Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

‘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 j
ust 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.

  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

  As 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 a
nd 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.’