Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Read Free Page A

doorknob when Holmes again called his name.
    ‘Yes, Holmes?’
    A rare smile narrowed Holmes’s tight white lips. ‘It is as well that someone in this world has my best interests at heart,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you, old friend.’

    After registering their luggage so as to avoid delays in Calais, they caught the boat train from Charing Cross Station early the following day; and as the morning wore on, so London, Lambeth, Lewisham and Bromley gradually yielded to the orchards and woodlands of picturesque Kent.
    The day was cool and cheerless. A heavy drizzle fell steadily from the leaden sky. But nothing could dampen Watson’s spirits. Holmes’s friendship with Jules Verne had come as a very pleasant revelation to him.
    Though the prolific author had yet to find true recognition in Britain, he was held in high regard in his native France, where his many exotic fantasies – including
From the Earth to the Moon, The Floating City, Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon
and others – had made him a wealthy man. It was going to be a true privilege to meet him.
    Holmes, by contrast, was now quiet and withdrawn. Watching him covertly, Watson suspected that his friend was undergoing the effects of opiate withdrawal.
    Although his use of cocaine was infrequent, Holmes had taken far more than was wise over the past several weeks. Now, as he stared out of the window at the passing smudge of Kentish countryside, he alternated between restlessness and fatigue, agitation and a generalized malaise.
    Suddenly Watson had mixed emotions. He wondered if this holiday had been such a good idea after all. Holmes was clearly not up to it, and as a doctor he should have realized as much.Then again, Holmes needed distraction at the moment, and that was certainly what this break promised to provide. Watson decided to make no comment and merely monitor Holmes’s condition as the days progressed.
    The train finally steamed into Dover and they hurried through the rain towards the eastern docks. Here, following a brief wait, they caught the ferry to Calais. Shortly thereafter England’s famous white cliffs fell behind them and Holmes shrugged out of his damp double-breasted frock coat and finally began to doze.
    The choppy Channel crossing took just under two hours. By the time they set foot on French soil the sea air had sharpened Watson’s appetite. Even Holmes seemed somewhat invigorated . They ate a light meal at the Grande Café on the corner of Boulevard Jacquard and Rue Lafayette, then caught the train to Boulogne-sur-Mer, where they would have to change for Paris.
    Forty minutes later it was raining even harder as they and their fellow passengers took shelter beneath the platform awning at La Gare de Boulogne-Ville and waited to make their connection. Watson shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cursed the old leg wound that still plagued him in damp weather.
    Beside him, Holmes’s attention was focused on a young man who stood apart from everyone else. Protected from the downpour by the edge of the awning, he seemed to be staring up into the grey sky with unusual intensity. Holmes watched him for several moments before realizing that the young man was actually watching the rain dripping steadily from the awning’s serrated eaves.
    ‘What do you make of that fellow, Watson?’ he asked with a subtle wave of his cane.
    Watson looked and saw a man in his mid-twenties with a high forehead above dark, brooding eyes and a sober, thin-lipped mouth.
    ‘A school teacher, perhaps?’
    Holmes sighed. ‘Look again.’
    Watson studied the young man more closely. ‘Ah-hah,’ he said shortly. ‘Now I have it, Holmes. He’s an amateur meteorologist . See, he has a distinct interest in this dismal weather.’
    ‘I suspect that it is rather more serious than that. In fact, I believe him to be in no small emotional distress.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘There is something about his expression, a look of fear that is, perhaps, aggravated