Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (12 page)

Ridiculous!
 
She held the whip over her head and pushed her chest out; no doubt she had been taught to parade about in that contorted fashion.

Watson suddenly grew pensive.
 
“Holmes, are you sure it is perfectly safe for Miss Mirabella to be on stage with those tigers?”

“Perfectly.”

“How can you be certain?
 
Those are wild beasts.
 
In the end no one can control them one hundred percent of the time.
 
And she a novice.”

“She is merely the presenter.
 
She is not the trainer.”

“The Bengal tiger with his eye on her seems unconcerned with her precise title.”

“Don’t be absurd, Watson!
 
The tiger contemplating her title indeed!”
 
Sherlock turned to stare at his friend.
 
“Surely you can see that Miss Hudson is simply opening and closing the cage door while the Russian trainer does everything else with the tigers.
 
Mycroft made it clear that Miss Hudson is not qualified to be in contact with the tigers, only to clean out the cages, feed the tigers, and open the cage door, fully protected by the iron door in between herself and the beasts.
 
She is only to stand about and look pretty.”
 
He paused.
 
“Which she does very well.
 
Even in that limited capacity, she may be able to learn something while she is in close contact with Mr. Afanasy.
 
Her youth and her gender are her protection against suspicion.
 
Someone to be overlooked, as it were.
 
Much to our advantage.”

“Ah, I see.
 
The circus is comprised largely of Russians, hence the breeding ground for the anti-Czarist movement—and the fact that it is in Paris, out from under the eye of the Czar.
 
And do you think there is a connection with Beckham’s death, Holmes?”

“Most assuredly.”

“And how is it that there was an opening for Miss Mirabella to assist Mr. Afanasy?”

“There was
an accident
with the former assistant . . . and the tigers,” Sherlock said.
 
“That is why Mycroft was so clear about Miss Belle’s limited role.”

There was a long silence for a time before Watson recommenced the conversation.
 
“Miss Mirabella certainly is looking all of her eighteen years.”

“Seventeen,” muttered Sherlock.

“You know very well that she had a birthday some months ago, Holmes.
 
You were at her party.”
 
Watson muttered under his breath, “You gave her a completely ridiculous gift, as well you know.”

“Ah, yes.
 
The party.”
 
Sherlock moved in his seat uncomfortably while Mirabella turned her back to the audience, her well-formed derriere in full view.
 
He coughed, looking about for an attendant and seeing none.
 
“I believe I shall go in search of a beverage.
 
My throat is dry.”

“Is it?” asked Watson, his gaze not wavering from the stage.

“Decidedly.
 
And I’ll have you know, my good man, that a mouth-blown German Geisler tube is an excellent gift.
 
When hooked to voltage coils, the fine instrument reveals how different gasses fluoresce.”

“Indeed.
 
Miss Hudson was almost beside herself in girlish delight, I recall now.”
 

“She is a very sensible girl.”

Dr. Watson glanced up at him.
 
“I haven’t seen you like this since we encountered a Miss Irene Adler, Holmes.”

“Like what?”
 
Sherlock knitted his brows in reflection as he took the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it.

“Never mind.”

“Now that you mention it, Irene Adler does share some common characteristics with Miss Hudson.”

Watson began chuckling uncontrollably.

“What amuses you, Watson?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Sweet, lovely, faithful, loyal, Miss Hudson has something in common with the devious Irene Adler?”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“Holmes, despite the reminder you continually provide, you still astonish me with your lack of understanding.”
 
Watson moved in the rickety box seat, repositioning the red cushion beneath him.
 
“Miss Hudson is the type of woman one would eventually wish to settle down with.
 
Irene Adler is the type of woman one would expect to poison one’s dinner.”
 

“Odd that you should suggest it, Watson, I believe Miss Adler did just that on one occasion.“

“Not odd at all.
 
Irene Adler is deceitful and manipulative to the extreme,” Watson continued.
 
“She never stops plotting.
 
Miss Adler doesn’t know the meaning of love.
 
She would stab her own mother in the back if there were a tuppence in it for her.”

“If you put it that way . . .” Sherlock shrugged.

“What other way is there to put it?”

“Like Miss Belle, Irene Adler is fearless, clever, driven, and unstoppable.”

“As is a venomous snake.
 
You only admire Irene Adler because she was clever enough to deceive you.
 
Which is no reason to admire her at all.”

“I should say that being able to out-think one of my superior intelligence is every reason to admire her.”
 

“Your narcissism may yet kill you, Holmes,” muttered Watson under his breath.

“Self-adulation is only narcissism if it isn’t
true
,” Sherlock replied with disinterest.

Watson appeared to be choking to death before he added, “At any rate, Miss Adler was only successful because she used her feminine wiles.”

“Oh, no,” protested Sherlock, shaking his head.
 
“That wasn’t until after she deceived me.
 
I can honestly say that Miss Adler outwitted me with her intelligence—it had nothing to do with this biological indulgence you are constantly responding to but which has little to say to me.”

Mirabella bowed to the audience on her high-heeled red shoes, her not insubstantial cleavage showing to advantage.

“What was I doing?
 
Ah, yes, I was going in search of a beverage.”

“For your dry throat.”
 
Watson studied his friend, his eyebrows raised.
 
“Holmes, you know very well that, ever since the conclusion of our first case with Miss Mirabella, you have been acting strangely towards her.
 
You watch her more, you are quicker to anger, you take more reckless chances—throwing yourself in that infernal boxing ring with men twice your size—and even your drug use has increased.
 
Just when your reputation is starting to be established, when you have solved two international cases,
Scandal in Bohemia
and
The Sword Princess
, when you should be the happiest you’ve ever been, you’re discontented.
 
What is bothering you, Holmes?”

“Watson, you’re delirious.
 
Honestly, I have no idea what you’re rambling on about.“
 
Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, his eyes still watching Miss Belle.

“Holmes, we’re not just two boarders who share a flat.
 
We’ve risked our lives for each other.
 
We’re
friends
.”
 
He pulled on his leather suspenders.
 
“I wouldn’t say this if it didn’t concern me as a friend—and as your doctor.
 
What is going on between you and Miss Hudson?”

“
Bloody hell
, Watson!”
 
Sherlock felt a burst of anger overwhelm him when he had heretofore been absorbed in Miss Belle’s performance.
 
He loosened his neck cloth as he turned towards Watson, his anger no longer containable.
 

Sherlock was mindful of the fact that Watson was his best friend—his only friend—and he did not wish to repulse the good doctor as he had the others.
 
But he was never one to lie, no matter the cost.
 
“That is the question I should be asking you, Watson!
 
You who are always looking at that trusting, innocent girl like a lecherous old man.
 
You who will never take her seriously and who has no serious intentions.
 
To you, Mirabella Hudson is just a game.
 
But to Miss Belle, it all means something.”
 
It is you whom Miss Belle is interested in, Watson
.
 
She has no eyes for anyone else.
 
And look how you fling that precious treasure about just as you disregard flippantly everything of value
.

Watson looked at him aghast.
 
“Of course it does.
 
And it is you—not I—who is too hard on Miss Mirabella.”

“Not a bit of it.
 
She loves every moment of it.”
 
Sherlock allowed his eyes to rest on Miss Belle as he regained his composure.

“She doesn’t love being in the skimpy outfit facing the tigers,” Watson said.

Ah, but we do.

Sherlock rose, determined to go in search of drink.
 
“We must assure no harm comes to her.
 
Keep your eye on Miss Belle.”

“Gladly.”
 

Roar!
 
The Siberian Tiger, orange and white with black markings, opened his mouth to reveal sharp teeth each four inches in length.
 
Mirabella didn’t know if she was shaking from the anxiety of being in the ring with a man-eating predator—or because her outfit wouldn’t keep a polar bear warm on the equator.

Please, please, dear God, let me go back to the finishing school.
 
I promise to never complain again and to be thankful for each and every lace doily.
 
How I long for those insipid remarks and dreamy watercolor paintings.

Granted, she had a metal cage door between herself and the tigers.
 
Her only job was to open the cage door and to look pretty.
 
From there, the tigers leapt forward towards Mr. Stanislav Afanasy, the trainer, who popped his whip, did summersaults, and directed the tigers as they rode on horses and even jumped through hoops.

She was merely to pose and smile to the crowd—and to walk to the cage to both open the door and close the door once Mr. Afanasy had the tigers back in the enclosure.
 
If one could call it walking; it was more like a continual state of vibration while inching forward or backward as the case may be.
 
Then she put the lock on the cage door, her hands trembling.
 
She carried a whip to make it look as if she was doing something, but it was only for the show.

Quite Simple.
 
Straightforward.
 
Uncomplicated
.
 
She felt a great deal more frightened than was warranted.
 
She was perfectly safe.
 
It must be the proximity of the tigers which gave her the illusion of being unsafe, even though she was fully protected on the other side of the open cage door.

But something about this show was disturbing.
 
Let’s see:
 
the entire premise was to take a situation where man was prey and the animal was predator and to puff up one’s chest and show off that one had reversed the relationship.
 

In other words, the philosophy was to break the animal’s spirit.
 
She hoped the poor creature didn’t become so angry that it decided to fight back and retrain its “trainer.”
 
The trainer became the trainee, so to speak.

Not only that, but Mr. Afanasy kept the tigers hungry so they would perform in anticipation of the meat after the show.
 
Facing a hungry tiger just did not seem like a good idea to her.
 
Maybe she was only a country girl from Scotland, but it certainly hadn’t worked out so well for Mr. Beckham, that was a fact in evidence.

Thank goodness she had nothing to do with any of this and was merely the door opener!
 

Something is very wrong.
 
What is going on?

Grrrr!
 
The Siberian roared.
 
He was acting strange.
 
He wasn’t following any of the orders.
 
He seemed . . . quite . . .
angry
.
 
All of the other five tigers started acting in an agitated fashion, as if they were following the Siberian’s lead.

A prison break-out.

SsssssSNAP!
 
Stanislav snapped his whip, ordering the Siberian to go through the fire ring.
 
Honestly, I would have let it go this one time.
 
Anyone could see that something was not right.

GASP!
 
The crowd all inhaled as the male Siberian, instead of jumping towards the fire ring, jumped towards Stanislav.

“Zatk`nis!”
 
Stanislav snapped his whip, causing a slight retreat, but all the other tigers began to circle the large, muscular Russian.
 
Mirabella could see in Stanislav’s expression, not fear, but the belief that he was doomed.
 
And he was accepting it like a man.

She looked around.
 
No one was coming on the stage to assist.
 

What am I thinking?
 
She remembered now:
 
she had been told that no one worked with the tigers except Stanislav and his assistant.
 
Frantically she looked towards the stage curtain.
 
And where was his assistant?