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room that Absalon had converted into his office.
    The room was a picture of elegance. Ornate mirrors in solid-gold frames hung beside fifteenth-century paintings on the flawless buttermilk walls. Thick burgundy drapes gathered at each of the windows and clustered in fashionable spills on the patterned carpet. Fine furniture was scattered everywhere –satin-topped benches, chaise longues, armchairs with velvet cushions and rattan-backed chairs. Two crystal chandeliers sparkled in the weak sunlight.
    Absalon was down on one knee before a large brown- and-black Chubb safe, sorting through some papers. The safe, she saw, was filled with files, folders and chunky box folders.
    He heard them enter, then quickly rose to his full height and hurriedly closed the safe’s two doors before spinning the combination dial. It was the first time she had ever seen him taken by surprise, and she realized with just a hint of satisfaction that he was human, after all.
    And also that the safe must contain material of particular importance to him.
    After Lacombe had left, Absalon said, ‘There has been trouble,’ knowing she would not have come otherwise.
    Lydie nodded. ‘Gaston did as he was instructed, but Verne was only wounded.’
    ‘I know that. The newspapers are full of it. But there is more, isn’t there?’
    ‘
Oui
. There were witnesses to the shooting.’
    ‘We expected as much.’
    ‘Of course. But we did not expect Sherlock Holmes and his companion, John Watson, to be among them.’
    Absalon was silent for what seemed like a very long time. He stood so still, and for so long, that she fancied that he might suddenly have turned to stone.
    At length he said: ‘Ah.’
    Lydie hesitated before saying: ‘Sergeant Bessette told me that a man purporting to be a lawyer’s clerk working for Verne visited Gaston this morning. He proved to be no such thing, and upon checking, Bessette discovered that there is no such man.’
    ‘Did this “lawyer’s clerk” see Gaston?’
    ‘Yes. But it’s doubtful he got anything out of him.’
    ‘Still …’ began Absalon. He fell silent again.
    Lydie, knowing he wasn’t finished, didn’t say anything.
    Presently he said matter-of-factly: ‘Have Gaston killed. He is of no further use to us.’
    It was all she could do not to flinch at the utterly callous way he’d given the order. ‘And Holmes?’ she asked.
    ‘Find out what he is doing in France, whether or not there is any connection between him and Verne. It could just be coincidence .’
    His tone said that he doubted it.
    ‘And Verne?’ she asked.
    ‘According to the papers, he was wounded in the leg.’
    ‘Yes. The wound is not life-threatening.’
    ‘No. And yet, if blood poisoning were to set in….’
    ‘Do you want me to arrange it?’
    ‘Not yet. We’ll give Verne another few days. He has no reason to suspect the real reason he was targeted. Hence, he cannot tell Sherlock Holmes anything he doesn’t know. But eventually he may become more … cautious.’ He fixed her with a steely glare, his plans made. ‘Get close to him. Find out what he thinks or suspects – if anything. And then arrange for that unfortunate case of blood poisoning.’
    ‘Is that all?’
    Absalon nodded.
    ‘So for now it is just … Gaston?’
    ‘Just Gaston. Oh, and Lydie?’
    ‘Yes, M’sieur Absalon?’
    ‘Tell Bessette there must be no more mistakes. I do not take kindly to disappointment, and neither do the men for whom we both work.’
    ‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘There won’t be.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Of Titles and Plots
    A s night fell over Amiens, Jules Verne stroked the head of his black spaniel, Follet, then looked at his guest and said: ‘I began to write at the age of twelve. It was all poetry then, and quite dreadful poetry, too. But even then I remember spending a long time over my writings, copying and correcting, and never really feeling satisfied with what I had done. And that method of work has clung to me throughout my