Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts (20 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Final Act

H
olmes quickly stepped between them, saying: ‘There’s no need for that. Enough people have died already.’ Gripping Watson by both arms, he helped him to stand up.

Watson said: ‘But we just can’t leave her here like this….’

‘We won’t,’ Thayer said. He was an ugly, ungainly-looking man, with a sloping brow above dark, curiously emotionless eyes, a long hooked nose, thick lips and a bloodless, waxy skin. He stepped closer, quickly searched both men and put Watson’s service revolver into his own jacket pocket. ‘Now start walking.’

They headed deeper into the dark woods, the sound of
fireworks
and cheering fading with distance. The night was cooling rapidly. At length the trees thinned and a narrow, wheel-rutted path came into sight. The polished black coach with red wheel-spokes stood in the moonlight. A driver sat impassively on the high seat, his two-horse team standing patiently in the traces, steam billowing from their distended nostrils.

‘Get inside,’ Thayer told Holmes and Watson. As they obeyed, he turned to the driver. ‘The girl killed Valentin and I killed the girl. I doubt if anyone will find the bodies right away, but you’ll have to come back for them later.’

‘
D’accord
,’ said the driver.

Thayer climbed into the coach, his bulk weighing heavily on the thoroughbraces. Never taking his eyes off his prisoners, he
sat across from them and then rapped on the carriage roof. ‘Go!’

The driver cracked his whip and the coach raced off.

‘Where are you taking us?’ Watson asked Thayer.

‘You’ll find out when you get there.’

‘I fancy our destination is somewhere in the Forêt Domaniale de Malvoisine,’ Holmes remarked.

‘You may “fancy” whatever you like,’ Thayer said mockingly. ‘It will not alter the final outcome.’

Watson glared at him. ‘Whatever you have in mind, you won’t get away with it,’ he said. ‘That I promise you.’

There was something so confident in his quiet threat that Thayer scowled and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Shut your mouth!’ he growled. ‘Both of you.’

The drive took no more than an hour. At times the route meandered, but always they headed east through the
darkness
. At last Holmes spotted landmarks he had noted when he had followed Lydie from Paris and knew he had been right about their destination. The forest closed around them and the interior of the coach grew almost pitch-dark.

If they were going to make a move, it had to be now. And yet what chance did they stand in the confines of the carriage, with a man whose gun was aimed their way and ready to fire at the slightest squeeze of a finger? One of them might
over-power
him, but if it were at the expense of the other, the risk simply wasn’t worth taking.

The trees thinned again. Holmes leaned forward and peered out of the window. A chateau lay beneath the moonlight, yellow light showing at some of its tall windows.

‘And so we come to the final act in our drama,’ he murmured.

‘Final,’ growled Thayer, ‘for
you
.’

The carriage came to a halt before the stone steps and Thayer ordered them to get out. Another man was waiting on the steps. He also carried a gun. He was short and portly, with
a jowly face and shaggy iron-grey hair that needed trimming – Absalon’s right-hand man, Lacombe.

‘Inside,’ he told Holmes and Watson.

They entered the chateau, their footsteps echoing coldly across the flagstone floor. The lobby was brightly lit. After being so long in darkness the lamplight hurt their eyes. Men in dark suits either stood guard or hurried up or down the central cantilever staircase on some errand or other.

Alexandre Absalon was standing in the open double doorway of the study opposite the grand staircase. He looked as urbane as ever in a fashionable, tailored silver-grey suit. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said with a cruel smile. ‘Please come inside.’

He sounded smugly pleased with himself.

Holmes and Watson followed him into the study, covered all the while by Thayer and Lacombe. Lacombe closed the doors behind them.

Absalon, now seated behind his desk, smiled mockingly at his visitors. ‘Well, if it isn’t the great Sherlock Holmes and his faithful companion, Docteur Watson,’ he said. ‘I hope you know that between you, you have caused the people I represent considerable inconvenience – and all, as it turns out, for naught.’

‘François Fournier has withdrawn from your campaign,’ Holmes said. ‘I would not call that failure.’

Beside him, Watson started. So that’s what Lydie had meant when she’d asked them if they’d heard the news.

‘You have seen the late papers,’ guessed Absalon.

‘On the contrary,’ Holmes said. ‘We have been fully engaged at Versailles ever since this afternoon. However, it is the only logical conclusion I can draw. Before he died, your man Valentin told us you have no further interest in Verne.’

‘We haven’t. He is free to pick up the pieces of his life and go on his way … provided he knows nothing that could possibly incriminate us. And that is why you are here, gentlemen. Before we dispose of you, you will tell us everything you know,
or
think
you know, about our organization. You will also give us the names of everyone else who, thanks to you, even suspect that we exist.’

‘At which time you will set about systematically murdering them all to protect your anonymity,’ said Watson, his
head-wound
throbbing fiercely, ‘beginning with Fournier, no doubt.’

‘Fournier is safe enough,’ Absalon said. ‘He knows that should he ever speak out against us, we will make public his bisexuality.’ Smiling, he added: ‘He cannot ruin us without ruining himself.’

‘Well, if you expect us to tell you anything other than that you and your organization are finished,’ Watson said, ‘you are in for a considerable disappointment.’

Absalon’s smile broadened. His teeth were small and perfect. ‘I admire your optimism,
Docteur
. But look how easily we broke Gaston Verne, with nothing more terrifying than the simple dripping of water. I fancy even you, M’sieur Holmes, will be willing to talk after we’re through with you. But first we shall begin with you,
Docteur
. I do not believe that you share the same degree of courage as your companion. Nor do I think that he will stand by and watch you suffer for any length of time.’

Absalon suddenly lost his smile and his eyes turned deadly. ‘Prepare the apparatus,’ he told Lacombe.

Lacombe nodded and left the room. Absalon turned back to Holmes and Watson. ‘It really is an ingenious contraption, gentlemen. One is strapped down in such a way that he can only watch as each single drop of ice-cold water is dripped slowly onto the centre of his forehead. Because the drops are administered at irregular intervals, the anticipation of each one builds until it becomes something … exquisitely agonizing. Over time – less time than you may suppose – the victim realizes that, just as water can eventually wear a hole in even the hardest and most seemingly resilient slab of stone, so too can it work this same effect upon human flesh and bone.
With each single drop he begins to picture the irreversible damage being done to his skull, the pressure of the bone pressing down upon his brain, the destruction of cell and nerve and tissue. It really is an inspired form of torture. So simple, yet so effective—’

Before he could say more, there came a sudden, harsh jangling from the front of the house that sounded unsettlingly like an alarm bell, followed rapidly by a series of indistinct but undeniably urgent yells. For the briefest moment Absalon looked alarmed.

An instant later the double doors burst open and Lacombe lumbered back in, his expression one of panic.

‘What is it?’ snapped Absalon.

‘They’re coming, sir! Godenot was just turning the carriage around when he saw them marching up the lane!’

‘Saw whom?’

‘The army, sir.’

‘
Army?
’

‘
Oui, m’sieur
.’

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!'

A
bsalon 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.