Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Queen's Hamlet

I
t was one thing to study a plan of Le Hameau, but another thing entirely to see the so-called ‘Queen's Hamlet' in person.

Tucked away in a remote corner of the palace grounds and further hidden from view by screening belts of trees, it truly was, as Verne had said, a settlement unto itself. As their carriage began its final approach to the location two days later, Holmes and Watson leaned forward in their seats to get a closer look at it.

The terrain had been deliberately landscaped to resemble an idyllic country scene. There was lush meadowland, an orchard and vegetable gardens, rippling streams – even a lake at the centre of which stood a classical Temple of Love.

An octagonal belvedere tower cast its shadow over the rustic scene, and though now in some state of disrepair, the influence of the Norman and Flemish vernacular style of architecture was still plain to see in the buildings situated around the picturesque village pond.

‘Good grief,' muttered Watson. ‘This is incredible.'

Indeed it was. Here stood a stone farmhouse with a steeply pitched roof, there a dairy. There was a cleared area where a barn had once stood, a dovecote, even a mill that turned lazily within a tower that had been built to resemble a lighthouse.

The late Saturday afternoon was sweet with the scents of shrubs, flowers and lavender, for each of the twelve cottages situated around the pond came complete with either a garden
or an orchard. The farm itself had been situated some distance from the hamlet, so that it could be worked as a going concern.

Even now the place was a hive of activity, as workmen
clustered
in the field before the lake, preparing a firework display that would commence just after sunset. Closer to hand, yet more hired men were planting tall poles at strategic intervals around the hamlet itself, from which lighted torches would supply illumination after dark.

‘This,' Verne said, as the carriage came to a halt before the largest house, ‘was Marie Antoinette's personal quarters.'

They climbed out and stretched their legs following the long journey from Amiens. Before them stood a two-storey house, into which Verne, now walking reasonably well and using only a cane, led them.

They entered a large room whose panelled walls were hung with fine tapestries. Mahogany furniture from a bygone age was scattered everywhere. A tour of the premises also revealed a backgammon room, a billiard room and a dining room.

Caterers had already started setting up and decorating long, linen-covered trestle tables. Watson ran his eyes
appreciatively
across the food on offer – everything from plates of Parma ham and Roquefort cheese to roast figs, focaccia buns, smoked salmon, quail's eggs and asparagus salad. In the billiard room a string quartet were tuning instruments and organizing their sheet music.

‘What do you think?' asked Michel.

Inspector Mathes, who had travelled with them, shook his head. ‘There are too many people around here for my liking,' he grumbled. ‘We have to assume they are what they appear to be … but what if they are
not
?'

Shortly after six o'clock the first of Verne's guests began arriving in their own carriages. The Vernes greeted everyone warmly and showed no trace of the tension they were feeling. Gradually the house began to fill with mingling guests, and the quartet started playing chamber music by Sammartini.

But not every guest arrived by conventional means. As the sky began to darken and the torches were lit, there came a sudden, brief roar of sound to the south and Holmes spun around, startled.

A hot-air balloon was slowly descending from the heavens. Standing not far from Holmes, Watson chuckled as he watched the balloon prepare to land in a field by the lake. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, that will be—'

‘Felix Nadar,' said Verne. He shook his head in admiration. ‘That man has never obeyed convention in his life.'

Drawn by a subsequent series of similar roars, the other guests wandered outside to watch the balloon drift gently to earth. A few of the men hurried to help Nadar with his anchor and admire the craft at closer quarters. At last the jolly little photographer joined his hosts, kissing Honorine gently on both cheeks and shaking hands firmly with Verne.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Pierre,' Nadar said sincerely.

‘Yes, he was a good man. Already I miss him dreadfully.'

Almost immediately Nadar brightened. ‘And you,
m'sieur
, must be Sherlock Holmes!' he exclaimed. Before Holmes could reply, Nadar grasped his jaw and turned his head sideways. ‘I recognized you immediately from Paget's fine drawings! You have a wonderful profile, sir, intelligence of the highest order in every line!'

He turned Holmes's head back so that he could study him face to face, seemingly unaware of the effect his behaviour had upon his subject.

‘Please, Felix,' said Honorine, her tone one of long suffering. ‘Show some
decorum
.'

But he only waved her away. ‘M'sieur Holmes doesn't mind, do you,
m'sieur
? Look, Jules – have you ever seen a more perfect example of scaphocephaly in a human being?'

Realizing that Nadar was essentially drawing attention to the fact that Holmes's head was longer than its width would suggest, Watson could only clear his throat noisily, mutter an
excuse about checking the perimeter and turn away before his amusement got the better of him.

He limped along the line of cottages that had been reserved for guests of the queen in days gone by until he reached the last one. Since the Revolution everything had been allowed to fall into ruin, but the place still held a unique atmosphere. He found himself wishing Lydie could have been here to share the experience, and again cursed himself for being a romantic fool.

He remembered Honorine saying to Lydie: ‘If you are still here on the twentieth, why don't you come to the ball we're having at Versailles?'

And his own impulsive: ‘And I should be delighted if you will allow me to escort you.'

Yes, a romantic fool indeed.

He heard a soft sound behind him and turned just as Holmes strode up, shaking his head and muttering: ‘The man is insufferable.'

Watson frowned. ‘Verne?'

‘
Nadar!
Do you know, he has just likened my “fine brow” to that of
Australopithecus afarensis
!'

‘I'm sure he meant it as a compliment,' said Watson, unable to hide his smile.

‘My dear fellow,' Holmes replied, ‘it is in no way
complimentary
to be compared to a now-extinct hominid who lived four million years ago! Bah!' He dismissed the very idea with an irritable gesture, adding: ‘Well … at least everything here is quiet so far.'

Just then a voice rang out. ‘Come on, everyone! Let's go and watch the fireworks!'

They turned in the direction of the voice and saw the party guests begin to leave the hamlet and drift excitedly towards the field in front of the lake.

Holmes scowled. ‘I'd feel easier if Verne were not so exposed.'

‘At least Michel and Inspector Mathes are keeping an eye on him,' Watson said.

But that was scant comfort to Holmes. ‘Come on,' he said purposefully, ‘Let's see if we can't between us form some sort of protective shield around him.'

Before they could set off, however, a voice behind them said: ‘Champagne,
messieurs
?'

The servant had come upon them almost noiselessly, and as they turned to face him Watson immediately recognized him – his dark, pocked skin and hollow cheeks, his small, heavy-lidded hazel eyes and short, raven-black hair. This was no servant – this was the man called Valentin, who had tried to murder Verne by infecting his leg wound four days earlier.

He was pointing a peculiarly shaped handgun in their
direction
.

Holmes recognized the weapon immediately – it was a
so-called
‘apache pistol'; essentially a small 7mm revolver with a knuckle-duster for a handle and a thin knife-blade projecting from just beneath the almost non-existent barrel.

‘Don't move,' Valentin hissed. His face still bore the marks of his earlier fight with Watson, and he still held his injured left arm close to his body. ‘Do as I tell you and you'll get to live a little while longer.'

‘There's nothing you can do to harm Verne here,' Watson told him. ‘There are too many witnesses for another one of your “accidents”.'

To Watson's surprise, Valentin said: ‘It's not Verne we're interested in. Now – turn around, the pair of you, and head for those trees.'

A flick of the revolver's barrel indicated a line of oaks about forty yards east.

Watson tensed. Valentin was no more than a few feet from him. If he could reach him before he could use his gun—

But Valentin somehow divined his intention. For even as Watson prepared to spring, Valentin moved faster. He swung his gun and Watson felt pain explode in his forehead. He
staggered 
back and would have fallen had Holmes not been there to catch him.

‘That's for what you did to me last Tuesday,' snarled Valentin.

Watson gingerly felt his forehead. The tips of his fingers came away bloody. ‘You swine,' he muttered.

Valentin smiled mockingly. ‘Sticks and stones,
Docteur
.' Then, keeping them covered with his gun, he added: ‘Move!'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

We're the Targets Now

I
n a tone that was designed to placate their captor, Holmes said grimly: ‘All right. We shan't give you any trouble.' Taking Watson's arm, he helped him towards the woods.

Valentin fell into step behind them.

‘Forgive me if I am wrong,' Holmes said over his shoulder, ‘but I was under the impression that
Verne
was your target.'

‘Things change,
m'sieur
.'

‘What things?'

‘You'll find out.'

Beyond the flickering torches, the March night was dark. Behind them fireworks began to whiz, whistle and pop hollowly in the sky. The trees drew closer. Trying not to make it too obvious, Holmes slowed his pace in the hope that Valentin would unwittingly close the distance between them. Then he might be able to use his knowledge of
baritsu
to turn the tables on their captor.

But Valentin was an old hand at this game and refused to fall for it. He kept just enough distance between them to make any move Holmes might try suicidal at best.

‘Where are you taking us?' Holmes asked.

Valentin's reply was a curious gurgling sound. Before it could properly register with his prisoners, he coughed up blood and fell to his knees. As Holmes and Watson whirled around in surprise, the assassin collapsed on his face at their feet.

The flash of another firework showed them the hilt of a
knife projecting from Valentin's blood-stained back. A second brilliant firework burst above them. By its light they saw the man's killer.

It was Lydie.

Watson felt the blood drain from his face. ‘What the deuce—?'

‘Shhh,' she whispered. ‘I don't think Valentin was alone.'

Kneeling beside the body, she gingerly took the gun from Valentin's nerveless fingers. When she looked up at the men she'd just rescued, she looked pale and shaky. Clearly the act of killing, as opposed to ordering it done, was a new experience for her and one she found repellent.

‘Forget about Verne,' she warned them. ‘
We're
their targets now.'

‘I don't understand …' began Watson.

‘I think
I
do,' said Holmes. ‘You have changed sides,
mademoiselle
.'

She grimaced. ‘I am not that noble, M'sieur Holmes. I was dismissed from my duties. And despite instructions that I return to Lyon and await further orders, I knew that Alexandre Absalon had an altogether different fate in store for me.'

‘Absalon!' hissed Watson, remembering the white-haired man they had seen during their audience with François Fournier. ‘Then he
is
in league with the Knaves!'

‘Did you ever doubt it?' said Holmes. And then, to Lydie: ‘You feared for your life.'

‘That is the way the Knaves work,' she said simply. ‘For as long as you are useful to them, you are safe. But if you fail them, you become a liability. And the one thing Alexandre Absalon hates above all others is a liability.'

‘So you fled from Lyon?'

‘
Oui
. Absalon had a man following me, a man named Sébastien Thayer. He told me as much at our last meeting. I spotted him when I left Amiens and managed to lose him before we reached Lyon. Then I went to work.'

‘Work?'

‘I was originally employed for my ability to watch and listen and pick up information,' she said. ‘I have built up a vast network of sources,
messieurs
, far more than even Alexandre Absalon suspects. I can help you to bring about the destruction of this group … if you will trust me.'

Holmes glanced at the dead man. ‘One can hardly deny your sincerity,' he said drily.

‘So you're only switching sides to save your own skin?' said Watson.

‘No, that isn't the only reason.'

‘What else then?'

‘Before I answer that,' Lydie said softly, ‘tell me something, Jean … was Absalon right when he told me that you were just using me? Feeding me information so that I would lead you to him?'

‘Whatever Watson did was at my request,' Holmes
interrupted
. ‘And I can assure you that he found the act abhorrent.'

‘I did indeed,' Watson said. ‘I trusted you and defended you against Holmes's suspicions until I could ignore the evidence no longer.'

Lydie smiled, pleased. ‘I am glad to hear it,' she said sincerely. ‘I am far from perfect, but I am what my
circumstances
and my experience of others have made me. But in you I found someone so different, so reluctant to use or manipulate others for your own ends. It showed me a different and better way to be.'

Holmes said: ‘What have you learned,
mademoiselle
? And how may we use it to our advantage?'

‘You have heard the news, of course?' she said.

‘What news?'

She opened her mouth to speak, but at that same moment the snap of a nearby branch made them turn towards the sound. Lydie instinctively brought up the gun she had just taken from Valentin.

Another firework exploded high above them. The darkness lit up with a shower of falling pink and lavender stars. They caught a glimpse of a figure emerging from the shadows a short distance away – a tall, cadaverous man wearing a black suit that seemed too small for his overlarge body. Instantly, Lydie raised her gun and fired at him.

In her haste she missed.

The man, Sébastien Thayer, did not.

Lydie gasped as the bullet struck her in the chest. She
staggered
back, dropping her gun, and collapsed.

Overhead a third firework exploded, lighting up the night.

‘
Don't move!
' Thayer told Holmes and Watson.

Stunned by the knowledge that Lydie had been wounded, perhaps fatally, Watson ignored him. Quickly kneeling beside her, he gently cradled her in his arms.

‘Lydie …' he begged. ‘Lydie, talk to me….'

‘J … Jean,' she managed.

The light from the firework had faded. But even in the
darkness
Watson could see that her face was as pale as paper, her only colour coming from the blood flecking her lips.

‘S-safe …' she whispered, then winced.

Watson frowned, not understanding.

‘Th-the safe,' she repeated thickly. ‘It's….'

She died then, with a suddenness that Watson, even with his military experience, had never seen before. No sooner had the last word left her lips than she became absolutely still and her eyes lost all focus and went blank.

For a moment he was absolutely bewildered. ‘Lydie …?' he said urgently, his voice that of a lost child.

Lydie stared emptily into eternity.

Holmes gripped his friend's shoulder. ‘She's gone, Watson,' he said. ‘And we have no time to mourn her just now.'

‘I'm not leaving her,' Watson said.

‘Then you can join her,' said Thayer, extending his gun-arm so that the barrel of his 0.442-calibre Webley Bulldog was
trained squarely on the top of Watson's bowed head. ‘Absalon told me to fetch both of you, but he'll be just as happy with one.'