Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts by Steve Hayes

skin.
    ‘You have met Gaston. Do you for one moment believe that he could escape from a lunatic asylum, much less obtain a gun, travel five hundred kilometres to Boulogne-sur-Mer, then vanish or avoid detection for one entire week before coming here with the specific purpose of killing his uncle? No, my friend, he had help every step of the way – and that takes considerable resources.’
    ‘And the sophistication?’
    ‘Have you ever heard of Hippolytus de Marsiliis?’
    ‘I cannot say that I have.’
    ‘He was a fifteenth-century lawyer who invented a method of torture by which drops of water are allowed to fall upon the victim’s forehead at irregular intervals and thus drive that person insane. After sufficient exposure to such treatment, the victim would be only too happy to reveal his secret, confess to a crime, or indeed agree to do anything his or her captors requested of him.’
    ‘I have certainly heard of water torture, but—’ Watson stopped. ‘Are you saying that Gaston has been subjected to such treatment? Holmes, this is monstrous! By whom?’
    ‘Let us first consider for what purpose.’
    ‘You mean it wasn’t just to drive the poor fellow mad?’
    ‘Watson, Gaston Verne is already hopelessly insane. But his fascination with dripping water, his very real fear of it, tells me that he has been subjected to the treatment for an altogether
different
purpose – to focus his otherwise disordered mind upon one single objective, to kill the man he has been convinced is responsible for all his woes.’
    ‘But why Jules Verne? The man is not only his uncle but a writer, beloved by millions!’
    ‘That is the very thing we have to find out.’
    ‘Again, I say – who did this dreadful thing?’
    ‘This is our only clue,’ said Holmes, offering up the scrap of paper.
    Watson looked at it. ‘“VDC”? What does that mean?’
    ‘I do not know, yet – and it was all Gaston could do to
write
it, much less
explain
it.’
    ‘Then what do you suggest we do?’
    ‘The only thing we can do at present, Watson. Wait for them to make their next move, whoever they are … and be ready for them when they do.’

    At lunchtime Sergeant Bessette left his post and hurried through the city until he reached Hautoie Park. Given the choice, he would sooner have made a detour to his favouritecafé first and fortified himself with a cognac. But that would have to wait.
    It was a pleasant day and the park was crowded. He strode purposefully through an avenue of plane trees, followed a gravel path past a line of poplars and at last reached a row of benches that overlooked the sizeable, wind-rippled lake that was shaded from the sun by a row of spreading Cypresses. He paused briefly, then casually approached a bench upon which sat an attractive woman. About thirty, she was dressed in a distinctive purple walking skirt and matching jacket.
    ‘May I?’ he asked.
    She nodded, and he sat down.
    ‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he said.
    ‘I am Lydie Denier, yes,’ she replied, continuing to watch the lake. ‘What is the problem, Sergeant?’
    ‘I’m not sure there
is
one, yet. But a man came to the station this morning, some crotchety old lawyer’s clerk engaged by Jules Verne to defend his nephew against all charges. He asked to speak with him.’
    ‘And you let him?’ Lydie asked, still gazing at the lake.
    ‘I could hardly refuse without blowing the matter out of all proportion.’
    She considered that for a few moments. Finally she said: ‘Do not worry. I doubt he would have learned anything of use from Gaston. The man is now little more than a shell.’
    There seemed to be a hint of regret in her tone. But Bessette, wrapped up in his own thoughts, missed it.
    ‘There’s more,’ he said.
    Turning from the lake, she looked at him. ‘Go on,’ she said tightly.
    ‘Another man arrived two hours later. He too claimed to have been engaged by Verne, to represent Gaston.’
    She frowned. ‘An