Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (36 page)

Mirabella shook her head as a sadness washed over her.
 
“I was so sorry for Miss Bickers’ past suffering.
 
She had a terrible life.”

“Not a terrible life, a terrible
childhood
,” Sherlock corrected.
 
“She was never able to leave that place of suffering and enjoy the good fortune in which she had found herself.”

“If my own family had all died, I might be the same—or worse.”

“Feeling sorry for the criminal, are we?” Sherlock smirked.
 
Suddenly his expression softened as he looked at her, a strange longing in the depths of his eyes which she had never before beheld.
 
“She would have killed you, Miss Belle.
 
And the children.”

“I know,” she replied softly.

“The horror of her upbringing did not make her any less dangerous,” Sherlock stated sternly, and her employer was back.
 
Just a moment ago she had been dancing with a man.
 
A handsome, grown man, who appeared to enjoy dancing with her.
 

She sighed. Sherlock Holmes was probably one of the ten most intelligent men, not in England, but in the
world
.
 
For a moment she had felt the union of emotion and intellect as he held her, and it had been exhilarating, though she hated to admit it to herself.
 
But now the feeling had subsided—unless bossiness was an emotion—and she was, once again, talking to a giant brain.
 
In the shape of a judge’s gavel.

“You must remember this, Miss Hudson.
 
If you hesitate, even an instant, you will find yourself dead.
 
There are people out there who would hurt you if they could.”

Mirabella glanced at the red-headed girl in the corner hugging her ragdoll in a checkered dress with black button eyes.
 
Sherlock followed Mirabella’s eyes as she mused, “It is difficult to believe that same little girl managed to escape killers and run straight to the police station.”

“She is one of your students, Miss Belle.” Sherlock looked into Mirabella’s eyes, and for the first time that she could recall, she saw admiration there.
 
He momentarily looked away as she saw another emotion:
 
embarrassment.
 

“Candice knew you were floating down the Thames out of the port of London,” Sherlock added matter-of-factly, looking away.
 
“And she knew what the boat looked like.”

“Not to mention that she was fearless,” Mirabella whispered, searching his face.

“Certainly,” Sherlock nodded, now expressionless.
 
“She might have been shot when she attempted escape, and well she knew it.”

“But Candice never got word to you, Mr. Holmes, only to Princess Elena.
 
How did you recognize the pound note as a counterfeit bill?”
 
She tried to lighten the mood.
 
It was a ball, after all!
 
Her first ball, as country barn dances didn’t count.
 
“I recalled thinking what a beautiful new pound note it was.”

“Ah, there you have it, Miss Mirabella.
 
It was too perfect, you see.
 
Like your dress.
”
 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
 
She smiled up at him.
 
“I like it myself, although I have no idea where I will have the opportunity to wear it again.”
 
It was a full-skirted pink tulle dotted with dark brown polka-dots to match the color of her hair and edged with a flounce of scalloped brown tulle.
 
Bows of brown velvet ribbon accented the hem and the velvet girdle as well as the shoulders, holding together the sleeveless brown velvet Spanish jacket.
 

She wore pale pink gloves of undressed kid, and her coiffure of glossy chestnut brown curls was wrapped with a Greek bandeaux of pink satin lined in dark brown velvet and a high panache of pink ostrich tips.
 
She carried a pink ostrich gauze fan and wore pink slippers.
 
Her jewelry was a simple pearl necklace and pearl drop earrings, on loan from Aunt Martha.

“
Sherlock
.
 
Call me Sherlock if for tonight only.”
 
The openness returned to his expression, if only for an instant.

“Certainly, sir . . . I mean . . .
Sherlock
.”
 
She looked away momentarily before pressing him once again.
 
“And how did you know where I was?”

“Watson and I went immediately to Lady Graham’s, only to find that the entire crew was gone.
 
One of the children had overheard some of the conversation, and knew they had gone down to the Thames.
 
It was a logical deduction in any case, the only way out of the country is via the waterways.”
 
He cleared his throat.
 
“Perhaps I could take you to the opera some evening, Miss Belle.
 
With Watson and Mrs. Hudson of course.”

“Truly?
 
Oh, that would be wonderful!”
 
They had reached the refreshment table and he handed her a glass of punch which she sipped even as he led her to a seat.
 
“Does Dr. Watson like the opera?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and she thought she observed a frown crossing his face.
 
“Watson has different tastes in music, preferring the cabaret, but no doubt he will yet go with us.
 
I would not wish you to be deprived of his company, Miss Belle.”

“It is always best to include everyone in the party.”
 
She smiled slyly.
 
“Otherwise people have a tendency to gossip about one.”
 
Mirabella glanced over to see Lady Alexandra, who was having a lovely time dancing with Lord Worthington, who seemed quite entranced with her.
 
Alexandra was definitely of a softer bent than she had been upon their first meeting.

“And what does your aunt say about me—in private?” Sherlock asked.

“Why should that concern you, Sherlock?”
 
She laughed, never before having heard the Great Detective express any interest in the opinion of others.

“Just curious,” he said with a shrug.
 

“She says that, between your experiments, playing that devil’s instrument
all hours of the night, the criminal company you keep, and shooting up her walls, you are the worst tenant in all of London.
 
Possibly the world.”

“Ah.”
 
He swallowed a bit more punch than politeness allowed.
 
“Your aunt was never one to be vague,” he murmured.

“And she said Scotland Yard couldn’t get along without you.”
 
She wrinkled her brow, placing her finger on her delicate cheek.
 

“Mrs. Hudson is most astute.”

“Mr. Holmes, how did you know the pound note came from the orphanage?”

“It either came from the orphanage or it came from me—you have no other source of funds.
 
And it didn’t come from me!”

“But the orphans of
police?
” exclaimed Mirabelle.
 
“Right under the noses of the bobbies?”

“Brilliant plan.
 
Who would suspect them?
 
Officers were walking in and out all day.”

“How did it work, Mr. Holmes?”

“You shall call me ‘Sherlock,’ Miss Belle.
 
Let me have that on this one occasion.”
 
He frowned, glancing in the direction of Dr. Watson
.
 
“Miss Bickers was the artist of merit, and Mr. McVittie made the plates; Sweeney and Corbie kept the place running minimally.”

“Very minimally I should say,” Mirabella agreed, taking a sip of her punch.

“Miss Bickers was the real brains behind the operation.
 
They took in the funds for the orphanage and balanced the books to the penny; no one could have found any fault with them.
 
Then they deposited the equivalent amount in counterfeit bills, exchanged the real bills for the counterfeit, and stored away the real bills for their eventual escape.”

“Yes,” murmured Mirabella.
 
“I thought it was very odd that Miss Bickers was supposedly painting all the time—and yet there were no paintings to be seen anywhere.
 
But wouldn’t those counterfeit bills be out in circulation?”

“Well, yes, Miss Belle, but it was a very small operation—and expertly done.
 
It wasn’t going to bring the Bank of England down.
 
But it was enough, over the course of several years, to provide a comfortable living.
 
And most people do not look closely when their suspicions are not aroused.
 
Even if it were discovered at some point, it would not be traceable in all likelihood.”

“How did you guess, Sherlock?”

“I never
guess,
as you put it, Miss Belle.”
 
His piercing dark eyes seemed to swallow her whole even as he glanced about the room, seemingly taking everyone else in as well.
 
“Guessing is for the undisciplined of mind.”

“How did you
know
unequivocally and brilliantly, Sherlock Holmes?”

“The first clue was simply listening to your descriptions, Miss Belle.
 
No one at the school appeared to know the job they were hired to do.
 
Mr. McVittie was not a cook.
 
Miss Bickers, the primary teacher—who was actually Mr. McVittie’s cousin, by the way—was not very learned.
 
Granted, she was very talented—she was the artist who made the bills—but her talents were neither known nor being lavished upon the children.
 
And then there was the little matter of the bill itself.”

“The pound note I gave you with Miss de Beauvais’ fingerprint?”

“Precisely.”

“But, as you say, they had a marvelous set-up despite their lack of ability—no one questioned them as long as the books balanced.
 
Why did they not merely enjoy their good fortune and do their jobs?”

Sherlock laughed.
 
“You speak from the perspective of the non-criminal mind, Miss Belle.
 
The criminal mind is forever working much harder at getting out of work, exerting far more energy than is actually required for honest labor.”

“Hmmm. . . .and what about the threats on Princess Elena’s life?”

“With the leads I gave them, Prince Vittorio’s secret police found the Turkish nationalist groups responsible.
 
Because of our investigation, I did not think it was extremist groups—but rather individuals very central to the Ottoman Empire—behind it all.
 
As it turned out to be.”

“How dreadful!” Mirabella exclaimed.
 
“Essentially they were willing to kill for territory?”

“Isn’t everyone?”
 
Sherlock asked.
 
“It is the most common reason for wars since the beginning of time.
 
The Ottomans wish to regain their territory.
 
Obviously they harbor hopes of getting their empire back.”

“But Montenegro would fight,” Mirabella considered.

“Montenegro is a small country with a small army; she only won the war because of her alliance with Russia, who may or may not stand by Montenegro and Serbia a second time.
 
On the other hand, if Elena marries Prince Victor Emmanuel III, Montenegro will have a strong ally.
 
The Ottomans knew that all hope of reuniting the seven Balkan states was lost if Montenegro were to form a powerful ally.”

“So . . . Once Princess Elena is married, it is over, there is no point in the Ottomans attempting to stop the alliance between Italy and Montenegro?”

“Precisely.
 
What happens when countries marry each other?”

“Political alliances,” Mirabella replied.
 
“Hmmm . . . Prince Vittorio’s uncle had nothing to do with the assassination attack?”

“Nothing at all.
 
It was not a usurper to the throne of Italy behind the attack—but rather an enemy of Montenegro and a supporter of the Ottoman Empire.”

“But what about the Italians who initially attacked Princess Elena in Montenegro?” Mirabella asked.

“Hired by the Turks,” Sherlock replied succinctly, surprising her by appearing more interested in the dancing than in the case.
 
“Mercenaries.”

“And do Prince Vittorio’s parents support Princess Elena’s marriage to their son?”
 
Mirabella pressed.

“Indeed.
 
In particular, Queen Marguerite favors the match.
 
The Princess of Savoy does not hold to cousins marrying and favors the strengthening of the bloodline.
 
She welcomes a bride who is not related to her son—and will be the mother of her grandchildren.”

“Most progressive.
 
Yes, it is most unexpected,” Mirabella agreed.
 
“Everyone expected the Queen of Italy from the grand House of Savoy to look down on the little Serbian nation, and yet it is the Queen of Montenegro who does not wish the union.”

“And yet . . . Princess Elena is likely to be the subject of disapproval all her life—particularly if she marries Prince Vittorio,” Sherlock remarked with a shrug.
 
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Nothing about Princess Elena’s life will be ordinary,” giggled Mirabella.
 
“I fear she will empty Italy’s coffers and give all the money to the poor.
 
I never met a woman with more generosity of spirit.”

“Most unfashionable.”
 
Holmes shook his head reproachfully, but his eyes revealed that he approved.

“I do hope Princess Elena’s unconventional behavior does not reflect poorly on Miss de Beauvais,” Mirabella murmured, unable to place conviction in her voice as she glanced at the proprietress.
 
Even decked out in the latest fashions, Miss de Beauvais still looked stiff and matronly.
 
“I would hate to see her finishing school in ruins.”