Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (16 page)

He moved to face her again.
 
“Unless Miss Janvier desires that you should hear what she is saying . . . “
 

“But why?
 
It was clear that they both belong to a political organization—and my guess is that it’s an anti-Czarist group.”

“Why do you say so, Miss Belle?”
 
He moved closer, clearly interested.

“Because everything Stanislav says is derogatory about the Russian upper classes—and, I would presume by association, the Russian government.
 
Not so with Miss Janvier.
 
She apparently goes to the meeting and is accepted, but it is evident that she aligns herself with money.
 
She loves everything to do with established wealth, she made that quite obvious.”

“Excellent work, Miss Belle!”
 
Sherlock pointed his cane in the air.
 
“It doesn’t quite fit, though:
 
the Ukraine is largely rural, but there is a growing nationalist movement among Ukrainians aligning themselves with the Russian empire.
 
I would have expected Stanislav to support the Czar.”

“I’m quite sure he doesn’t.
 
Miss Janvier, on the other hand . . . she’s much more difficult to read.”
 
Mirabella shrugged.
 
“Now may I cease going in the tiger ring—and keep my position?”

“Absolutely not!
 
You are ideally placed to gather information, particularly since they clearly do not consider you to be a threat.”

“Perhaps my being in a continual state of terror causes them to think of me as powerless and unimportant,” she suggested.

“Perhaps,” he considered, leaning on his cane, now frowning.
 
“And what is your decision, Miss Hudson?
 
Are you staying on the case or returning to London in search of a new profession?”

She felt a sadness well up in her chest, having the strange feeling that their association was at an end.
 
“Are you truly prepared to replace me if I do not risk my life and get into the cage with the tigers, Mr. Holmes?”

“That is the need I have today,” he nodded, lighting his pipe
 
“If you do not do it, I will find someone who will.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but does it not seem a bit
cold
?”

“It?”

“
You
, I mean.”

“Logic is without emotion.
 
It simply is.
 
At any rate, it is of no interest to me what it seems, only what it is.
 
Am I to tell you that you can sit on pink cushions and eat chocolates while I pay you, Miss Belle?
 
There are criminals out there ready to slit someone’s throat, entire countries on the brink of collapsing, and dictators ready to subjugate a population while you ask me to cosset and admire you.
 
Who will die while I am flattering you and satisfying your every feminine whim?”

“I do not wish to be cosseted and admired!” she sputtered, furious.
 
“I merely wish to
be alive
to see tomorrow!”

“Then live,” he remarked politely, raising an eyebrow at her.
 
“But while you are living, do you wish to be in the employ of Sherlock Holmes or not?”

She turned to leave, distressed, disillusioned, and heartbroken.
 
She took a step towards her tent, glancing at the ground just in time to avoid the voluminous and slimy deposit from an elephant.
 
In the process, she lost her balance, landing in a puddle of water.

At least the ground was soft and her tailbone was still intact.

If not her pride.

Mirabella returned to the ladies’ tent to wash and change her clothing.
 
Every tent dweller had a small sleeping area—not partitioned—a blanket, and a trunk for her clothing, which most ladies balanced on its end to allow for the hanging of clothes.
 
In addition, Mirabella had a kerosene lamp which Sherlock had provided for her.
 
She had claimed a space on the edge of the tent so that she might watch outside through the slit in the canvas.
 
Sleeping was definitely a luxury on this case.

En route to the shared wash basin, Mirabella saw something which caught her eye:
 
Veronika’s scarlet chiffon outfit had been thrown atop her bedding rather than hung or folded.
 

Mirabella looked about her, grateful that no one was watching her despite the openness of the area.
 
She gasped as she saw that there was a red stain on the gold trim of the bodice, almost hidden by the scarlet chiffon.
 
Could it be blood?
 
The garment had been washed several times, but the stain was still evident.

She looked around again, insuring that no one was watching her.
 
The sheer volume of activity in a circus environment was ever her friend.
 
She hoped it might remain so.

Mirabella then placed her hand under the folded clothing in the trunk, the neatness in contrast to the garment thrown on the bedding, and found—a key!
 
Mirabella pocketed the key and scurried to her own bed comprised of multiple blankets, turning her back to everyone as she compared Veronika’s key to her own key.

It is identical!
 
This is a key to the tigers’ cages.
 
Mirabella felt her breathing increase as the implications hit her.
 

Veronika has a key to the tigers’ cage
.

This was shocking.
 
Veronika was such a shy, quiet girl—so sweet.
 
Mirabella liked her and would never have thought her capable of murder.
 
Veronika had her wounds—her father had died at the Czar’s hands, she had said—but everyone had an inner wound of some type or another, Mirabella was learning.

Veronika might be involved in the anti-czarist movement—but many Russians were.
 
It was not surprising that the orphaned girl should be opposed to tyranny.

Mirabella re-traced her steps to return the key and had only just slipped the key under the clothing when Veronika appeared from around the vertical trunk, her expression one of betrayal.
 
“What are you doing, Mirabella?”

“I saw the key protruding out from your clothing,” Mirabella lied, much to her chagrin.
 
“And I picked it up.”
 
Mirabella cursed herself for being caught—what if she was face-to-face with Beckham’s murderer?—but her only course now was to obtain Veronika’s reaction.
 

Since Mirabella was in this unenviable position, she must make the best of it.
 
“It is a key to the tiger cage.
 
Why do you have it, Veronika?
 
Stanislav said there are only two such keys:
 
I have one and he has one, and it is forbidden to make a copy.”

Veronika stepped back, but there was anger written across her expression.
 
“I have never seen the key before.
 
I don’t know how it got there.
 
And anyway, you should not have gone through my things.
 
I thought you were my friend.”

“And what about your outfit, Veronika?” Mirabella pressed.
 
“It looks like there was blood on it.”

“Why are you asking me these questions, Mirabella?
 
It can be none of your business.”

“It is my business!
 
There was a man murdered in the tiger cages!” Mirabella replied with an indignation she certainly felt.
 
“I have the right to insure the same doesn’t happen to me!”

Veronika hung her head a bit, obviously distressed.
 
Was it the distress of guilt?
 
“Someone took my costume and returned it with blood on it.
 
I do not know how the blood got there.
 
It is as if they are trying to make me guilty.
 
Like Russia.
 
They did the same thing to my father.
 
They broke his spirit.”
 
A tear dropped down her cheek.

“Did the red stain appear on your outfit the same day as Beckham’s murder?” Mirabella asked.

Veronika nodded.

Is she telling the truth?
 
Mirabella hoped so, because, if Veronika was lying, she might be extremely dangerous.
 
It wouldn’t be the first time a shy, wounded person was deadly.

And if Veronika was telling the truth, someone was attempting to diffuse attention away from herself and onto Veronika—either because Veronika was convenient, or because the true murderer disliked Veronika.

Or both.

“You must have very successful hospital, Doctor Watson,” Joëlle Janvier smiled giddily even as she ran her hand seductively along the distinctive red sash of the French Legion of Honor draped across the bottle of
Cordon Rouge
champagne.
 
She was dressed in a strikingly low-cut black silk gown which was an unmistakable copy of Madame X’s daring evening gown, the mere portrait of which had caused a recent scandal when displayed in the Paris Salon.
 

The Russian beauty leaned towards him, her plunging neckline vividly more scandalous than the painting she brought to mind.

A mind that momentarily went blank.

“Hospital?”
 
John laughed forcibly.
 
He removed his white gloves but left his black top hat on his head.
 
He might be in Paris, but he was still British and still civilized.
 
One did not remove one’s hat in public venues.
 
“No.
 
I’m strictly private practice.
 
And you, Miss Janvier, may call me ‘John’.”

“And what do you
practice
, Zsh-ohn?” she murmured, her lavender eyes bright with promise, even more stunning against her raven hair, as she took another bite of caviar. Like Madame X, Joëlle apparently used henna to cast purple hues into her shining black locks, but unlike Madame X, Joëlle had the lavender eyes to match.

“I practice . . . whatever is asked of me.”
 
He added in a seductive murmur, “I seem to be able to anticipate my patients’ needs.”
 

John was enjoying himself and the sensual awareness this woman evoked immensely.
 
He even relished the continual glances their way, he in his black suit with tails, white vest and white bow tie, and she in her black evening gown with the revealing neckline.
 
His heightened awareness increased his enjoyment of every detail.
 

The glances of admiration were a welcome balm to the war wounds still visible to the public.
 
And even those which were not.
 
Of all the things John hated, the stares and sympathy his limp evoked was the most aggravating to him.
 

As if his wounds were an open book for strangers.

“Mademoiselle Joëlle.”
 
Apparently everyone had a certain familiarity with Miss Janvier.
 
“And
monsieur
.”
 
The waiter appeared, bowing before them.
 
His tuxedo was so fine and so expertly fitted that John, who always took pains with his own appearance, could not help but feel admiration in the presence of an obvious man of fashion.
 
“Have you decided monsieur?”

“Ah, yes,” murmured John, scanning the menu a final time.
 
He took a moment to relish the knowledge that he could order anything he wished.
 
Being a person whose pockets were always to let, he was utterly delighted by this
carte blanche
.
 

John smiled at the beautiful Joëlle.
 
Along with the other benefits
.

“We shall begin with a shredded crab and radish salad, my good man.
 
And, of course, more caviar and champagne.
 
Then a tomato bisque.
 
For the main course, let’s see . . .”
 
He considered several items on the menu.
 
“. . . perhaps a monkfish on mango with coriander mousse.
 
Or would you prefer the lobster, Miss Janvier?”

“Which more expensive?” asked Joëlle without hesitation.

Le Grand Véfour
’s waiter raised his eyebrows, making no effort to conceal his disapproval despite the obvious advantages to his gratuity of the more expensive dish.

“The lobster, Mademoiselle,” he murmured with condescension.
 
“But let me assure you that all of the dishes at
Le Grand Véfour
are —”

“We take lobster,” she pronounced.
 
She glanced at her date, who smiled, nodding his approval at whatever she might choose.
 
She positively glowed, and it pleased John more than he could almost endure.
 
His senses told him that this was a dangerous woman, but that did not preclude him from enjoying himself.

Perhaps the knowledge increased his enjoyment, in fact.

The garcon bowed slightly, the tails of his tuxedo miraculously unperturbed in spite of his movement.
 

“For dessert, we try cherries flambé,
Zsh-ohn
?
 
I have sweet tooth.
 
And--”

“And?”
 
John asked, wondering with interest where this was going.

“Everyone turn to look.” she smiled charmingly.
 
Even in her constant need for admiration, she was delightful.