Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (10 page)

“Not normal?”
 
Holmes reflected.
 
“If your behavior is normal, Watson, I count myself fortunate to be otherwise.”

Fortunate to be who he was—the Great Detective.
 
Destined to live his true vocation, which was the air he breathed.
 

Sherlock’s profession was the expression of that intelligence which was the drive behind all his actions, his reason for being, the source of his elation—and the venue for his daily torture.

John Watson chuckled.
 
“I know you take great pride in not being like the rest of us, Holmes.”

“You have lived with me for almost a year at Baker Street, Watson.
 
I am comforted to learn that you have deduced something in that time.”
 
Sherlock cleared his throat, the discomfort of being imprecise manifesting itself in a physical form.
 
“Eleven months, fifteen days, sixteen hours, and seven minutes, to be exact.”

“It is a wonder I am still alive and un-incarcerated,” Watson murmured before becoming suddenly animated.
 
“Look at that, Holmes!
 
She’s doing the splits across both horses!
 
What agility!”

“Astonishing.”
 

Damnation!
 
Sherlock searched his pockets for his pipe.
 
He had somehow left it in his other jacket.
 
He had grown distracted of late.

“
Zounds!
 
Holmes!
 
You didn’t even blink an eye when Madame Zazel was fired above the audience from a cannon!”
 

“Ah, the stuffing of a woman in a spring-loaded catapult and the lighting of same.
 
Who would have thought it had the power to excite?”

“Haven’t you been entertained by any part of this spectacular show, Holmes?”
 
Watson managed to tear his eyes from the stage and narrow them at Sherlock.

“The clown who taught Tom to sing to the accompaniment of bagpipes, a trombone, and a violin was amusing, I must admit.”

“The singing donkey?
 
That was the only part of the circus you enjoyed?” Watson repeated, dazed.

“
Enjoyed
is a bit of a stretch, Watson.
 
Except when Tom refused to sing, that was pure bliss, to be sure.”
 

Watson stared at him in disgust or disbelief, it was difficult to tell which, and perfectly immaterial as far as Sherlock was concerned.

“To be quite honest, my dear fellow,” Sherlock added, “I believe Tom was bored with the entire proceeding.
 
That tells you something, don’t you think, when you find pleasure in something which bores an ass?”

“Look at the girl!”
 
Watson stood up and pointed to the bare-backed rider.
 
“Now she’s on her head showing off those gorgeous legs!”

“I wouldn’t expect her to do anything else.”
 

Sherlock motioned to one of the attendants, who handed them each a beer.

“Ha! Ha!
 
I just had a thought, Holmes,” Watson said when the attendant had withdrawn.

“That is a welcome and unexpected development.”

“You said that I have a role to perform here.”
 
Dr. Watson chuckled.
 
“Would that my task were to court that young lady.”

Sherlock turned abruptly to study his friend.
 
The Great Detective was not one to be surprised.

“Why do you stare at me, Holmes?”

“That’s precisely what your job is, my good man.”

Watson kept his eyes glued to the lovely spectacle, muttering under his breath, “Don’t toy with me, Holmes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.
 
Her name is Miss Joëlle Janvier—though naturally that is not her real name—and your assignment here is to wine and dine that young lady.”

Watson turned abruptly to stare at him.
 
“You can’t be serious, Holmes.”

“Have you ever known me to be anything else?”
 
Sherlock scrutinized his companion, feeling like a teacher witnessing his pupil’s first success.
 
“And how did you deduce your primary role in this case, Watson?”

“Deduce?”
 
Watson chuckled.
 
“It was wishful thinking only.
 
And still I don’t believe you for a moment.”

“Believe me, it is true.”
 
Sherlock felt a grave disappointment in the knowledge that Watson’s astuteness was attributable to a longing born of infatuation rather than a deduction derived from reason.
 
“It is essential to the case that you should be at your most amorous with Miss Janvier and convince her of your unrivaled love and devotion.”

“You astonish me, Holmes.”

“Do I?
 
Beyond a doubt I astonish most of the people most of the time, so I suppose that is not surprising.
 
Although I might have thought you would be accustomed to it by now, my dear fellow.”

Watson returned his eyes to the beauty and let out a low whistle.

“Steady, boy.
 
I told you it was an occupation perfectly suited to your abilities,”
 
Sherlock said.
 

“But not my pocketbook.
 
The girl must have dozens of suitors—no doubt with pockets to let.
 
Of what possible interest could she have in a poor doctor?”

“You wouldn’t be poor if you wouldn’t fritter away your money, my good man.
 
At any rate, the money is the least of your worries, Watson.”

“Money is always my greatest worry,” Watson muttered.

“You shall have a carte blanche, my dear fellow.
 
In fact, the more you spend the better.”

The young doctor had the look of child who had just opened the toy of his heart’s desire.
 
“You want me to romance a beautiful girl with a pocket full of blunt?”

“Didn’t I just say so?” Sherlock looked at Watson in some dismay.
 
His generally capable companion was remarkably slow-witted this evening.
 
“Really, Watson, don’t force me to say everything twice.
 
Do let us move on.”

“As much as I love the idea—and it is a
definite
step up from our last undertaking traversing the London sewers—of what possible benefit would my romancing a circus beauty be?”

The audience burst into clapping.

“Just play your part, Watson, as painful as it is for you.
 
It shall all become clear shortly.”

“If it’s all above board, why don’t you romance her yourself, Holmes?
 
It’s your case.”

Holmes raised his right eyebrow at his companion.
 
Watson was uncommonly dull-witted this evening.
 
Proof that a strong interest in women diminished a man’s intellectual powers.

In an instant Sherlock Holmes felt something he never expected to feel:
 
a slight longing to take pleasure in all this nonsense.
 
Of late he had wondered what it would be like to experience the joy he saw in Miss Belle’s expression, her joy of both discovery and of every day, simple life.
 

Sherlock frowned.
 
I must have work.
 
Ever since
Miss de Beauvais’
Christmas Ball he had been agitated and angry.
 
Nothing will interfere with my work.
 
I must pursue my life’s ambition
.
 

“Right,” Watson murmured.
 
“I only thought because you’re a genius and all, that if you applied yourself to the task at hand, surely—”

“I would have no idea how to romance a woman.
 
And particularly a . . . a
 
. . . circus performer,”
 
Sherlock interjected.
 
“What would I discuss with her?
 
Faraday’s research on refrigeration?
 
No, Watson, that is entirely out of my skill set and completely within yours.”

“It isn’t that difficult, Holmes.
 
Instead of being underhanded, devious, unkind, and cryptic, flatter the girl.
 
Be nice
.”

Holmes began to grow concerned.
 
“Do you have a fever, Watson?”

“Right,” Watson murmured.
 
“Foolish of me, old chap.
 
You have the right of it, it could never work.”
 

“Just so.”

Perhaps having vacuous sisters and growing up with a much older brother who was the pride of the family and who had dressed him in girls’ clothing had formed Sherlock into the person he was, having a distaste for the feminine.
 
For that, he was not sorry.
 
He was a man who revered logic and method above all else and who had no time for the mundane, dramatic, and ridiculous.
 
From his observation, women were inclined to make the smallest, most insignificant incidents into the greatest importance (such as the selection of chinaware and lace) and to overlook those things of true importance (such as the twenty-seven brands of tobacco sold in London, the time it took a body to decay, and the solving of crime).
 
Certainly Sherlock felt warmth and respect for his own mother, but it was a fact that he was a man’s man while his brother Mycroft was the apple of his mother’s eye.
 
In truth, outside of Mycroft, who in his eccentricity was not a kindred spirit in every way, Sherlock had no true friends.
 

Until Dr. John Watson that is.
 
Sherlock found that he liked having a friend.

“But what purpose could my romancing that gorgeous girl have?” Watson demanded.
 
“As much as I love the idea, I refuse to do it unless you tell me what this is about, Holmes.
 
Why are we here?”

“We are here, my good fellow, to determine if that lovely lady is a danger to our beloved England.”

“Of what possible harm could a little gal jumping from horse to horse in pink sequined tights be?”

“Cavorting with the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army?”
 
It was Sherlock’s turn to laugh heartily.
 
“All the harm in the world, I should say!
 
It doesn’t take an espionage genius to tell us that.”
 

Watson almost choked on his beer, lunging forward.
 
“That girl is seeing Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge?”

“Indeed.
 
I just said so didn’t I?”

“And you want me to go after Prince George’s girl?”

“Why do you keep making me repeat myself, Watson?
 
Most tedious.”

“Now I know you’re crazy, Holmes.”

“But don’t you see, Watson?
 
You’re destined to court the stunning bare-backed rider.
 
No one better.”

Even from their private box overlooking the ring, the noise was deafening each time the crowd clapped and roared, but the box did allow for some privacy.
 

At this moment the tightrope act was in progress so the crowd was subdued except for the occasional cough or sigh.

“Of course I see, damn it!” retorted Watson under his breath, running his hand through his hair.
 
“I see that Prince George is courting Miss Janvier and I don’t have a bat’s chance in hell with her—and that it might be dangerous for me if I did!”

“Come, come, Watson, Prince George is indeed Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, with obvious ties to the Foreign Office, but I doubt very much that he’ll call you out.”

Drum roll!
 
Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!
 
The tightrope walker had reached the center of the tightrope some hundred feet in the air.

“I am most comforted,” Watson muttered.

“Prince George
is
married after all—on paper anyway.
 
Scandal, don’t you know.”
 
Holmes took a sip of his beer.
 

“Everyone knows the Duke of Cambridge has a preference for the ladies.
 
Doesn’t strike me as the type who is afraid of scandal—may derive a great deal of pleasure from it, in fact.”

“No doubt he does.”

The next act was now underway, none other than the high wire acrobatic act.
 
The female acrobat in a shiny sparkling orange outfit did a triple somersault in the air before her partner in cobalt blue tights caught her from another swing.
 
Next they swung precariously back and forth.
 

Sherlock hoped that the fact that the female tightrope walker was having an affair with the clown in the wings watching her did not make her partner less inclined to catch her.

Possibly I am jumping to conclusions
.
 
The performer dressed as a clown could be a brother rather than a lover, but the man definitely had an attachment to the lady tightrope walker.
 
He seemed at great pains to avoid others observing his interest, so it seemed more likely he was a lover.
 

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Watson abruptly, throwing back his head.
 
“I don’t know why I’m so worried about a duel.”

“Neither am I,” agreed Holmes before reflecting for a moment.

“Damnation!
 
If my life is of so little interest to you, I assure you it is of some interest to me!”

“See here, Watson, I am painfully aware that you have a demented love of humor—and I might add that it is not your strong suit—but this is no time for jokes.”

“Jokes?” Watson demanded.
 
“Do you believe me to be jesting, Holmes, when I say that I fear for my life if I pursue this girl?”

“Mycroft believes this mission to have implications of the utmost importance,” Sherlock stated.
 
“
World-wide
implications.”