Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (15 page)

She glared at him in a manner which she hoped was quite unfavorable.

“You, Miss Belle, will be in the school to protect Princess Elena.
 
And to acquaint yourself with others who attempt to worm their way into her affections.
 
To
watch, learn, report
—and protect.”

“Oh, yes, I see,” Mirabella murmured, understanding at once.
 
“To try to learn who might wish her harm.”
 

“An insider, as it were,” Dr. Watson repeated.

Mirabella gulped, sitting straight up in alarm, and exclaiming, “But what if she does not . . .
like
me?”
 

“Not an issue.
 
Princess Elena has been instructed to stay close to you at all times by the king and queen of Montenegro.”

“And where will you and Dr. Watson be?”
 
Mirabella gulped.

“We will be nearby, watching and investigating.
 
We will have a trusted man posted on the inside at all times.
 
Princess Elena herself has two large Serbian bodyguards.”
 
He added softly, “I am taking every precaution to insure that no harm comes to you, Miss Belle.”

John Watson turned abruptly towards Sherlock, worry written across his face.
 
“How much danger is there, Holmes?
 
If you think these men capable of murder, should Miss Mirabella truly be involved?”

“There is a danger,” Sherlock agreed, his expression severe.
 
“But if Miss Hudson pays attention and does as she is told, she will emerge unscathed.”

“Oh, I don’t think, Holmes—” Watson shook his head.
 

“Any lack of safety is entirely at her door.
 
I will not fail her
,” Sherlock insisted.

“I’m not afraid of the villains!” Mirabella protested.
 
“Only of the finishing school!”

John Watson could not help chuckling despite the concern in his eyes.
 
“Miss Mirabella, I beg you to consider refusing the case.”

“It is not an option,” Sherlock stated abruptly.
 
“Let me remind you that this case is the source of all our incomes, upon which depends my reputation.
 
If my reputation is ruined, none of us will eat, and you, Miss Hudson, will never go to university.”

“I could support us with my medical practice,” Dr. Watson protested.

Sherlock tapped his pipe on his armchair, his eyebrows raised.
 
“You, Dr. Watson, have ten to fifteen medical clients per week.”

“I have enough,” Watson retorted, looking every bit the professional man as he raised his chin and narrowed his eyes.
 

“Although the number is an improvement over having no patients, as you had when you returned from the war and you in fact were the patient, and I think it the ideal practice for you at this time, it is not enough to support either you or us.”

“I would not put Miss Mirabella in harm’s way—”

“My good man, you do not produce enough income to support your clothing and gambling, much less to house and feed us all.
 
And as for my professional career, it is a new endeavor for me as well.
 
I am young, I am disliked, and my reputation could be destroyed with one failed case,” Sherlock argued, somber again, turning towards Mirabella.
 
“Without this case, Miss Hudson, you do not have a position.
 
None of us do
.”

“But how . . . how will I communicate with you while in the school?” she asked, swallowing hard.
 
Sherlock’s words had cinched the deal:
 
she was unlikely to find another position, steady employment was not her strong suit, and she would not be a charge on her aunt with no funds of her own.
 

Mirabella was quite determined.
 
I will go to university
.

“The telegraph office is some blocks away,” Sherlock stated.
 

“Which is by no means an immediate communication,” Mirabella protested.

“You can get a message to us through our man,” Sherlock added.
 
“The princess has two bodyguards and a trusted representative who will also know how to reach us.
 
And we will visit you like clockwork.
 
You will determine with Princess Elena when she attends to her toilette or some such thing and set a regular time for us to visit.”
 
He sighed with indifference.
 
“Do not worry, Miss Hudson, by the time we have finished your training you will be perfectly capable of protecting both yourself and the princess, should the need arise which I do not anticipate.”

Her heart lifted somewhat at the idea of training in the fighting arts.
 
Now
that
was a useful subject.

She had longed to be on one of Sherlock’s cases.
 
And after all, her part was rather insignificant.
 
The princess had bodyguards.
 
Sherlock and Dr. Watson would be investigating who the attacker was.

“What is it now, Miss Mirabella?” asked John Watson affectionately, his ordinarily crisp manner somewhat softened.
 
He ran his fingers along his moustache while his elbow rested on the mantelpiece.

“Oh, nothing.” She sighed.
 
It was only John Watson who ever noticed that something was amiss—or asked her how she felt.
 
“It only just crossed my mind that no doubt for the price of this most exclusive finishing school for only ten weeks, I might have attended the university for one year.”

“Yes, but
I
am not paying your tuition,” advised Sherlock.
 
“King Nicholas I of Montenegro is.
 
And why do you need to go to the university when you have the finest science teacher in the world not only in your vicinity—but
paying
you to be in his vicinity?”

“And to wash his jars, clean his floors, label his chemicals, and index his experiments—leaving him free to do the
science
,” interjected Dr. Watson, moving towards the gasogene, where the ginger, sugar, and water were already in the lower compartment.
 
He placed a cup beneath the spout, adding tartaric acid and sodium bicarbonate to the upper compartment.
 
The experiment begun, and the carbon dioxide forming which would produce a gas to push the liquid in the lower compartment through the spout in the form of a carbonated ginger beverage, he returned to his seat.

“As I recall, Miss Hudson said it was her greatest wish to be in my presence,” considered Sherlock.
 
“Which, I might add, was a very sensible remark, one of the few I have heard her utter.”

“Please don’t misunderstand, Mr. Holmes.
 
I am ever so grateful to have this position.
 
But perhaps I would someday wish to be a scientist rather than a dishwasher and a maid,” replied Mirabella, rising to take the ginger beer to Dr. Watson.
 
“For example, that article on molecules you were reading by Maxwell, do you not find it fascinating?”

“In what way, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows in apparent interest.

“Maxwell cites the eventual diffusion of all gases, which he declares is proof of the motion of molecules,” she replied.

“I find it far more interesting and applicable—remember that all science is relevant only in its application to our work—that the diffusion of liquids might require a day whereas the equivalent in gases requires one second,” Sherlock considered.

“And even more interesting is that certain liquids can diffuse through colloid solids such as jelly and gum,” Mirabella added.

“Speaking of jelly and gum, what shall we be having for dinner, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked.

She glared at him.
 
She was attempting to show Sherlock Holmes she was worthy of academic advancement, and in one fell swoop, he had relegated her to the role of domestic servant without the slightest nod to her scientific understanding.
 
Apparently he considered her to be incapable of intelligent conversation.

Dr. Watson picked up his newspaper and began scanning it while sipping his ginger ale, oblivious to her aggravation—and obviously bored with the conversation.

“Won’t it be time to make our dinner?” Sherlock commanded.
 
It was not a question.
 

“So you’ll be dining in, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.
 
Mrs. Hudson provided the breakfast, while Mirabella prepared the afternoon tea and the dinner if the gentlemen were not dining out, often utilizing food from her aunt’s larder.
 
The meat had to be purchased almost daily, the vegetables and fruits every few days, the breads made at home or sometimes bought.

“As I said,” he replied curtly.

Mentally Mirabella scanned the contents of Aunt Martha’s wooden, porcelain-lined box in which she kept the fresh food purchased daily from the market.
 
Ice was delivered three times per week which went into the box.

The icebox is empty.
 
The results of her mental scan returned the verdict.
 
Very often Mirabella did not do the shopping, as she had enough to do just keeping the flat clean, tending to the laboratory, and preparing meals as needed.
 
Sigh.
 
But today I shall be going shopping.

Naturally Mirabella had every intention of preparing the dinner—it was her job—but she might wish to be treated with the regard given to an apprentice rather than as a domestic.

“To be sure, you will have your dinner, Mr. Holmes,” she replied.
 
“Ordinarily you do not express such an interest in it, so I am encouraged to see that your appetite is improving.”

“All of our appetites are improving,” Sherlock murmured in a low voice, glancing at Watson and then at her.
 
She must be mistaken, it seemed there was a flash of anger in his eyes to match her own.
 

What reason could Sherlock possibly have for anger?
 
She did precisely everything he told her to do—and more.

Dr. Watson looked up from his paper momentarily.
 
“I have certainly filled out since eating Miss Mirabella’s excellent cooking.”

“Yes, you have, Watson,” Sherlock stated in monotone.
 
“We have all noticed.”

What to make for dinner tonight?
 
Sherlock had a partiality for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, while John favored fish, cream of asparagus soup made with ale, and apple tarts for dessert.
 

“You are making progress in your understanding of the sciences, Miss Belle,” Sherlock’s face once again expressionless.
 
“Don’t you see that you will be a scientist—if you stay with me.
 
But if you wish to simply receive the endorsement of the world—and forego the greatest opportunity you ever had, that of actually
learning
something,
becoming
someone—by all means, go to university.”

“Not endorsement but
enlightenment
is the purpose of the university, Mr. Holmes,” she corrected him, nonplussed.

“That has been my singular endeavor these many months—to no avail,” Sherlock stated.

Oh, that is outside of enough!

Fish and soup it is.

Mirabella felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
 
“It is interesting to me, Mr. Holmes, how someone so utterly unpretentious and genuine can be such a fine actor.
 
One minute you are a gentleman of the first water, gallant and accommodating, able to impress the most high born of ladies, and the next you are honest to the point of cruelty.
 
Which tells me that you clearly comprehend polite behavior and understand how to execute it—you simply don’t
choose
to exhibit courtesy towards
me
.”

“It is the greatest form of flattery that I should be myself with you, Miss Belle.”

“Indeed, Mr. Holmes.
 
I would be most gratified if you could find it in your heart to flatter me
less
.”

She turned on her heel, grabbed her purse as she moved past the kitchen, and left the room before even the Great Detective could fashion a reply.

“Oh, Aunt Martha,” Mirabella exclaimed, gazing at the jewels in the velvet case.
 
“They are too beautiful!
 
You can’t possibly wish for me to wear them.”

Mirabella watched her aunt turn the diamond and amethyst necklace round in her hand, the matching bracelet and earrings secured in the case.
 

I don’t dare touch them
!
 
Mirabella watched in wonderment as her aunt held the sparkling necklace out to her.
 
Still in her undergarments, Mirabella had only just finished bathing at her wash basin when Aunt Martha had knocked on the door.

With only the tiniest voice whispering in her ear that her life was about to change, Mirabella had proceeded as she did every morning before breakfast:
 
she had filled her blue and white porcelain wash basin with warm water (so different from the broken clay pot used at home in Dumfries!), a flannel rag and the soap already laid out.
 
The slop pail was on the floor below her dresser.
 
Mirabella had dipped the flannel into the warm water, rubbed the flannel along the soap, then applied the flannel to her body.
 
The flannel rag was then rinsed, wrung out, and used to rinse the soaped area on her body, going under the loose sleeping clothing which was worn for warmth.
 
When the water became dirty, it was poured into the slop pail.
 
This process was repeated until every inch of her body was clean.