. Puzzled, Holmes dragged the man back to his feet and tore the mask from his face.

  As he had expected, he found himself looking into the face of the young man they had first seen at Boulogne-sur-Mer – the troubled watcher of raindrops.

  Up close, the remnants of a fading bruise could just be seen upon the young man’s chin.

  Now that the danger had passed, the neighbour regained his courage and came hurrying over to help. Still the would-be assassin just stood there, motionless, a sad, vacant look in his unfocused hazel eyes.

  Cursing him, Verne’s neighbour got him in an arm-lock and pushed him face-first against the wall. The impact drew blood. Still the young man offered neither resistance nor reaction.

  Catching his breath, Holmes turned to Verne. By now Watson had reached the fallen author and was carefully removing his left high boot and sock so that he could examine the wound. The bullet had struck Verne deep in the lower shin, a few inches above the ankle. It was an ugly wound and it was bleeding fiercely.

  A crowd had started to gather. As Watson removed his tie and set about fashioning it into a makeshift tourniquet, he caught a distinctive flash of purple off to his left. Glancing that way, he saw the attractive woman who had complimented him on his French at Gare du Nord standing among the curious, chattering passers-by. He nodded at her and then continued tending to his patient.

  Behind Holmes and Watson the gate in the wall now opened and a servant rushed out. Drawn by the sound of the shots, he looked at Verne and exclaimed: ‘M’sieur! What has happened?’

  ‘He’s been shot,’ Watson said. ‘Summon an ambulance at once!’

  ‘As for you …’ snarled Verne’s neighbour, manhandling the vacant-eyed young man, ‘I ought to crack your head open!’

  ‘No, Fréson!’ cried Verne. ‘Do not hurt him!’

  The neighbour looked at Verne in surprise. ‘What? But, m’sieur, this man just tried to kill you!’

  Verne, face as pale as damp parchment, shook his head. ‘Leave him be, I say. He meant no such thing. Of that I am certain.’

  ‘How can you be certain?’ demanded Fréson.

  Verne hesitated, then said: ‘Because this man is my nephew, Gaston!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Dreamy Mouse

  For one fleeting moment there was total, stunned silence. Then the onlookers started chattering again and Holmes, realizing that someone had to take charge, snapped orders to Verne’s servant. ‘Help your master inside. It is cold out here and there is the threat of more rain. Watson – help him.’

  ‘Of course….’

  Watson had been looking for the woman in the purple dress, but she must have left while he was treating Verne. Now he helped the servant gently lift Verne to his feet, and together they assisted him through the gate towards the house.

  A dog – the same black spaniel they’d seen earlier – was still barking furiously. A woman in a long brown dress and pearls was standing in the middle of the darkening courtyard. Hands pressed anxiously against her cheeks, she watched as they helped Verne limp towards her.

  ‘Jules?’ she called, alarmed. ‘Jules! What happened?’

  ‘It is … nothing, Honorine,’ he said weakly. ‘Nothing of … consequence.’

  But she knew better. As soon as she saw his leg wound, the dark, intelligent eyes beneath her delicately arched brows widened in horror. ‘My God, you’re bleeding!’

  ‘He has been shot,’ said Watson. ‘But do not worry, madame, I do not believe the wound to be life-threatening.’

  The woman – obviously Verne’s wife, Honorine – was about the same age as her husband. She was above average height and of portly stature, her round, clear-skinned face reflecting a kindly nature. She had a long straight nose, a wide, determined mouth, and wore her silver hair in a centre-part, pinned close to her head.

  ‘Dear God,’ she said, ‘we must get him inside, quickly!’

  Holmes watched the exchange, then turned to Verne’s neighbour and said: ‘I will take charge of this man now.’

  ‘You are welcome to him,’ Fréson said, pushing Gaston roughly towards Holmes. ‘Should I call for the police?’

  ‘I imagine they have already been summoned.’

  Taking Gaston by the arm, Holmes led him through the gate. Gaston was still docile, hardly aware of his surroundings. As if in a daze, he stumbled up the steps on his way into the house. The spaniel rushed up to meet him, happily sniffing around his legs and wagging its tail. Gaston ignored it.

  As Holmes led his prisoner into the h
allway, a floorboard creaked underfoot. Honorine, who was watching Watson tend to her husband from the sitting-room doorway, heard the noise and turned around.

  Recognizing Gaston, she frowned and said angrily: ‘You! Did you do this?’

  Gaston merely tilted his head to one side and stared down at the rug.

  ‘Gaston! Answer me!’

  Again, Gaston ignored her.

  ‘Madame Verne?’ Holmes inquired.

  With effort she drew herself up and stifled her obvious anger. ‘Oui, m’sieur.’

  ‘I fear we have not yet been introduced. I am Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘O-Oh, yes, of course….’ Honorine stopped glaring at Gaston and offered Holmes a troubled smile. ‘Jules said you were coming. He was most excited about it, in fact.’ She again glared at Gaston before adding to Holmes: ‘Forgive my rudeness, m’sieur. But as you can imagine, all this has come as a dreadful shock. Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’ Over her shoulder Holmes could see into the dark-walled, copper-ceilinged sitting room where Watson was tending to Verne’s injured leg. ‘Gaston tried to shoot your husband. Do you have any idea why?’

  ‘None,’ she replied, her face creased with emotion.

  ‘You are quite sure of that?’

  Honorine didn’t answer for a moment. Then, ‘I am sorry, m’sieur,’ she apologized. ‘My mind is elsewhere at present. Yes, I am quite sure.’

  ‘Madame, is there somewhere quiet I can put Gaston until the police arrive?’

  Verne’s servant appeared at Holmes’s elbow. ‘Certainly, m’sieur. Please come with me.’

  He led Holmes along the hallway to a large kitchen at the back of the house. Holmes sat Gaston in a chair at the table and knelt before him. Gaston gave no indication that he knew Holmes was there. Holmes waved a hand before his face. Still he continued to stare blankly ahead. Under the servant’s curious gaze, Holmes tilted the young man’s face towards the window and looked into his eyes. The pupils dilated normally. He was not under the effects of any drug, then. And yet –