by Hayes, Steve
He lost his footing and fell headlong. As he crashed and rolled from step to step, the sound he made was almost deafening in the confines of the round tower. At the foot of the staircase he rolled over and hunched himself into a ball, his chest heaving.
At just that moment Honorine and Michel came running, the black spaniel barking around their feet. Michel, still thinking Valentin was a hospital attendant, actually helped the man regain his feet.
‘Hold him!’ yelled Watson as he charged down the staircase.
Michel attempted to grab Valentin, but the assassin spun around and sent him sprawling with a punch. Then, holding his left arm tight to his side, Valentin hurried through the conservatory hall, kicking over potted plants as he went in order to delay his pursuer. He tore open the door and ran for the gate on the far side of the courtyard.
By the time Watson burst outside, Valentin was just vanishing through the gate. He knew he could never catch the man, but he had to try. He limped quickly to the gate, wrenched it open, ran as best as he could to the corner of Boulevard Longueville and stopped. He looked in all directions.
But wherever Valentin had gone, he had disappeared completely.
‘Dash it!’
Winded, he limped back to Verne’s house. Michel had also raced out in pursuit and now demanded to know what had happened. Watson confided his suspicions.
Michel went white with anger. ‘Shall I fetch that policeman, what was his name, Mathes?’
‘It would do no good now,’ said Watson. ‘The bird has well and truly flown.’
In any case, Watson had a more pressing concern at that moment. They went back into the house and climbed the stairs to Verne’s library. As they entered, Honorine had just finished helping Verne to slip his left foot back into the boot he had removed prior to his ‘treatment’. The author immediately shifted forward on the sofa and said anxiously: ‘Docteur! Are you all right?’
Watson looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Though another attempt had just been made on his life, Verne was more concerned for the welfare of his bodyguard than himself. Watson felt a flush of shame for the distance he had deliberately put between them.
‘At the moment I am more concerned for you, sir,’ he answered. ‘Did that fellow get a chance to inject you?’
‘Non.’
‘Did he do anything other than remove your dressing?’
‘Non. He was only here a few minutes before you arrived.’
Watson nodded in relief.
‘Docteur,’ said Honorine. ‘What was he about to do?’
‘I suspect he was trying to introduce some sort of infection into your husband’s wound that would poison his blood.’
Verne paled. ‘Good grief! But … how did you know he was not really intending to irrigate the wound with … what did he call it?’
‘Permanganate of Potash? Simple, m’sieur. Permanganate of Potash has about it a distinctive purple colour. What was in that syringe looked more like….’
‘Yes?’
Watson went through to Verne’s workroom and knelt beside the shattered remains of the syringe and its thick, flavescent yellow contents. ‘Do you have a microscope, sir?’ he called over one shoulder.
‘Of course. Here.’ Verne indicated a cupboard.
As Watson returned to the library, Michel took a large walnut box from the cupboard. From the box Michel removed a microscope. Watson helped himself to a spare specimen slide and went back to the workroom. As they watched, he carefully scooped up a sample of the syringe’s contents and then placed it under the lens.
He studied it for a few moments, then said: ‘You have had another lucky escape, M’sieur Verne. Unless I am very much mistaken, the plan was to inject you with a bacterium known as Staphylococcus aureus. I recognize it as such from its distinctive shape, which has often been likened to clusters of golden grapes or berries.’ He looked from Michel to Honorine and finally settled on her husband, his expression grim. ‘Their primary objective was to induce sepsis, or blood poisoning. But even had that not worked, you would almost certainly have contracted pneumonia, meningitis, infection of the bone marrow or thrombic endocarditis. Your death, sir, would have appeared as an entirely natural result of the infection of your wound.’
‘An almost perfect murder,’ Verne murmured, still in shock.
‘But where did that … that man obtain such a bacterium?’ asked Honorine.
Watson’s face grew grimmer still. ‘We are indeed dealing with clever men and subtle means.’ He gestured to the liquid on the slide he had just examined. ‘What we have here is an exudate, taken in all likelihood from an abscess.’
‘You mean that it is … pus?’
‘Yes,’ Watson confirmed. ‘Our “attendant”, this man whose name is Valentin, doubtless drained it from a patient at your nearest hospital earlier this very morning.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
La Fôret Domaniale de Malvoisine
As Holmes expected, Lydie left her hotel early the following morning, hailed a cab and drove away.
He did not follow her immediately, and was wise not to do so, for as he had suspected, a second cab came around a nearby corner a few moments later and went in pursuit of her.
In the mouth of an alley across the road from the hotel, Holmes narrowed his eyes as the second cab went past. He could see nothing of the passenger, but it was only to be expected that an organization such as the Knaves would leave nothing to chance. Just as Lydie had been sent here to ensure that Gaston carried out his mission, just as she had been able to locate and order Sergeant Bessette to finish the job, and then later order Bessette’s ‘lawyer’, Prideaux, to kill him before he cracked and spilled whatever he knew about them, so it followed that she too had been shadowed. Holmes realized that Knave agents must be everywhere, each with orders to watch another and ensure that discretion and secrecy were observed at all times.
As the sounds of hoofs and wheels diminished, Holmes returned to his own waiting cab, climbed inside and tapped his cane against the roof. The driver dutifully clucked the horse into motion and set off in pursuit. He was anxious to collect the ten francs Holmes had promised him for following the other cabs without making it obvious.
Lydie’s first destination was the telegraph office on Rue Gambetta. Here she stayed just long enough to send a telegram. Then she climbed back into her cab, her driver turned his vehicle around in the middle of the still largely deserted street and returned the way he had come.
From around the next corner, the second cab dutifully followed after her.
Again Holmes rapped softly on the roof of his cab; again the driver went after them both at a discreet distance.
This time Lydie made directly for Gare du Nord. She alighted before the station, paid the fare and then, pausing only to lift the hem of her grey dress a little so that it would not brush against the ground, hurried inside.
The second cab pulled in behind the first. A tall, long-limbed man in a black suit that was far too short in the arms and legs paid his driver and strode into the station behind her. He was chunky and yet cadaverous, with a long, heavy-featured face, waxy skin and a black derby set atop his close-cropped black hair.
Holmes paid off his own cabbie and waited for a time outside the station. Only when he heard the tell-tale blast of whistles and the slamming of carriage doors did he slip inside. He quickly bought a third-class ticket to Paris – it was the final destination of the only train in the station at this still-early hour – and hopped aboard even as it began to draw slowly away from the platform.
The rail-yards fell behind them and the train picked up speed. At length they crossed the valley of the Oise by way of a bridge with three arches. A long, deep cutting took them on through the stone quarries of St Maximin, and thence across a magnificent viaduct and past a ruined abbey.
But Holmes hardly noticed the scenery. His job today was twofold – to follow Lydie and discover where she was going, and at the same time avoid
detection by his target or the man who was following her.
Two hours later the train arrived in Paris. Holmes deliberately hesitated a while before leaving his compartment. When at last he did, he saw with satisfaction that Lydie was just passing through the gates at the far end of the platform, her tall, pale-faced follower not far behind.
Holmes had been right in his assumption that Lydie would travel first-class, and that the man following her would travel by second. Travelling by third-class had ensured that he would not possibly meet up with either of them, even by chance.
The station was all hustle and bustle, but still he was careful to keep his distance and as much as possible remain invisible to those he was following. Outside the station Lydie hurried to an awaiting coach that was black with red wheel-spokes. The driver did not even acknowledge her, but sat on his high seat with his head facing forward. As soon as she got in and closed the coach door, he shook his reins and his two-horse team pulled out into one of the capital’s busy thoroughfares.
This time, however, her hulking, cadaverous shadow made no move to follow her. He had doubtless known her destination all along, but had followed her to make sure he was correct. Now apparently he was convinced. Holmes watched him look around, then cross the tree-lined boulevard and enter a post and telegram office. He would now report to his master, doubtless the man Absalon … wherever he might be.
Only when he was sure he would not possibly be spotted by the cadaverous man did Holmes finally make his own move. Much to the protests of the drivers lined up ahead of him, he chose the very last cab in the rank and gave the cabbie instructions to follow the black coach. Eager to please, the driver got them moving almost before Holmes was settled in his seat.
They followed the coach through picturesque streets and across bridges, always heading east. About half an hour later they were in the suburbs and the traffic had thinned considerably. Ten minutes after that he rapped on the cab roof and the vehicle slowed to a halt, allowing the coach ahead to vanish into thick woodland.
The driver’s pinched face appeared in the trapdoor above him. ‘What lies beyond those trees?’ asked Holmes.
The driver thought for a moment. ‘That is la Forêt Domaniale de Malvoisine,’ he replied.
‘Yes, but what lies beyond it?’
The driver shrugged. ‘Malperthius … Saint-Augustin.’
Holmes stared thoughtfully at the clustered oaks. A line of telegraph poles followed the contours of the lane in which they found themselves, until they too vanished into the forest, just as the black carriage had. He remembered something then that François Fournier had said to them the day before. There is one place. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it is certainly set away from prying eyes.
‘Do you want me to keep following the coach?’ asked the driver.
But the chances of being spotted were now too great for that. ‘No,’ Holmes replied. ‘But tell me….’
‘Oui, m’sieur?’
‘Are there any properties located within the forest?’
The cab driver gave the question a moment’s thought. ‘I am not sure,’ he answered at length. ‘There could be. It covers a large area, you know.’
‘Then you may take me back to Paris,’ said Holmes. ‘I believe my work here is complete.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Forewarned is Forearmed
Seated at the large desk in his ground-floor office, Alexandre Absalon listened in silence until Lydie had finished making her report. Even then he made no immediate response. The prolonged silence grew uncomfortable until at length he finally broke it.
‘If this man Watson is to be believed, then Sherlock Holmes is every bit as clever as his reputation suggests.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean – if he is to be believed?’
‘Do you not think he is using you?’ he asked, raising one Mephistophelian eyebrow.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then you have been blinded by his charm, Lydie. He is quite the ladies’ man, you know. By his own admission his experience of women extends over many nations and three separate continents.’
He watched her closely as he said this, and did not care for the flicker of hurt he saw in her eyes. ‘Did you think he was any different to any of the other men you have known?’ he asked, his tone deceptively gentle and slightly mocking. ‘Did you think he was the one?’
‘I know that he is a gentleman,’ she replied hotly, ‘and one who would not find it easy to use another human being.’
‘You surprise me. I did not think a woman of your experience could be quite so … naive.’
‘It is not a case of naiveté, M’sieur Absalon. I prefer to think of myself as a good judge of character.’
Although she didn’t mean to, she made the statement sound more like an attack on her employer. She thought for a moment that he would censure her, but he didn’t. She would have preferred it if he had.
Rising, Absalon walked to one of the windows and gazed out across the magnificent grounds surrounding the chateau. ‘This man Holmes knows something,’ he said. ‘This I know from my own personal experience. But he does not know as much as Watson claims. He cannot. He is bluffing, Lydie. And whether or not Watson was aware of it, he has used his companion to feed you just enough information to make you panic and report directly to me.’
He moved suddenly, quick and fluid as a panther. He crossed to her, grabbed her by her arms, dug his fingers deep into her flesh and shook her as if she were a rag doll. She had never seen him angry. But now he was beyond anger; he was absolutely incensed.
‘Were you followed?’ he demanded through clenched teeth.
‘N-no.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am! Stop it! You’re hurting me, and I will not stand for that!’
He pushed her away from him. ‘You will stand for anything I tell you to stand for,’ he rasped. Then: ‘But for my foresight, you might well have led them straight to us! That was Holmes’s plan! Can’t you see that?’
She rubbed her arms, knowing that they would be bruised before she returned to Amiens. ‘Watson told me enough to convince me that Sherlock Holmes is on to you! I saw it as my duty to report as much at the earliest possible opportunity! Was that wrong of me? Should I have simply remained silent? Forewarned is forearmed, is it not?’
Absalon inhaled angrily. His shoulders rose and fell. He said: ‘You were not followed. I know this, because I have a very special man in Amiens by the name of Sébastien Thayer whose job it has been to follow you throughout this entire mission!’
‘What?’
He shook his head pityingly at her. ‘My God, you really are naive. In this organization, everyone watches everyone else, Lydie. It is the only way to maintain secrecy – and loyalty.’
She wanted to tell him that he was naive, too, if he felt that loyalty could be anything other than earned, but she sensed that she was already in enough trouble as it was.
His next statement confirmed it.
‘I am all for you using your undoubted charms to carry out the work of the Knaves. That was the purpose for which you were originally recruited. But your feelings for Watson, whatever they may be, have clouded your judgement, and might well have brought about a serious breach of the security we hold so dear.’ He paused briefly, then said: ‘You have arranged to have Verne’s wound contaminated?’
She looked at the spelter clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It will have been done by now.’
‘Who did you choose for the task?’
‘Valentin Faure.’
He nodded, satisfied. Then turning away from her, he said: ‘Return to Amiens, collect your things and go back to your appartement in Lyon. Do not make any attempt to see Watson again.’
‘Why not?’
He waved off her question. ‘You are no longer associated with this matter, Lydie. Now, go back to Lyon and wait. The Knaves will find work for you elsewhere, in due course.’
‘Bu
t I—’
‘Do it,’ he whispered. ‘And be grateful that I have shown such leniency.’
She glared defiantly at him for a moment longer. Then deciding not to enrage him further, she silently withdrew.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
An Open Invitation
It was late afternoon by the time Holmes returned to Verne’s house. Even before he confronted Watson in the sitting room and saw the bruising around his companion’s right eye, he sensed that something had happened in his absence.
‘Another attempt was made upon Verne’s life,’ Watson confirmed upon questioning. He went on to recount the events of the morning, then said quietly: ‘I owe you an apology, Holmes. It appears that you, uh … were right about Lydie.’
‘I take no pleasure in that,’ Holmes replied bleakly. ‘However, she did exactly as I expected her to – she travelled to Paris, and then on to a location either in or beyond la Fôret Domaniale de Malvoisine. Unfortunately I could not follow her to her exact destination for fear of being discovered.’
‘But she very nearly led you to the headquarters of the Knaves?’
‘That is what I believe.’
Watson cursed under his breath. What a fool he’d been to accept her at face value! And how ridiculous to have clung to the belief that Holmes had been wrong about her in the face of almost overwhelming evidence! He felt immature and thoroughly humiliated. But more than that, he felt disappointed. He had fallen for her glib tongue … and fallen for her in other ways, too.
‘It has been a long day, Holmes,’ he sighed, heading for the door. ‘I think I will go for a walk.’
‘To the Cheval Noir?’
It was on the tip of Watson’s tongue to say no, but there was little point: Holmes had always been able to read him like a book. ‘If we are to make any real headway in this case, then I think perhaps a little straight-talking with Mademoiselle Denier is in order,’ he said.
