have always tried to keep my business affairs as cordial as possible. You may ask anyone.’
‘Do the initials “V.D.C.” mean anything to you?’
Verne ran them through his mind briefly and then shook his head.
‘Then all I can ask is that you indulge me, and take extra care,’ said Holmes. ‘You
do
have enemies, M’sieur Verne, and I am convinced that they will make another attempt upon your life. You must be on your guard.’
‘And you, my dear friend,’ countered Verne, ‘must understand that, without a scrap of evidence to support your claim, I cannot take such a threat seriously.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. But it is in pursuit of evidence that I must shortly take my leave. In the meantime, I should be grateful if you would allow Dr Watson here to stay on as your guest.’
Verne and his wife exchanged a puzzled glance.
‘I do not wish to overestimate the threat, M’sieur Verne,’ Holmes continued, ‘but you will be considerably safer with Watson by your side. He is as fearless as any man I have ever known, and by far the most reliable.’
‘Then if it sets your mind at rest,’ Verne said graciously, ‘I should be very glad of his company.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Absalon
A polished black coach was waiting for Lydie Denier when her train steamed into Paris. The driver opened the door for her and she climbed inside with neither a word nor a glance in his direction. She sat back in the upholstered seat and again found herself wondering what Absalon was going to say when he heard the news. He was not a man to lose his temper. He was too well bred for that. But he
was
a man who despised failure and complication, and here she was, coming to report both.
As Paris fell behind them and she watched the emerald countryside rush past in a blur, she wondered how many times she had been to the magnificent but isolated chateau fifty kilometres to the east. Since Absalon had recruited her twelve months earlier, perhaps eight in all. And yet the prospect of having to come back again, for any reason, never failed to make her uneasy. And more than once during the two-hour train ride from Amiens she had found herself questioning the wisdom of accepting Absalon’s invitation to join the organization in the first place.
Not that she had been given any real choice in the matter. She had no idea that he – they – had been watching her for as long as they had. She still had no idea how she had first come to their attention. She had always been careful, or so she thought. And yet they had eventually made their move.
She had been renting a comfortable
appartement
in Lyon at the time, and life had been good – though never quite goodenough for Lydie, of course. One afternoon there was a discreet rapping at her door, and when she answered it, the man who called himself Alexandre Absalon had entered her life.
He was a tall, spare man of about fifty. His prematurely snow-white hair swept back from a high forehead in a sharp widow’s peak. His eyebrows were thin, grey, his penetrating hazel eyes set deep in their sockets. His nose was long and straight, his mouth wide, almost lipless. His neatly trimmed fork beard gave him an unsettling Mephistophelian aspect.
‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he had asked.
‘
Oui
. And you are…?’
‘Alexandre Absalon.’
The name, then, had meant nothing to her.
Without waiting to be asked, he had brushed past her and into her
appartement
.
She should have tried to bar his way, or demand that he turn round and wait until he was invited inside, but instead she did nothing. His bearing and appearance spoke of wealth, and if there was one thing Lydie prized above all else, it was money. So all she did was close the door behind him and wait expectantly for him to explain his presence.
He took his time about it. He chose the most comfortable chair in the room and sank gracefully into it, then very deliberately removed his exquisite hand-cut and -sewn leather gloves finger by finger.
‘Do the initials “V.D.C.” mean anything to you?’
Verne ran them through his mind briefly and then shook his head.
‘Then all I can ask is that you indulge me, and take extra care,’ said Holmes. ‘You
do
have enemies, M’sieur Verne, and I am convinced that they will make another attempt upon your life. You must be on your guard.’
‘And you, my dear friend,’ countered Verne, ‘must understand that, without a scrap of evidence to support your claim, I cannot take such a threat seriously.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. But it is in pursuit of evidence that I must shortly take my leave. In the meantime, I should be grateful if you would allow Dr Watson here to stay on as your guest.’
Verne and his wife exchanged a puzzled glance.
‘I do not wish to overestimate the threat, M’sieur Verne,’ Holmes continued, ‘but you will be considerably safer with Watson by your side. He is as fearless as any man I have ever known, and by far the most reliable.’
‘Then if it sets your mind at rest,’ Verne said graciously, ‘I should be very glad of his company.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Absalon
A polished black coach was waiting for Lydie Denier when her train steamed into Paris. The driver opened the door for her and she climbed inside with neither a word nor a glance in his direction. She sat back in the upholstered seat and again found herself wondering what Absalon was going to say when he heard the news. He was not a man to lose his temper. He was too well bred for that. But he
was
a man who despised failure and complication, and here she was, coming to report both.
As Paris fell behind them and she watched the emerald countryside rush past in a blur, she wondered how many times she had been to the magnificent but isolated chateau fifty kilometres to the east. Since Absalon had recruited her twelve months earlier, perhaps eight in all. And yet the prospect of having to come back again, for any reason, never failed to make her uneasy. And more than once during the two-hour train ride from Amiens she had found herself questioning the wisdom of accepting Absalon’s invitation to join the organization in the first place.
Not that she had been given any real choice in the matter. She had no idea that he – they – had been watching her for as long as they had. She still had no idea how she had first come to their attention. She had always been careful, or so she thought. And yet they had eventually made their move.
She had been renting a comfortable
appartement
in Lyon at the time, and life had been good – though never quite goodenough for Lydie, of course. One afternoon there was a discreet rapping at her door, and when she answered it, the man who called himself Alexandre Absalon had entered her life.
He was a tall, spare man of about fifty. His prematurely snow-white hair swept back from a high forehead in a sharp widow’s peak. His eyebrows were thin, grey, his penetrating hazel eyes set deep in their sockets. His nose was long and straight, his mouth wide, almost lipless. His neatly trimmed fork beard gave him an unsettling Mephistophelian aspect.
‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he had asked.
‘
Oui
. And you are…?’
‘Alexandre Absalon.’
The name, then, had meant nothing to her.
Without waiting to be asked, he had brushed past her and into her
appartement
.
She should have tried to bar his way, or demand that he turn round and wait until he was invited inside, but instead she did nothing. His bearing and appearance spoke of wealth, and if there was one thing Lydie prized above all else, it was money. So all she did was close the door behind him and wait expectantly for him to explain his presence.
He took his time about it. He chose the most comfortable chair in the room and sank gracefully into it, then very deliberately removed his exquisite hand-cut and -sewn leather gloves finger by finger.
Similar Books
