Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (22 page)

Reflecting on the daily letters, one thing was clear:
 
the Prince of Italy was
smitten.
 
And such an infatuation after only a few moments together at a ball with only a few words exchanged.

Mirabella hoped that Prince Victor Emmanuel III felt the same way when he was in Princess Elena’s company for more than a few seconds.
 
Or maybe he wouldn’t care if his queen generally looked straight ahead with a serene countenance as if she were bored.
 
Mirabella simply could not fathom the match.
 
If Princess Elena married Prince Victor Emmanuel III, the majority of the Elena’s time for the rest of her life would be spent socializing:
 
state dinners, receptions, ceremonies and charity events.
 

The charity events would suit the princess who had grown up in modest means; Elena gave all her pocket money to the poor when they took their chaperoned walks.
 
If she became the Queen of Italy, no doubt she would care for Her people.

“Tell me, Princess Elena, do you
wish
to marry Prince Victor Emmanuel?”
 
Mirabella asked.
 
“Is this what
you
want?”

“Of course that’s what she wants!” remonstrated Alexandra scornfully.

All eyes were on the princess.

“Oh,
yes
.” Princess Elena nodded, her countenance serene but her determination clear.

 
“I had thought you lost your mind and now I am sure of it, Miss Carnegie,” Alexandra smiled condescendingly.
 
“Who among us would not wish to marry the prince of Italy?”
 

All I want is to go to university.
 

“Please don’t think me rude, Princess Elena, but I believe there is more to your wishes than the prince’s title and royal standing, isn’t there?” Bethany asked.

The princess nodded in agreement.

“Such as love at first sight?” Mirabella asked.
 
Something had passed between the prince and princess in the few minutes they had been together.
 
Nothing else to explained the bond between them.

“Yes,” Princess Elena managed to utter.

“Oh,
my
,” sighed Jacqueline.

“I must say, Princess Elena,” Mirabella sighed, “You have the smallest waist I have ever seen.
 
You must be very tightly corseted.”

“Pain is good.”
 
Elena nodded, unconcerned, while taking a stitch in her needlework.
 
She appeared uninterested in the drama which the other young ladies tended to.
 
“It makes one strong.”

“It is time for our walk.” Elena’s eyes motioned to the clock revealing eleven a.m.

“Do you think it best that we depart at the same time every day, taking the same path?” asked Mirabella.
 
“I think it much safer—I mean, better—if we were to vary our schedule and to proceed along different routes.”

“How then would any young gentlemen follow our pattern and be at the right place at the right time?” Bethany giggled, but she shook her head, her expression being one of disappointment in how much of the obvious Mirabella missed.

“What nonsense are you spouting now, Miss Carnegie?” Alexandra asked.
 

“I simply think we should be cautious—” but Mirabella was cut off as Princess Elena rose to procure her reticule, the other girls following suit.
 
It seemed that Princess Elena cast a spell on everyone; Mirabella didn’t know why anyone was concerned that the princess learn to converse, it might spoil the effect.

“I favor action over caution,” Princess Elena remarked.

“Did you hear something outside?”
 
Mirabella asked, turning away from the other ladies.

Suddenly all the ladies present turned to see that the window to the alley had been skillfully and quietly removed.
 
Standing before them was a hooded man with eyes cut into the hood.
 
He had appeared quite suddenly in the parlor whilst they were chattering away.

And he was heading directly for Princess Elena, a gun pointed at her heart.
 

“Do not make a sound or you are dead!
 
Fall to za ground or you are dead!”
 
In a muffled voice the intruder warned the girls to remain silent.
 
Another man with a silk stocking on his head followed the first, moving to the door to lock the parlor from the inside while waving a long knife at everyone in the room.
 

“Get behind ze couch!” the second man commanded quietly, coldly, to everyone except Princess Elena.

The gleaming knife was more terrifying to Mirabella than the gun; at least a gunshot might kill one instantly, while the thought of being attacked with a knife made her shake in her slippers.
 

Bethany, Jacqueline, and Alexandra were herded behind the couch.
 
Mirabella pretended to be frozen in fear—the fear was not pretend, but the immobility was—a method which risked angering the assailant who held the glistening blade.

I have no choice but to insure I am the first person next to the stocking-head man.
 
Since she was the last to be shoved behind the couch, she was the first in line.
 
This allowed her to peer around the settee even though her face was close to the floor.

“Shhh!”
 
Mirabella jabbed Alexandra who was whimpering in terror.
 
Jacqueline had her eyes covered with her hands, and Bethany sat biting her lip, her eyes wide open.
 
All three were out of view, of which Mirabella was relieved.

Again her eyes moved to the knife.

With a knife, their captor could slit someone’s throat without making any noise
.
 
The gun was to force compliance only, it was not intended to be used.
 
A gunshot would attract attention and bring people running.
 
Still, she wasn’t yet prepared to test her theory as someone could be shot in the experiment--namely her.
 

Catching a glimpse of the featureless man in the silk stocking, she could not even be certain of his skin color because the head covering was dark.
 
He had a mustache, that much she could see.

The knife he carried was nine inches long.
 
He was no doubt an excellent knife thrower.
 
But from this distance the most inexpert of men could probably kill them all.

I am such a fool!
 
I let myself be separated from my reticule and my revolver.
 
I was too busy feeling sorry for myself for being the outcast of the group to notice the activity outside the window.
 
They were so used to gardeners and all the noises that laborers invariably made about the place that she had not been aware of anything but her own reprobate status.
 

Now Princess Elena may pay for my self-pity with her life
.

Think, useless girl!
 
She could not bear to disappoint those who depended on her any more than she could go on living if Princess Elena’s death were to be laid at her door.

Sherlock.
 
At this moment which might be her last, she saw her mother’s face, then Aunt Martha’s, and finally that of Sherlock, which pushed the others away.
 
That’s what he would do if he were here, why not in her imagination?
 

His was the face which came to her mind and would not leave her.
 
Somehow the image both comforted and strengthened her when she most needed to be brave and to think on her feet.
 

I cannot disappoint him.
 
In that moment she realized the depth of her devotion to Sherlock Holmes—or to his work, she didn’t know which.

Her eyes glued to Princess Elena, Mirabella could see the princess fingering something inside the reticule still wrapped around her wrist.
 
They had all seen the letter from Prince Vittorio carefully folded and placed in the princess’ reticule, but why would Elena be touching the letter at a time like this?
 
As a romantic, superstitious gesture?
 
Or worse, a last ‘good-bye’?

The gun!
 
Mirabella gasped as she remembered that Princess Elena always carried a gun inside her reticule.
 
As did she, but she had been so stupid as to be separated from her weapon.

At least the princess was not stupid!
 
The last thing the kidnapper expected was that Elena was fingering her gun even as he held her within his grip!
 

And he still has the upper hand
:
 
the princess was a good shot, but she was held in a stronghold and she was corseted to the point of immobility.
 
The hooded man had Elena’s wrist firmly clasped with one strong hand.
 
The assailant’s other arm was wrapped around the princesses’ graceful neck, all the while forcefully pulling her to the window.

And then there was the other man with the large knife.

Princess Elena’s only advocate was on the floor, her face to the ground.

Jacqueline, Alexandra, and Bethany were huddled together, shaking, their eyes shut.
 
Mirabella was crawling, inching her way, closer and closer to man who was watching them.

Elena was almost to the window.
 
In a moment the princess would be gone to them forever.
 

Mirabella knew if she made any noise the man in the stocking head might very well throw his knife at her, killing her instantly.
 
She had to trust in Princess Elena’s quick response, though she knew nothing of Elena’s fighting skills.
 
Although Mirabella’s small revolver was in her reticule, she had a knife strapped to her ankle—which she now held firmly in her hand, hidden by layers of ruffles.
 
She had never been so grateful for ornamental fripperies.

It is a terrible risk.
 
But it might be Princess Elena’s only chance.

Mirabella had been to the morgue with Sherlock and Dr. Watson, and she had seen horrible, mutilated bodies, victims of human monsters.
 
She couldn’t bear to envision Princess Elena’s face on one of those bodies, all because she had been too afraid to act.

“Please don’t hurt me!”
 
Suddenly Mirabella began crying and whimpering, hysterical, drawing the attention of both assassins, even as the first was pulling Elena through the window, the second close behind as he backed up across the parlor floor, the large knife in front of his body.

“Zatvorena joj do!
 
Zaklati stariju ženu pripadnicu!”
 
Shut her up!
 
Slit her throat!
 

Both men looked at Mirabella, their attention momentarily abandoning Princess Elena.
 
Mirabella had no idea of the literal translation of their words, but she was fairly certain it was not complimentary from the fact that the stocking-head man moved towards her, swinging his knife.
 

She stood to do battle with her small switchblade, backing up as the stocking-headed man approached.
 
In that moment, Princess Elena shot her captor’s leg through the reticule.

Boom!
 
Boom!
 
The bottom of Elena’s reticule puffed out towards the man who held her, covering his wounded leg in the hot wax of the seal of the House of Savoy, her letter disintegrated.

“ARGHH!”
 
The hooded man screamed, releasing Elena, who immediately fell to the ground and rolled away.
 
He limped towards her before the realization hit that the noise of the gun—and his own scream—would bring everyone running.
 

Stomp!
 
Stomp!
 
Clack!
 
Clack!
 
The sound of someone trying to force the door open, screaming all the while, made the injured man snarl in frustration.

Princess Elena’s attacker, bleeding, jumped through the window and ran as best he could with an injured leg.

The stocking-headed man did not retreat, however.
 
He raised the blade over his head, but was unable to find Mirabella’s location as she had by now moved behind the couch, watching the princess all the while.
 
Then he remembered why he was there and turned toward the princess.

In the meantime, Elena had pulled a bullet from her corset and hurriedly loaded it in her revolver.

Mirabella scurried to the opposite end of the couch, the three debutantes huddled in the corner, throwing her knife at his heart at the same time Elena fired a second shot at the stocking-headed man.
 
Elena’s shot went high and hit the man in the throat, while Mirabella’s knife landed lower than she expected, the result of too much fear and adrenalin.

Sherlock was right.
 
I need more practice.

“AIIEEEE!”
 
He fell back.
 
Completely still.
 
It was difficult to know which lady had exacted the fatal stroke.

“Is he dead?” Elena whispered, moving towards him.

“I don’t know, but he shan’t harm us now,” Mirabella whispered, glancing at the window.
 
“But if we don’t stop the other man, there might be another attempt on your life.”

Without additional words, their eyes glued to each other, Elena pulled a bullet from her bosom beneath her corset and loaded the gun again.
 
Mirabella, who was closer to the window, held out her hands, and Elena placed the gun in Mirabella’s fingers.