The train ride from Austerlitz station to Guéret in the department of Creuse took a few hours, with a stop in Vierzon to change trains. Paris is well known for its cold and dreary weather—and the morning had certainly started that way with the pleasant sunshine from the prior day only history. However, as we went south, the dark skies cleared, and from the windows of the train we could see the full splendor of a French spring beginning. We passed orchards with the fruit trees in blossom, and many other trees had small light yellow-green leaves coming out. Each village had their stone buildings with tile or slate roofs, and inevitably, an old church with a spire.
All morning long, Beautrelet chatted at great length, his high-pitched voice modulating enthusiastically upward, as he asked Holmes and me questions about virtually everything, but especially our professions and our various prior cases, some of which he already knew a great deal about. He also wanted to talk about women, a subject upon which Holmes was most reticent, but when he saw I was receptive, he quizzed me at length about Michelle. He insisted he must meet her when she arrived in Paris. A beautiful redhead who was also a woman doctor was not to be missed! His enthusiasm made me smile.
After eating baguette sandwiches for lunch, we all grew quiet. Holmes was studying the plans of the castle, Beautrelet was immersed in a guidebook about Creuse, and I stared indolently out the window, enjoying the views which swept by. Growing up, I had spent many summers in the French countryside, and after the teeming streets, the noise and squalor of Paris and London, it was a relief to return to its calm beauty.
When we got off at Guéret before the station house of red brick, a small man in rough woolen garments and a cloth cap was waiting. He looked about fifty, his face brown and wizened, and he was missing teeth. He shook Holmes’s hand eagerly and introduced himself as Pierre Legrand. Close by stood the French equivalent of a dogcart, an open carriage which could seat four passengers. Despite his age and slender build, Legrand quickly hoisted our luggage aboard, and then we were off on the final part of our journey. A narrow dirt road wound through pastoral valleys where sheep and cattle grazed, the air marvelously fresh and clean, the sun pleasantly warm.
Beautrelet was wearing his somewhat crumpled brown suit and a tweedy cloth cap of a matching fabric. He pointed toward a herd of reddish-brown cattle grazing, a monstrous bull standing protectively before his dames. The short horns above his head thrust out straight and horizontal to either side.
“Those are the Limousin breed named after another department of France, close by. According to my guidebook, this is one of the main agricultural regions of France, with more cows than people. The local pork is also supposed to be very tasty, and the pigs… Well, they have a vulgar name.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Les porcs cul noir.”
Holmes and I both smiled.
“I’ve heard that translated as ‘black bottom pigs’ in English,” I said. “Rather more polite, if not so literal.”
Legrand glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “That will be your supper this evening, messieurs. Madame Tambourin has put on a joint to roast. I promise you will never taste better!”
Holmes gave an appreciative nod. “I do not doubt it. Roast pork fresh from the countryside is always the best.”
We went through sparsely wooded valleys with long sloping green meadows and occasionally passed solitary stone farmhouses which must have stood for decades, even centuries. A young woman wearing an apron was hanging her washing out to dry and waved at us. She and Legrand exchanged polite greetings.
At last the curving road emerged through thick woods of oak, beech, and evergreens, and there above us on a hill stood the Château de l’Aiguille. And indeed, its main feature was the tall central tower of gray stone which tapered to an exaggerated point, a reddish-brown spire worthy of a cathedral, a “needle” indeed! Around it were four lower turrets, each with conical roofs. The châteaux might have been built in the late seventeenth century, but clearly the architect had wanted to suggest something older, a medieval fortress, and indeed, a wall of matching gray stonework surrounded the castle.
We went upward through a park of trees and scraggly rhododendrons and came to a large rusty iron gate in the wall which stood open. Once inside the courtyard, Legrand stopped before some steps leading up to high oaken doors. He stepped out. “I shall fetch Monsieur Tambourin. He will want to welcome you.” He sprang quickly up the steps and pulled open one of the doors. Holmes, Beautrelet, and I got out of the carriage.
Holmes was wearing gray herringbone tweed for the country, and a crumpled sort of hat with a large wavy brim. He went to the horse and touched it gently on the cheek, murmuring something, then turned to stare up at the château walls. We were close enough that we had to crane our necks back to see the spire set against blue sky and white clouds.
“Le Château de l’Aiguille—at last!” Beautrelet exclaimed.
Two bald old men with extravagantly bushy white beards came outside, followed by Legrand. They both wore black formal morning coats which had seen better days, along with white wingtip collars and black cravats. They were obviously related: if not twins, brothers at least.
The slightly taller one came forward and bowed. “Good day, gentleman. I am Jacques Tambourin, the head steward of le Château de l’Aiguille.” He smiled with genuine warmth, his mouth mostly hidden by his exuberant white mustache. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes! I have read every one of your adventures, along with everything else I could find about crime and criminals, both fiction and nonfiction. You are clearly the grand master! Lecoq himself could never compare with you.”
Holmes nodded, his gray eyes faintly wary, as was always the case when someone mentioned they had read all his adventures. “The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Tambourin.” They shook hands. “And this is my companion, Dr. Henry Vernier, and Isidore Beautrelet, my… valet.” His sardonic smile appeared briefly.
Tambourin’s bushy eyebrows came together as he turned to me, and I knew he had been expecting Watson. His grip was quite firm.
He gestured toward his companion. “And this is my brother, Antoine, the horologist of the château.”
I gave Antoine a puzzled look. “Horologist?” The French word he used was horloger, a word I knew well enough, but one which didn’t make sense to me in the context of the château.
Holmes nodded. “Ah, of course. And how many clocks are there in the castle, monsieur?”
“There are eighty-nine rooms, but one hundred and three clocks, Monsieur Holmes, all of them from the late seventeenth century.”
“Good Lord,” I murmured. “One hundred and three clocks?”
Holmes glanced at me. “They would need oiling every two or three years, and disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling every seven years or so. And of course, they must be wound and the time adjusted regularly.”
Antoine beamed, a dimple showing above his beard on the left side. “Ah, very good, Monsieur Holmes! What a pleasure to meet someone who understands. I know the baron dreams of gold and jewels, but these clocks are the real treasure of the château. The decree granting the château to the family Chamerac required that they were all to be maintained and passed down from generation to generation. My father was also the horologist, and he taught me everything, as did his father before him. It is the tradition in our family. Always a Tambourin has been horologist.”
Jacques was also smiling. “And often a Tambourin has been majordomo as well.” His smile faded. “But all that is changing now. My son lives in Paris and wants nothing to do with service.”
Antoine also looked dejected. “And I have only daughters.”
I recalled that there was a feminine form of the word—horlogère—for a female clockmaker. I knew Michelle would have pointed out that Antoine could pass on his trade to a daughter, but I kept silent. Both men looked to be in their seventies, and they would be the last generation of Tambourins to serve at the château.
Beautrelet’s brown eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles had an odd gleam, and the corner of his mouth had risen in a sort of half-smile. “So many clocks. Most interesting, is it not, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes smiled faintly. “Indeed it is, Monsieur Beautrelet. One can study from afar, but an actual visit always has its surprises.”
Jacques gestured toward the doorway. “Come along, gentlemen, and I shall show you to your rooms.”
Legrand took out two of the bags and followed us. It seemed ridiculous to me that the shortest man, by far, should be carrying our luggage, but I knew Jacques would never allow us to help. However, as valet, Beautrelet could do so, and he seized the two remaining bags.
We went through the entry way with its black-and-white tiled floor, and into a great hall. Despite the faintly medieval exterior appearance, the inside was decorated in the monumental style of Louis the Fourteenth, with ornately painted ceilings and massive chandeliers, the walls with many flourishes in gold and white. Tapestries ten feet tall in muted colors hung here and there. However, I noticed that some of the elegant furniture appeared slightly worn or tattered, and dust was obvious on the various surfaces of dark wood.
We went through a tall arching entryway into another wing, a long hallway lit by open doorways and occasional lamps. Each door had a number in bronze, starting with 1 and working upwards in sequence. A few of these stout wooden doors were open, and inside I glimpsed white cloths covering the beds and furnishings. At the far end of the hall were two rooms across from one another, numbers 24 and 25, with their doors wide open.
“These are two of our best rooms, the gold one for you, Monsieur Holmes, and the silver for the doctor,” Jacques said. He stared at Beautrelet, biting briefly at his lower lip. “The telegram did not mention your valet. I shall have a room prepared for him close by.”
Holmes nodded. “I suspect that although the clocks are kept in tip-top shape, the same cannot be said for much of the castle.”
Above his beard, Jacques’s cheeks flushed. “Ah, you noticed that! But it is not my fault. If you could only have come when the old baron was still alive. Everything was so well maintained, so splendid. He was willing to pay what it takes to keep up a castle. He was not a…” Jacques seemed to snap off and swallow the last word, and he gave his head a shake. “But what do I know? I am only a servant and an old man. The glory of the past is gone. I shall not see its like again.”
“Was the word you wanted to say ‘miser’?” Holmes asked.
Jacques stared at him, his brow furrowed. He would not speak it aloud, but gave a faint shrug of his shoulder, the answer obvious enough.
Holmes’s eyes were thoughtful. “And has this miserliness by any chance grown worse over time?”
Jacques was surprised. “How could you know that?”
“Just a guess.”
Beautrelet did not speak, but he was watching intently with an appreciative smile.
Jacques shook his head. “I have only a quarter of the staff I had when the old baron was alive. I’ve had to dismiss them, one by one—like a sort of slow death, drip by drip. But you don’t want to hear my troubles. Come! You must be weary from your long train ride. You can rest up, if you wish. Dinner will not be served for another hour or two.”
“We have been sitting all day,” Holmes said. “I would rather have a brief look about the castle.”
Jacques smiled. “And I should be happy to show it to you.” He glanced at Legrand. “Leave the luggage in their rooms, and then tell Sandrine to prepare room 18 for Monsieur Beautrelet.”
We started down the hall, Jacques in the lead, but Holmes stopped before the door marked with a “12.” “Pardon, Monsieur Tambourin,” Holmes said. The old man turned. “Might I have a quick look at this room? I am curious about something.”
Beautrelet laughed softly, even as I frowned.
Jacques nodded, puzzled. “As you wish. There is nothing very remarkable about it—your room is far superior.” He turned the knob and pushed open the door. “After you.”
The room had clearly not been used in a long while. As was typical for the seventeenth century, the bed was pathetically short—my legs would have stuck out almost to my knees! A thick beige canvas covering hid the mattress and two chairs. Two tall arching windows with wavy panes of glass set in metal frames had wispy white drapery which obscured the golden light, and between them was a bureau with a beautiful table clock of bronze and ebony wood, ticking loudly.
Holmes went straight to the clock, and Beautrelet followed, his hands raised and fingers outspread, as if in anticipation. Holmes bent over slightly, peering at the clockface with its roman numerals, then glanced back at Jacques. “May I?”
The old majordomo looked puzzled. “As you wish—but be careful. The room is nothing special, but the clock is another matter.”
A tiny key was set in a lock on the right side. Holmes turned it, then opened up the small glass door which protected the face. The ticking grew even louder. Holmes peered intently at the clock, then gently turned it. On the side was a glass window which revealed the teethed circular gearwork of its internal mechanism. He turned it again, and we could see the metal back, also covered by a glass door, and the pendulum within swinging back and forth. Holmes turned it a last time and stared for a long while at the face. At last, he shut the glass door and turned the key.
“Truly a beautiful piece of work. One would be hard pressed to find its equal nowadays.”
“That is certainly true,” Beautrelet said. He too had been closely gazing at the clock.
Holmes’s eyes swept briefly round the room. “Thank you, Monsieur Tambourin. We can continue with our tour now.”
We left the room, and Jacques did not close the door all the way. “This wing of the castle has most of the bedrooms, three floors of them, all much the same.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, I recall the layout from the castle plans.”
“There is little to see here, little to distinguish the rooms. But you do have two of the best—and among the few which have had newer beds brought in. A good thing, indeed, given your height, Monsieur Holmes and Dr. Vernier! Let us have a look at the main hall.”
“Pardon me,” Holmes said, “but could you humor another fancy of mine? Could we just briefly have a look at the upper two floors?”
Jacques shrugged. “Of course. As you wish.” He started down the hall, then glanced back. “I suppose you will also want to see the secret passageway off the main bedroom?”
“Eventually, I suppose.” Holmes’s sardonic smile briefly appeared. “Although if you have seen one secret passage you have seen them all.”
I nodded. “I agree—and I do not care for the inevitable cobwebs in one’s face.”
Beautrelet smiled. “And there are the spiders lurking in the corners!”
We took the stairway up to another ornate hallway virtually identical to the first. Holmes peered closely at each door, and I had the impression that he was counting to himself. “None of these doors are locked, are they?” he asked.
“No, of course not. What would be the point?”
The third-floor hallway was much plainer than the other two, the walls of unfinished stone; these must be rooms for the servants. “How many of you live on this floor?” Holmes asked.
“All the remaining staff reside up here. Madame Tambourin and I are in number 72, the largest and finest room on the floor. Antoine and his wife are close by. Then there is Legrand, Sabine, Lucy—perhaps a dozen of us in all. The gardener Pierre has his own cottage.” He sighed softly. “I remember when every room up here was occupied, many with two or three people.”
Holmes pushed open the door to 75, took a quick look. It was much more modest, but the same sort of cover was over the beds and furniture. “And I suppose each room up here has its clock, too?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Rather unusual for servants’ quarters.”
“I suppose so, but it is part of the patrimony of the château.”
Beautrelet did not speak, but he seemed to be watching with the utmost concentration.
“Have you seen enough, Monsieur Holmes? Good, let us go then to the main hall. Creuse has been known for centuries for its tapestries, and we have some of the finest. Then, if you are up to it, we can also take the stairs up to the top of the central tower. It is a climb, but the view is well worth it.”
Holmes nodded. “I look forward to it.”
We strolled about the vast hall, gazing up at the tapestries hanging upon the stone walls, while Jacques related their history and the fine points of their depictions. The pièce de résistance showed the château itself on its hilltop, in the distance, with stylized trees and other vegetation in the foreground, as well as two large birds, either storks or swans. The colors appeared somewhat faded with age. Jacques also explained that the tapestries served a practical purpose, helping to mute the cold radiating from the thick stone walls.
Afterwards we visited the library, which had quite a collection of old volumes, along with more period furniture, and then came a brief visit to the kitchens, filled with the fragrant smell of roast pork. It set my mouth watering, and I realized how hungry I was. Jacques introduced us to his wife, Madame Tambourin, a small plump woman wearing a black dress and a white apron. Among her many duties, she was queen of the kitchen, and did much of the cooking. She had a rosy complexion, white hair, but with a few black hairs sprouting to one side of her mouth. She too was honored to meet Sherlock Holmes.
Finally we trudged up a winding stone staircase interrupted periodically by small windows which I avoided looking through, and came out at last onto a circular floor with a wooden door at each of the four corners. Holmes was breathing hard. Jacques opened a door, and we stepped out onto a rampart which went completely around the tower. There was a gap of about six feet between the tower itself and a stone parapet, and the others stepped eagerly forward to lean on it and admire the view below.
I, instead, pressed myself against the tower, my back and the palms of my hand pinned to the rough stones, even as a surge of nausea rose up my throat, almost making me gag. I had always suffered from vertigo, and while it was better than in the past, my reaction to this sudden height was a visceral reminder of my sensitivity.
Holmes gave me a sympathetic look. He had left his hat behind, and the sun gleamed on the pale skin of his high forehead and his slicked-back black hair. “Poor Henry.” He explained my affliction to the others, who murmured their sympathy. “Have just a quick look, Henry. You need not come up to the wall itself, but just have a glance.” He gripped my arm tightly. “Perhaps if I have hold of you…”
“That does help.”
I stepped nearer the wall, and before me I could see the rolling green fields and the darker patches of the woodlands, as well as a glowing incandescent gold surface which wound like some ribbon through the idyllic landscape. “That must be the Creuse,” I murmured. The sky was a clear blue with a few scattered white clouds, the sun lower in the sky now.
Jacques nodded. “Indeed it is.” He had set both elbows on the parapet, and he was obviously quite at ease up here.
How I envied him! I tried to slow my breathing, and I told myself it wasn’t so terrible. The touch of the cool air up so high on my face was rather consoling, and I sighed softly.
“Feeling better?” Holmes asked.
I nodded. “Yes. It is quite beautiful. So different from the view from Sacré-Cœur or Eiffel’s new tower.”
Jacques blew out his breath. “You can keep your great cities—especially your Paris. This is the true treasure, the land of Creuse itself. Its abundance, its beauty, are spread out before us all. Gold and jewels, riches, cannot compare to this. They are the toys of man. This is a gift from God.”
Beautrelet stared at him, his eyes inquisitive behind his spectacles. “You are a philosopher, Monsieur Tambourin.”
“Philosopher enough to know what is valuable in life. Philosopher enough not to go chasing after wealth, which if it even exists, can only bring trouble, and never happiness.” He hesitated. “The old baron knew better. He was a wise man. He was not obsessed with fantastical treasures. He loved his home and the countryside around it. How I miss him!”
Holmes’s smile was muted. “You are a wise man, Monsieur Tambourin. Tell me, were the old baron and his nephew close?”
Surrounded as they were by all the white hairs of his beard and mustache, I could not see all the tiny muscles about his mouth contracting, but I could recognize from his lips a certain muted anger, and you could see it clearly in his dark eyes. He was silent so long, I thought he was not going to answer, but he spoke at last.
“They were never close, and after Monsieur Frédéric’s father died, we did not see him for many years. But as my master’s health began to fail, then Monsieur Frédéric reappeared. As the old baron grew sicker and sicker, Frédéric circled about like some eager carrion bird. Oh, he pretended great sympathy, but his falseness was obvious enough to me. My master wanted to believe the best of his nephew, but in the end I do not think he was fooled.” He sighed and lowered his gaze. “I should not be telling you this. It is stupid of me. If you were to relate what I have said to the baron, he would dismiss me in an instant. He would dismiss me though I have served his family faithfully for over fifty years.”
Holmes touched his wrist lightly. “You need not fear. None of us would ever betray your feelings. I can see this is not a pleasant subject for you. One last thing, however—was Monsieur Frédéric here when his uncle died?”
Tambourin’s dark eyes glowered. “Yes.”
“And what exactly did your master die from?”
“He died in his sleep. Heart failure, they said.” His voice had an odd timbre. He and Holmes exchanged a look which did not require further speech between them. I knew well enough what my cousin thought of that particular diagnosis.
Beautrelet sighed softly. “It is beautiful up here. Almost enough to make one renounce fame and riches.”
I stared at him. “Almost?”
His grin was roguish. “Come now, Dr. Vernier, can a humble valet not have his dreams? Can I not wish to be as rich and famous as Sherlock Holmes some day?”
Holmes laughed. “‘Famous’ is questionable, and ‘rich’ is definitely overstating things.”
“Ah, but perhaps if you find the treasure, Monsieur Holmes… If you turn it in to the Republic, they will pay you a commission, I am certain.”
“Don’t expect anything from the baron,” Tambourin said.
We stared out at the countryside, quiet for a while, and I felt the butterflies in my stomach gradually stop fluttering about and come to a rest. At last Tambourin turned back toward the doorway. “I should also show you my brother’s workshop.”
“I am most interested in that,” Holmes said.
We went back down the winding stairs, through the hall into another wing. Tambourin opened the door to another large room with high ceilings; but it was plain, lacking in elaborate cornices or flourishes of gold and white of the rest of the château. The floor was stone rather than parquet, and three large work tables covered by thick cloths dominated the room. Two tall windows cast light over their surfaces. Antoine was sitting on a stool, his morning coat replaced with a sturdy canvas apron, and spread before him on the surface of the center table were bronze wheels and cogs of various size. Close by was the empty clock case, as well as several screwdrivers, tiny wrenches, two magnifying glasses, and various tin oil cans. On the wall shelves were clocks of different sizes, in various states of disassembly or repair, and a longcase clock about five feet tall stood nearby, its case made of beautifully burnished, inlaid woods. A loud chorus of ticks and tocks of various pitches and rhythms filled the room.
Antoine swiveled about on his chair and regarded us from over the square lenses of the reading-type glasses perched low on his long nose. “Ah, welcome to my workshop, gentlemen. Let me show you a few things. I think there is just enough time before supper.”
“Come to the dining room when you are finished,” Jacques said. “No doubt you will want an aperitif after your long journey.”
Holmes nodded. “An excellent idea, but you and your brother must join us.”
Both men were surprised. “Are you certain of that?” Jacques asked.
“Indeed I am. And I hope you will join us for dinner as well. We have much to talk about.”
Jacques smiled. “It would be an honor.”
Antoine bustled about showing us various clocks, their cases, their mechanisms, and explaining the differences. Beautrelet and Holmes seemed fascinated by this, but I found it rather dry. I had never had a mechanical bent, and clockwork and machines of every variety remained a mystery to me. Antoine finished with the most valuable piece, the tall-case clock; he opened the back to show us the long metal pendulum with its disk at the bottom, then pointed out the elaborate design of the different colors of inlaid wood.
Holmes touched it gently, with reverence. “It is a beautiful creation.” He gazed at Antoine. “I hope, monsieur, that you can spare me a few minutes of your time either before dinner or afterwards.”
Antoine’s brow creased, his eyes suddenly wary. “What for?”
“You are the expert on the clocks of the castle.” A smile flickered over his lips. “They are, so to speak, your children. I have some questions.”
Antoine sighed softly. “Alas, Monsieur Holmes, much as I would like to, I cannot. It is part of the tradition: the horologist of the Château de l’Aiguille is sworn to secrecy. He cannot discuss his clocks with anyone.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you joking?”
“I assure you I would not joke about such a thing.” He was indignant.
Holmes gave a slight nod and smiled. “I understand. And I am not surprised.”
Beautrelet was also smiling. “Just as we would have expected.”
Antoine took off his apron, hung it on a hook, and took down his morning coat from another hook. “Come, gentlemen, let us go have that aperitif.”
We had a drink of some Creuse wine in a small sitting room, then went to the dining hall for dinner. Jacques sharpened a long knife with a steel, and cut fragrant, steaming slices from the roast pork. The meat from the cul noir pig was truly exceptional. Both brothers were at the table, and Holmes also insisted Madame Tambourin join us for the meal, but she didn’t have much time to savor her cooking, because she was always popping up and rushing back to the kitchen to check on something. Jacques apologized profusely about not having enough servants to serve us properly, but we assured him we were only too happy to eat such a superb country meal informally.
After an excellent tart for dessert we retired to the nearby sitting room for an after-dinner drink. Jacques poured small glasses of some local liqueur from a monastery, a thick dark brew, pungent, with a faintly bitter aftertaste. The flames of a big log fire leaped about in the fireplace. We sat and talked a long while with Antoine and Jacques, and I realized the two men were probably starved for company. Clearly they were more intelligent and well educated than typical servants.
At last Holmes glanced over at the clock on a nearby table (yet another spectacular antique, this one with golden trim that contrasted with the dark walnut case) and said that after such a long and busy day, it was time to retire for the night. Jacques insisted on accompanying us to our rooms. The castle’s interior was hidden now, all in massive black shadow, with only candles faintly flickering, or the subdued light of lamps, here and there. Our footsteps and our speech echoed faintly in the vast emptiness of the great hall. The silence which settled about us was heavy, visceral almost: it never seemed so still or quiet in London or Paris.
We stopped before Beautrelet’s door, number 18, and he put his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. “I know I shall sleep well. Goodnight Monsieur Holmes, Dr. Vernier.” He smiled. “Thank you again for allowing me to accompany you. It has been a day I shall not forget!” He stepped inside, and the door swung shut.
Jacques soon bid us goodnight and started back down the hall. Yellow light jumped and danced about on the walls from the motion of his candle in its holder.
I yawned. “I am tired, but somehow not exactly sleepy.”
Light coming from the lamps in our rooms and on through the doorways, lit up that far part of the hallway. “Would you join me for a moment, Henry?”
“Of course.”
We went into his room, which was even more spacious than mine, with a sofa and chair near the fireplace, and by the window, a big antique desk which matched the vanity, the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. Holmes had set a pouch of tobacco and a pipe near the table with the lamp, and he began to carefully pack tobacco into the bowl. Soon he lit it, drew in a few times, then released a cloud of smoke. From the fragrant odor, I could tell it was a better grade of tobacco than the foul shag he often smoked.
He glanced at the clock near the pouch of tobacco, then lightly touched its glass front with his fingertip. That made me aware of the loud ticking of its internal works. “About two hours until midnight.”
I stared curiously at the clock, then over at the fireplace where a lump of coal glowed red-orange. “I wonder why they didn’t put the clock on the mantel over the fireplace. That would seem the best place for it.”
Holmes smiled and shook his head. “Henry, Henry—that would be the very worst place for a fine clock! Both the internal mechanism and the fine wood of the case are sensitive to heat and temperature changes. You would not subject a valuable clock to such extremes by setting it on the mantel.” He took an ashtray over to the sofa, set it on the end table, then sat. “I am going to take a stroll about this wing of the castle just before midnight. Would you like to accompany me, or would you rather sleep?”
“I shall gladly accompany you, but why go walking about at that time? What are you looking for?”
“I don’t quite know. We shall see what we shall see.”
“But why midnight?”
He shrugged. “Remember our clue: st. s. 138? Have you not figured out what that might mean?”
“You know I am dreadful at puzzles, riddles, and all such nonsense.”
“Forget about the st for a moment. What might s before a series of numbers signify?”
I thought he was giving me a hint: “‘Series?’ Could it signify ‘series’?”
“You are getting warmer, but there is a simpler choice.”
I frowned. “Oh just tell me!”
He shrugged. “As you wish. It could stand for somme.”
La somme is French for “the sum of,” the words nearly identical in both languages, especially the pronunciation.
“Oh yes, that is rather obvious, I suppose.”
“So what does s 138 get you?”
“If you treat it as three separate numbers, 1, 3, 8, it gets you 12. I’m better at arithmetic than riddles. Oh, so that explains why you want to go exploring around midnight.”
“Exactly.”
“And the room—you wanted to look in room 12!”
He laughed. “Very good. But at first glance I didn’t find what I was looking for.”
“Which was?”
“Something to do with clocks. I think it is abundantly clear now that the secret of the château has something to do with a clock.”
I was frowning again. “I still don’t understand what saint somme might mean.”
“The st does not stand for saint.”
“What then?”
“Think about it for a while, and it may come to you.”
“But have you figured it out?”
“I think so, but we shall soon see. And now we must while away the time for at least another hour and a half. I have some ideas which I would like to mull over.”
“I suppose I could take a look at the recent issue of The Lancet which I brought along.” I soon sat in an armchair with the journal on my lap; however, the warmth of the fire, my belly full and heavy from the big meal, and the text before me, all had an overwhelming soporific effect, and I fell fast asleep. Holmes had to shake me and repeat my name twice to wake me, and it took me a few seconds to remember where I was.
“Do you still want to come?” he asked.
“Oh yes.” That was not exactly true—what I really wanted was to retire to a warm comfortable bed—but I extended my arms in a long stretch, then rose.
Holmes had set a dark lantern on the desk. He opened the front and lit the oil lamp, then swung shut the cover with its bulbous glass lens. He used the small protruding lever at the bottom to turn the shutter and cover the bright light. His suitcase was open, and I realized he was staring at the blue-black revolver which lay on top.
He gave a slight shrug. “I think not. The lantern takes two hands to open and close.”
“I could take the lantern, you the revolver.”
“We should not really need it. Our likeliest adversary has said he does not kill.”
“Lupin, you mean? But we saw him in Paris just yesterday.”
“And here we are in Creuse today!”
The coal in the fireplace had died down, and Holmes turned the lamp on the desk as low as it would go. We stepped out into the dark hallway. Only two candles were lit now, one at either end of the hall, and the flickering flames were feeble in the heavy darkness. Again I was struck by the great silence, all encompassing, somehow almost solid. It had grown much colder: my shoulders hunched briefly, fighting a shiver, and I considered going back for my overcoat.
Holmes went down the hall to room number 12, opened the door, and briefly cast a beam of yellow-white light inside, illuminating the covered furniture and the loudly ticking clock on the bureau. He closed the shutter again, plunging us into darkness.
We went to the stairs at the end of the hall, and Holmes paused to look back the way we had come. We went up to the second floor, which was equally dark, and traversed it. Next came the third floor, which was more brightly lit, but equally silent, all its occupants most likely fast asleep. The walls here were unfinished stone, and they radiated a chill which seemed to want to penetrate to the bone. I certainly should have worn my overcoat. Along with the cold was that heavy quiet, somehow more obtrusive, more overwhelming, than some sound would have been. How could silence be almost deafening? We walked to one end, then retraced our steps.
Holmes turned to me, the candlelight on a nearby stand giving his face an orange cast. “The floor below, I think.”
I shrugged. I had no idea what he hoped to find.
We went downstairs and again stared out at the dark narrow expanse before us. Holmes set the darkened lantern on the table next to the candle, then removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Almost midnight. The witching hour, so to speak. Let us wait for a bit, Henry.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“I told you earlier—I am not exactly sure.”
With both of us still, the silence seemed to gather round us, seeking to make its ominous presence felt, and I was only too glad for the soft murmur of Holmes’s breathing. Old castles often had a gloomy ambience. This one was over two hundred years old, and many people must have lived and died within its walls. I was reminded of my own mortality, something that occasionally struck me in the early hours of the morning, and kept me from falling back asleep. Houses, clocks, and treasures might span the centuries, but never people. I felt a muted sort of ache, a tightness, in my chest, and I clasped my arms, trying to ward off the chill.
Abruptly, I heard a faint chime in the distance, then another similar peal with a lower pitch, and yet another. Clocks were tolling the hour with their twelve sounds in succession. Some were bongs, others repeated brief melodies. This went on for two or three minutes, and then the last of them grew silent. Holmes eased his breath out in a long sigh.
I yawned and put my hand over my mouth. Despite my nap, I was tired—and rather uneasy. This all seemed foolish. I wanted to go to bed, but Holmes generally knew what he was doing. It was a relief when he finally said softly, “Come along.”
We walked slowly down the hallway. In the lead, Holmes was obviously trying not to make any noise, and I did the same. Again the silence was somehow resounding, something you could sense. We had nearly reached the end of the hallway when a faint clump sounded from behind us. Holmes froze, then turned back the way we had come.
A sudden harsh cry rent the darkness and the silence, making me start, and was followed by some much louder thumps. Holmes opened the light of the lantern and strode forward. The noise had come to our left, but it was impossible to know from which room exactly, so Holmes stepped into doorways and swept each room with the light of the lantern. Two were empty, but in the third, on the floor next to a bureau, upon which was a table clock, lay a sprawled figure.
We rushed inside. “Turn him over,” Holmes said. I stooped and did so. The lantern’s beam showed Beautrelet’s pale face and gaping mouth.
A tall window was ajar, and the night air was even colder than that coming from the walls. A thick rope was tied to the leg of the bed and formed a straight line to the open window. Holmes held the light on Beautrelet, and I touched him lightly on the cheek. He didn’t make a sound. My fingers probed about and found the pulse in his throat, strong and regular.
“Well, he’s alive, anyway,” I said.
“Look at this.” Holmes nudged a cosh on the floor with his foot. The club was leather-wrapped and nearly a foot long with weighted bulbs on either end. “Wicked-looking.”
“Someone must have hit him.”
Holmes frowned ever so slightly. “So it would seem.”
“And then they went out the window.”
Holmes turned about and went to the window. He shined the light out into the night, sweeping it about.
I tapped Beautrelet lightly on the cheek. “Isidore? Isidore?” I shook my head. “I have some smelling salts back in my room.” I probed gently about his head with my fingertips and soon found some swelling on one side. “He has a goose egg starting up here.”
Beautrelet groaned softly. “Oh… my head.”
Holmes set the lantern on the bureau, and he stood over us with folded arms. “Did you see anyone out there?” I asked, and he shook his head.
Beautrelet’s eyelids fluttered, his eyes struggling to focus on me. “Dr. Vernier?”
“Yes. How are you feeling.”
“Not so well. Why… why am I on the floor, anyway?”
“Someone hit you on the head.”
“Someone…? I…” He tried to sit up, groaned, and winced with pain.
“Easy, now—no sudden moves.”
“We must stop him. We must go after him.”
I helped him sit up. “Don’t think of standing—not yet. Who was it? Did you get a good look at him.”
“It was Lupin.”
“Lupin? My God!” I could not believe it. “Are you sure it was him? Did you see his face?”
“No, but I know that voice well enough—that mocking voice.”
I shook my head. “How could he get here so quickly?”
“The same way we did,” Holmes said. “By train.”
Beautrelet stared up at him. “You believe me, then, Mr. Holmes? You believe it was Arsène Lupin?”
“Oh yes, I believe you.”
“Perhaps—perhaps you could still catch him.”
The idea of stumbling about in the dark after someone as potentially dangerous as Lupin certainly did not appeal to me, so I was relieved when Holmes shook his head. “I am certain it would be a futile endeavor. Besides, we have all three of us had enough excitement for one night.”