Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (11 page)

“Your brother?”

“Mycroft is behind all this, didn’t you guess?
 
Even you might have been able to guess it if not deduce it.”

“You said earlier that your brother was involved with the case.
 
But what the deuce does Mycroft have to say to a beautiful girl in sequined tights?”
 
repeated Watson, but his tone was somewhat calmer.
 
“Hmmm . . . he works for the British government, doesn’t he?
 
In the Foreign Office?”

“
Works
for the British government?
 
Mycroft
is
the British government.
 
To say that they work for him would be more to the point.”

“Ha!
 
Ha!”
 
Watson smiled but his expression was disbelieving.
 
“If Mycroft ran the government, more people would hear of him.”

“My dear brother doesn’t care about power and yet he wields it with a word or a nod.”

Watson stared at Sherlock, stunned.
 
“I thought Mycroft was merely a mid-level official.”

“Very true.
 
With no ambition whatsoever.
 
He’s far too lazy.”

“What the devil are you talking about Holmes?
 
Make sense, man!”

“
Quiet
, Watson!
 
Keep your voice down.”

“I would be positively shocked if anyone could hear us over the din,” Watson muttered, glaring at him.
 
“Besides, my days are numbered, why should I care?
 
Prince George’s girl, indeed!”

“Let us return to the subject at hand, Watson.”
 
Sherlock could see that there was going to be no peace until he explained the whole.
 
“If I am conveying the truth to you, and I could do nothing else, then it must be your pursuit to make sense of it.
 
Only consider:
 
everyone at the highest levels of government consults with Mycroft—even the Prime Minister and the Queen.”
 
Sherlock chuckled to himself.
 
“He hates to be bothered.
 
And yet—if there is a secret in the government—Mycroft knows about it.”

“How does Mycroft come into such knowledge?” demanded Watson, apprehensive.

“Mycroft is quite unable to avoid taking in everything around him.”
 
Quite exhausting, really.
 
At times one would wish to think of nothing.
 
“He has a mind which observes and analyzes, remembers it all, catalogues and re-arranges it, and makes conclusions—which turn out to be accurate.”

“No doubt he sees things which other people miss,” shrugged Watson.
 
“But how did that propel him to the limelight in the world’s most powerful government—”

“He solved a few puzzles, came to some correct conclusions, identified problem areas and questionable people—not least of which was a spy in the government—and voila, word gets around.
 
And then because of this, of course, people confide in him.”
 
Sherlock shrugged, setting down his beer
.
 
His eyes scanned the floor for Miss Hudson.
 
Ah, there she was, on the sideline, some twenty feet from the clown.
 
He smiled.
 
“Taking into account that Mycroft is in the unusual position amongst government officials of knowing right from wrong, has no ambition, and would therefore never utilize the information for personal gain, he becomes everyone’s confidante.”

“And Mycroft is interested in a bare-back rider in pink sequined tights?” asked Watson.

“On a personal level, no.”
 
Sherlock stared at him, abashed, unable to hide his amusement.
 

“Blasted, Holmes!
 
Of course not on a personal level.”
 
Watson pulled on the vest of his three-piece suit, immaculate as usual.
 
That the retired army doctor found the funds to always be dressed to the nines led Sherlock to conclude that his friend must be hocked to the hilt.
 
It was time to invest some of Watson’s funds for the doctor’s own good—in order to maintain his lifestyle, if nothing else.

Sherlock drew near to his associate.
 
“Possibly the lady is a spy attempting to find the troops’ movements, weapons, headquarters.
 
Everything that an enemy of the crown wishes to know, Prince George
does
know.”

Gasp!
 
The crowd all seemed to sway to the side, even as the male tight-rope walker almost missed catching his partner for the second jump.
 
She gave him a look of complete anger, which seemed to please him.
 

Yes, they have been involved as well
.
 

“Ah, but surely Miss Joëlle Janvier has been thoroughly investigated.
 
What is known about her?” Watson asked with a sudden show of interest.
 

Now we’re making progress.
 
Why did it take so long for others to get to the work?
 
The case.
 
That was the place of true bliss.

“Hmm . . . Quite a lot is known about her and almost nothing.”

“Whatever do you mean, Holmes?” Watson asked, but his interest was only partially engaged as yet, of that Sherlock was certain.

“She is of Russian descent.
 
Countless duels have been fought over her.
 
A young Italian opera singer with a promising future at
La Scala
committed suicide when she refused to see him again; apparently his wages were not commensurate with his talent.
 
A high-ranking employee of the Bank of England became obsessed with the idea that if he were to fulfill our lovely horse rider’s unorthodox desires that she might fulfill his.
 
But life doesn’t always go as planned:
 
now our former bank employee is enjoying all the sensual delights a prison cell has to offer.”

“And the stolen funds?” asked Watson, unable to conceal the interest in his expression.
 
Excellent.

“None of the money has been recovered.
 
What might you conclude from this Watson?”

“That the young lady has a power over men, that she is fond of money, and that her moral compass does not point north.”

“That is putting it very politely, Watson.
 
Most gentlemanly of you.”
 

“Of course,” Watson smiled, nodding to his friend.
 
“How would you describe her then, Holmes?”
 

“I would call her an enchantress, a seducer, an adulteress and a very dangerous woman.”
 
Sherlock tapped his fingers on his knee.
 
“And I can’t help but wonder if she had anything to do with Beckham’s death.
 
She had an iron-clad alibi, however, she was with a man, naturally—“

“An adulteress?” Watson inquired, his interest apparent.
 
Clearly the idea that she might be a murderess as well was of relative unimportance.
 
“And you don’t fear for my safety, Holmes?
 
Under the influence of this Jezebel?”
 

“Not in the least,” Sherlock murmured with a smile.
 
“I do not, my good man.
 
She may yet meet her match.”

“What’s this?
 
You think me to be immune to the charms of women?”

“Quite the opposite,” replied Sherlock without hesitation.
 
“But as I love the game, so do you.
 
You would not forego the pleasure of the game for any woman.”

“Holmes!
 
Really!” Watson protested.
 
“Most unfair of you.”

“Perhaps.”

“I take it that you wish me to determine the barebacked beauty’s motives.”

“Precisely.
 
Is she simply after a rich benefactor, is it all a game of power for her—or does she have another goal in mind?”

“And how do you propose that I come by this information?” Watson asked pointedly.
 
“Aside from the fact that I am a cold, heartless charlatan immune to the pain a female can so expertly inflict upon the honorable.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson.
 
If a young, handsome man with more wealth comes along and is able to sway her attentions from Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge, then clearly she’s a mere fortune hunter.
 
If, on the other hand, a man of your extraordinary charm and good looks is unable to sway Miss Janvier’s attention from an elderly duke with grandchildren, the young lady is a possible threat who requires further investigation.”
 
Sherlock moved forward, emphasizing under his breath, “So give it your best effort, Watson.”

A slow smile illuminated Watson’s face as he watched the shapely beauty gracefully glide from horse to horse as both the acrobats and the horse riders converged upon the ring.
 

Now I’ve got him!
 
Sherlock nodded his approval.
 
Let the games begin!

Watson sighed.
 
“I would love to apply myself to the task at hand . . . but she can’t possibly prefer me to a prince.”

Sherlock took out a wad of bills and placed it in the good doctor’s hand.
 
“You’ve developed a great deal of appeal all in the span of a few minutes, Watson.”

“I suppose I should buy myself some ravishing accoutrement and give myself a title,” considered Watson, thumbing through the wad of bills appreciatively before putting them in his pocket.

“Your attire is second to none,” Holmes shrugged.
 
“And the title of
Doctor
suits you fine and is actually more to our purpose.
 
We wish to know which is the greater draw for her:
 
riches or power.”
 

“And Prince George?
 
How will he be removed long enough for me to make my bid for the fair maiden’s favor?”

“Ah,” chuckled Holmes.
 
“Mycroft has that well in hand this evening.
 
Is it necessary to remind you, my good man, that Mycroft works in the foreign office?
 
The way has been paved for you to meet the young lady in her dressing room after the show.”

Watson glanced to see the ravishing Miss Joëlle Janvier bowing and posing for the crowd.

A wicked smile crossed the good doctor’s expression as he glanced towards the dressing rooms, raising his glass in a toast.
 
“To God and Country.”

“Oh, and bye the bye, Watson, in your spare time, when you are not romancing Miss Janvier, I would like you to look in on Miss Veronika Vishnevsky, one of the Baghdad Dancing Girls and a young lady who was being investigated by Beckham as well.
 
Miss Vishnevsky is also Russian and a member of the anti-Czarist movement.”

“And why is Miss Janvier of more interest than Miss Veronika, then?” John asked.

“Because Miss Vishnevsky has not shown any interest in Prince George.”
 
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
 
“Or vice-versa.”
 

“But are Beckham’s murder and the concern over Prince George’s alliances necessarily related?” Watson asked.

“Most certainly.”

Watson pointed to the ring.
 
“Look, Holmes, there’s Miss Mirabella!
 
She’s on now.
 
Oh, if the girl isn’t positively beautiful herself!
 
Who would have thought she had such long legs under those dowdy skirts.”
 
Watson whistled under his breath.
 
“
And a very shapely girl she is
. . .”

“It doesn’t take a genius to have deduced that.”
 
Sherlock felt himself to be strangely silent on the matter as he watched Miss Belle in a red sparkling outfit move about the stage, the tassels striking her shapely hips as she walked in silk hosiery and red high-heeled shoes.
 
He cleared his throat in discomfort.

“Quite true,” Watson murmured, his eyes fixated on Mirabella.

“Just because she wears serviceable clothes . . . Keep your mind on your duty, Watson.
 
Remember, Miss Hudson is a mere girl.
 
She’s not a woman of the world like your bare-backed rider.
 
And she is our ward—well, an employee to be sure, but under our protection and care, depending on us for guidance and instruction
.
 
It is completely inappropriate that we—I mean,
you
—should entertain such thoughts.”

“Holmes, I never meant . . .”

“Indeed you did, Watson.
 
I am no simpleton.”
 
Sherlock drained the remainder of his beer before allowing his eyes to rest on her for a long moment.
 
“Besides,” he muttered, “Miss Belle is more like a man than a woman.”

Watson turned his head suddenly to stare at his companion.
 
“That’s the most senseless thing you’ve said all evening, Holmes, and that’s saying something.”
 
He raised his eyebrows.
 
“Whatever does Miss Mirabella have in common with a man?”
 

“Fearless.
 
Logical.
 
In the pursuit of knowledge.
 
Hungry for the game.
 
Without the need for constant adoration.”

“Miss Hudson likes to be flattered as much as any woman.”

“Woman?” Holmes laughed.
 
“She is still a child.”

Mirabella moved to open the cage, taking long strides with her lovely, long legs, her thick chestnut brown hair swinging as she walked.
 
Sherlock had correctly surmised that her hair was long and lustrous despite generally only seeing it pinned atop her head, but somehow seeing her tresses long and loose gave him an unexpected feeling.