Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  Absalon went white. ‘You idiot! You must be mistaken—’

  ‘He isn’t,’ snarled Watson. ‘It is the army.’ And to Thayer: ‘Remember, I promised you you’d never get away with this.’

  All at once something finally made sense to Holmes. He looked at Watson and said softly: ‘Gillet. That’s where you went on Wednesday! You went to see Henri Gillet!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Watson. ‘And after I finished telling him everything we had uncovered, he used the authority invested in him by the Ministère de la Justice and mobilized the army, with orders to watch and wait and seize the first chance we gave them to destroy the Knaves once and for all!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Light the Fuses!’

  Absalon motioned to Lacombe and Thayer to keep Holmes and Watson covered, then hurried to the window. Pulling aside the curtains, he looked out.

  What he saw chilled his blood. For there, quick-marching up the lane in a long column of twos was indeed the army. Led by mounted officers, the soldiers wore iron-blue greatcoats and kepis, bright red trousers tucked into their boots and carried Lebel rifles with long cruciform bayonets attached. It was a grimly inspiring sight, and one that shook Absalon’s confidence.

  ‘What are we going to do, sir?’ Lacombe said fearfully.

  Turning from the window, Absalon hid his own fear behind a disdainful smile. ‘Do?’ he sneered. ‘Why, fight them, of course!’

  ‘But, sir, they outnumber us ten to—’

  ‘Hold your tongue, you fool!’ He paused as outside the approaching soldiers began shouting: ‘Pour la France! Pour la France!’

  ‘It seems,’ Holmes said drily, ‘you have stirred up quite a hornets’ nest.’

  Absalon started to reply, but before he could do so a commanding voice cried out: ‘Attention, inside the house! I call upon you to surrender in the name of the French government!’

  Absalon stood there, glaring, teeth gritted. There was a long moment of absolute silence, then the same voice shouted:

  ‘I repeat. This is the French government! I call upon you to surrender! You are surrounded and we will use force if necessary!’

  ‘Sir …’ began Lacombe.

  Absalon struck him across the face, silencing him. ‘There will be no surrender,’ he snarled, adding: ‘Tell the men to stand fast and hold them back as long as possible!’

  Then, as Lacombe remained there, unwilling to leave: ‘Tell them, damn you!’

  For another moment Lacombe defiantly stood there. Then as Thayer aimed his pistol at him, Lacombe grudgingly left.

  ‘A lot of people will die if you don’t give this up,’ Watson warned.

  Absalon snorted disdainfully. ‘Do you actually think that would trouble me, Docteur?’

  Before Watson could reply they heard the sudden rattle of gunfire outside the front of the house, mingled with the shattering of windows and the yells of men in combat. Absalon returned to the window and peered out.

  Outside, soldiers were advancing en masse across the lawn, firing as they came. Their bayonets glinted in the moonlight. From their positions around the house Absalon’s men fired back at the onrushing troopers, killing or incapacitating several in the front line. But all around them the others still pressed forward. Nothing could stop the charge.

  Absalon, sensing he was finished, turned from the window and started to give Thayer an order. He stopped as the door burst open and Lacombe rushed back in, exclaiming: ‘They’re storming the house, sir! I’m not sure how long we can hold them back.’

  ‘Surrender,’ urged Holmes.

  Absalon ignored him. ‘Light the fuses,’ he told Lacombe.

  ‘But, sir—!’

  ‘Do it, damn you!’

  As Lacombe hurried from the study, Absalon glared at his prisoners. ‘You may have won the battle, gentlemen, but you will not win the war.’

  ‘Surely you’re not going to blow up the chateau?’ Holmes said.

  Absalon gathered some papers from his desk and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. ‘We have prepared for every eventuality, including this one,’ he said. ‘The cellar holds a number of plain wooden boxes, each of which contains sawdust soaked in glyceryl trinitrate. To each box is connected a detonator cap and a fuse, each fuse carefully timed to allow us precisely fifteen minutes to make good our escape. Yes,’ he concluded. ‘I am going to blow up the chateau.’

  ‘Just to protect the contents of that safe?’ said Holmes, indicating the heavy brown-and-black Chubb in the corner.

  Absalon smiled coolly. ‘We are nothing if not thorough, M’sieur Holmes. If we’re forced to set up again elsewhere, we will not leave even the tiniest scrap of evidence behind us.’ He turned to Thayer. ‘Kill them, and then meet me outside by the bridge.’

  It was then that Watson made his move. With nothing to lose, he lowered his shoulder and charged Thayer, driving him back into a stool. Thayer went sprawling. Watson leapt on him, all too aware that this was the man who had killed Lydie; and even as Thayer tried to bring his revolver up Watson slammed him unmercifully on the jaw.

  Absalon, seeing what was happening, quickly opened one of the desk drawers and grabbed the gun lying inside. But Holmes had already launched himself across the desk. He tackled Absalon, his momentum landing both of them in a heap by the wall.

  Thayer, meanwhile, shoved Watson aside and again tried to raise his revolver. Watson grabbed the stool and threw it at him. Then as Thayer rolled aside to avoid the makeshift missile, Watson snatched an unlit lamp off the table and hurled it at him.

  Thayer batted the lamp away. Its funnel shattered, showering him with broken glass and kerosene. Before he could recover, Watson was on him. He grasped Thayer’s right wrist and bent it backwards. Thayer cried out and dropped his gun. As Watson reached for it, Thayer kneed him in the face.

  Watson staggered backwards into some furniture and went down hard. His head struck the floor, momentarily stunning him. Stars blinded him. When his vision cleared he heard Holmes shout his name.

  His head snapped up just as Thayer pulled Watson’s own service revolver from his pocket.

  Watson quickly aimed Thayer’s pistol at him and squeezed the trigger.

  The impact of the bullet doubled Thayer over, blood spreading from a wound in the centre of his chest. His eyes widened, blood ran from his slack mouth and he fell back, dead before he hit the floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Poetic Justice

  Outside, the sounds of combat were now closer and more violent. Gunfire filled the night. Hand-to-hand combat began. Steel clashed against steel. Cries of pain came from the dying and the wounded. Corpses littered the lawn. Their comrades leaped over them and continued their attack.

  The soldiers’ relentless firing took heavy toll of Absalon’s men. Their bodies hung limply from windows or were slumped down in doorways, blood puddling around them.

  ‘Pour la France! Pour la France!’

  Bullets shattered the study window. Flying glass rained onto the hardwood floor. Alarmed, everyone shrank back.

  ‘Give up!’ Holmes told Absalon. ‘While there’s still time.’

  ‘Never!’ grated Absalon.

  Suddenly they heard wood splintering as the front door was breached. There followed a confusion of gunshots, then silence and then calls from the officers, demanding surrender. A few scattered shots followed, but after that all shooting ceased.

  Watson shouted: ‘Gillet! In here!’

  Moments later the double doors burst open and Lacombe stumbled in, propelled by Henri Gillet. A short, stocky man of forty with curly grey hair and merry blue eyes, Gillet gave Lacombe another push and then he looked about him. His gaze settled first on Watson, then on the body of Thayer, then Holmes, and finally Alexandre Absalon.

  ‘Bonsoir, M’sieur Holmes,’ he said, bowing. ‘My wife and I are still awaiting the pleasure of your company.’

  Animated voices were heard outside the study. Moments later Michel, Mathes and
two officers hurried in.

  ‘Search the house!’ Gillet ordered.

  ‘No!’ snapped Holmes. ‘Wait!’

  ‘What is it?’ Gillet demanded.

  Holmes turned to Lacombe. ‘Did you light the fuses?’

  Lacombe nodded and stared fearfully at Absalon.

  ‘The cellar is full of explosives,’ Watson told Gillet. ‘We only have a few minutes to evacuate the building.’

  Gillet confronted Lacombe. ‘Is there still time to put these fuses out?’

  ‘P-Perhaps – if we do it now,’ said Lacombe. ‘But it will be very close, m’sieur.’

  Holmes said: ‘Then let them burn.’ To Gillet he added: ‘Get your men and your prisoners to safety.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘M’sieur Absalon and I are going to stay here.’

  Absalon looked alarmed. ‘What?’

  ‘I have reason to believe that whatever is in that safe is vital to the continuation of the Knaves,’ Holmes said. He paused and looked at Watson before continuing: ‘A fine, brave lady of our acquaintance tried to tell us as much before this man Thayer killed her earlier this evening. Now, we do not have the time to move the safe, nor can we spare the time to work out the combination by ourselves. For that we need you, Absalon. And if you refuse to cooperate, then the explosion will destroy you as certainly as it will destroy the evidence you hope to keep from us.’

  ‘You’re mad!’ Absalon said.

  ‘Let us see, shall we?’ said Holmes. ‘The rest of you – leave now, while you have the chance.’

  Gillet, realizing Holmes was right, pushed Lacombe towards the door. ‘Allez! Allez! Everyone out of here – now!’

  Holmes waited for Gillet and his men to leave and then said to Watson: ‘You too, old friend.’

  Watson shook his head and retrieved his service revolver from Thayer. ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ he said, ‘I’ll stay.’

  ‘So will I,’ added Michel.

  ‘You’re all insane,’ said Inspector Mathes. ‘But God help me, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t stay and see it through with you.’

  Absalon looked at them. ‘You fools! I have spent the last ten years serving the Knaves, watching the organization grow and spread and slowly but surely gain influence and power! Do you really think I would betray all that just to save my own skin?’

  Holmes sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. ‘We shall see,’ he said calmly.

  Watson took out his pocket watch and checked the time. ‘I estimate that we have perhaps eight minutes left.’

  Absalon sneered. ‘Eight minutes, eight seconds – I will never betray my cause.’

  Michel flopped into a chair. ‘Then it will be my pleasure to watch you die, m’sieur. You, who caused my parents so much ugliness.’

  Mathes nodded. ‘I agree. To think that your organization has infiltrated and corrupted the force I hold so dear … oui, it will be a pleasure to watch as you begin your journey to hell.’

  ‘Seven minutes,’ said Watson.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ Absalon scoffed. ‘You’re all bluffing.’

  ‘Do we look as if we are bluffing?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Six minutes.’

  Watson kept his voice as level as he could, but he began to wonder if Holmes had underestimated his opponent. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to say that perhaps they should cut their losses and leave while they still could. After all, where was the sense in four decent men losing their lives for the sake of an evil fifth?

  But then he remembered Lydie’s last words: The safe … Absalon clearly kept something there that could help them bring about the destruction of the Knaves. So, calmly, he announced: ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘All right!’ said Absalon. ‘You win! I will give you the combination – but in return I demand immunity from prosecution.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Holmes said immediately.

  ‘M’sieur,’ Mathes protested, ‘it is not for you to accede to such a demand. You have no authority—’

  ‘You have my word upon it,’ Holmes told Absalon.

  ‘Four minutes,’ said Watson. ‘Hurry, man!’

  Absalon went to the safe, knelt and began turning the dial first one way, then the other. Watson shifted his gaze from Absalon’s busy fingers to the second hand as it swept around the face of his pocket watch. It was imagination, surely, but it seemed to him that the seconds were ticking away alarmingly fast.

  Absalon twisted the brass handle and opened the safe’s two doors. ‘There,’ he said dejectedly.

  Holmes said, ‘Here, take these,’ and began to remove stacks of documents and folders. He gave the first pile to Michel, the second to Mathes, a third to Watson. Then keeping the last batch himself, he, Watson and the others raced from the room.

  As they ran, Watson thought: We had only four minutes. Surely they must be up now?

  The lobby was littered with broken glass and dead bodies. Footsteps clattering over the flagstones, they reached the front door. Michel jerked it open. As he did he dropped several folders and wasted valuable seconds as he fumbled around trying to scoop them up. Holmes stopped to help, ‘Quickly, my friend! Quickly, now!’ and then the two of them rushed after the others.

  Finally, they were all outside. They paused by the front steps, gulping in the cold night air as they looked around for Gillet, the soldiers and their prisoners.

  ‘Over here!’ Gillet waved to them from behind a low stone wall bordering the grass in front of the tree-line.

  The five men sprinted for the wall, Holmes bringing up the rear. From here he was able to keep an eye on Absalon and at the same time be sure that Watson kept up with them on his game leg.

  The group were about halfway to the wall when, behind them, the chateau exploded.

  Momentarily, the night became bright as day. Still they ran, their fleeing shadows stretching long and misshapen before them. Burning debris flew everywhere. There followed a racketing blast of sound that sent a shockwave through them. An unstoppable wave of heat punched them in the back and sent them sprawling. Everyone lay where they fell, curling themselves into protective balls, arms covering their heads, waiting to see if there would be any more explosions.

  They did not have to wait long.

  Seconds later there was another deafening explosion, then another and another, each lighting up the darkness until – suddenly there was a roaring, ripping, tearing, whistling sound of ancient stone being torn apart and flung in every direction.

  ‘Run!’ yelled Holmes, scrambling to his feet. ‘Save yourselves!’

  Everyone jumped up and, still clutching the files and documents they had risked their lives for, raced towards the wall.

  Behind them huge concrete blocks came smashing back to earth, along with splintered, burning rafters and the razor-edged remnants of roof tiles, flagstones and glass. They slammed into the ground, bouncing and rolling after Holmes, Watson and the others like pursing demons.

  Incredibly, all five men managed to stay a step ahead of the raining debris.

  Behind the wall Gillet and the troops yelled encouragement as they waved them on.

  It was close, but they made it. As one they scrambled over the wall and ducked down behind its protection. Moments later tumbling, flaming debris slammed against the wall. It shuddered and in some places cracked, but remained standing.

  It was some time before Holmes and Watson dared put their heads above the parapet. All that remained of the chateau was a jumbled, ragged, blazing pile of rubble.

  Once everyone’s safety was assured, Gillet ordered his officers to have the troops put out the fire. He then joined Holmes, Watson and the others, who stood nearby. Though unharmed, all were covered in dirt and trying to cough the smoke and dust from their lungs.

  ‘I hope the risk was worth it,’ said Gillet.

  ‘I have no doubt that it was,’ said Holmes. He indicated the evidence piled on the ground. ‘Just as I am equally certain that the c
ontents of these files will prove to be most … illuminating.’

  ‘And remember,’ said Absalon, his once-immaculate clothes now torn and filthy, ‘I have been promised immunity from prosecution for cooperating.’

  ‘Upon whose authority?’ demanded Gillet.

  ‘Upon mine,’ Holmes said. ‘I felt it was a promise you would gladly honour, Henri … given that I could make no such assurance on behalf of the Knaves.’

  Absalon paled. ‘W-what was that?’

  Holmes eyed him bleakly. ‘The evidence you have supplied, M’sieur Absalon, will doubtless enable the French government to bring about the demise of the group you held so dear. But that will take time. And until the last of the Knaves has been rooted out, I am confident that you will be high upon their list for retribution.’

  Absalon sagged. ‘No!’ he whispered. ‘No, you can’t do that!’

  ‘It is out of my hands,’ Holmes said with great satisfaction. ‘Once it becomes clear how you betrayed them, your compatriots will be out for blood. No matter where you go or where you hide or how completely you try to disguise your true identity, they will find you and make sure you pay for your treachery.’

  In light of the crackling flames his smile was humourless. ‘It may be tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. But rest assured, M’sieur Absalon, it will happen. And sooner rather than later. One morning when Watson and I are back in London, I will pick up The Times and with much delight will read that you have become another victim of the organization you once prized so much. In other words, my dear M’sieur Absalon, you have just become a marked man, just as you yourself marked Gaston Verne, Jules Verne, Gabriel Bessette and Lydie Denier for death.’

  ‘Poetic justice,’ muttered Watson. ‘It’s not a very pleasant feeling, is it?’

  Epilogue

  It was a bright afternoon, and for late March the weather was pleasantly warm. Tables had been set up overlooking the manicured grounds behind Verne’s house in Amiens. Here, shaded by colourful umbrellas, the writer’s guests looked on, amused, as on hands and knees he played with the grandson he had seldom seen while estranged from his son.