Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (21 page)

“Beckham, like Watson, was pleased to spend time with the ladies,” Sherlock said, turning a critical eye to Watson.
 
“Beckham’s interest wasn’t necessarily part of his investigation.”

“And did you travel all the way from London merely to see us, Mycroft?” Watson asked cordially, taking a seat.

Sherlock muttered under his breath.
 
“The death of a British agent and the head of the British army walking into a Russian spy ring would warrant a slight effort, even on Mycroft’s part.”

“It isn’t far, just across the channel,” Mycroft drawled lazily, sitting down.
 
Even before his black tails touched the chair, his attendants were obviously in the process of procuring refreshments for the small party of three.
 
The elder Holmes brother was impeccably dressed in the highest style, as if he were going to a fancy dinner party—which he no doubt was after their meeting on the circus grounds.
 
“I come to Paris often.
 
All the fashionable people are here.”

“Except when you’re in London, old boy,” interjected Sherlock.

“Very true,” agreed Mycroft.
 
His slight paunch as caused by his lack of physical activity and hedonistic lifestyle was easily hidden as well by his height and superb tailoring, which did not deter in the least from his dashing good looks.
 
Only in a boxing match would the differences in the brothers’ comparative physiques become apparent, Sherlock reflected, being in the habit of analyzing appearances for the purpose of disguise.

Whizzzzz!
 
The Whirling Dervishes of Constantinople somersaulted by.
 
This was followed by a duel by the sword fighters, shouted on by the knife throwers, which gave every appearance of being a fight to the death.

Mycroft turned to the doctor.
 
“And have you learned anything about Miss Janvier, Watson?”

“She is reluctant to give up her relationship with Prince George,” replied Watson, his expression contemplative.
 
“Whether or not it is the game she enjoys or there is a political reason for her interest in Prince George I have not yet determined.”

“You don’t seem in a great hurry to conclude the case, Watson,” murmured Sherlock under his breath.
 
He could not help but feel some relief that Watson’s attention was diverted from Miss Belle by Joëlle Janvier and Miss Veronika.
 
But Sherlock knew his duty to his friend.
 
“I assure you that Miss Janvier is not one to play with.
 
You might find that you are the mouse and she the cat, Watson.”

“TO THE DEATH!
 
KILL THE BLAGGARD!”
 
The knife throwers shouted the sword fighters on.
 

Mycroft took a sip of the lemonade just provided.
 
He turned to his aide who was standing beside him.
 
“Do see if you can procure some of that pink spun candy, my good man.
 
It looks quite appealing.”

The attendant nodded and vanished.
 

Mycroft pulled an ornate oriental fan from his pocket and began fanning himself with it, but his gaze remained fixed on Watson.
 
One of Mycroft’s aides moved forward in an obvious attempt to take over the fan duties, but Mycroft motioned the attendant to keep his distance.

Excellent decision.
 
Sherlock nodded in approval.
 
In addition to the security concerns, waving the thin fan about might be all the exercise Mycroft had that day.

“Rowwwwwwaaaaaa!!” an elephant roared on the stage below them as its trainer urged the animal up on two legs, a sort of domino game with ten thousand pound animals being played, four on each side of center.
 
A midget standing on his head moved in and out of the elephants.

Mycroft glanced about him.
 
“It is rather like the Roman army collided into a rainbow, is it not?
 
Gad, the resplendent cerulean blue and pulsating pink is atrocious!
 
The blinding lights and screaming color positively give one a headache!”

“To hell with your headache, Mycroft!” retorted Sherlock through a clenched jaw, lowering his voice with effort.
 
“Why the devil did you call this meeting here in this public place?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Miss Janvier already knows you and Watson to have a business arrangement of sorts, our meeting only confirms it if word were to get back to her.”
 
Mycroft knew very well that he stood out wherever he went—an effect he worked ardently to promote.
 
“And who am I?
 
A mere mid-level government official.
 
No one has the slightest idea who I am—or cares.”
 

“Stated in your characteristically modest fashion,” Sherlock murmured.

“Humility is apparently a family characteristic,” muttered Watson.

“As far as anyone knows I am your brother come to visit Paris.
 
To attempt secrecy is the worst thing we could do, making it appear that we have something to hide.
 
Someone would see us beyond a doubt.”
 
Mycroft tapped his manicured finger on the small table, lowering his voice to a whisper.
 
“Moreover, if Miss Janvier does get nervous, that tells us a great deal.
 
A mere circus girl would have no way of finding out who we are—and would not care.”
 

“It must be delightful to always be so confident in the thoughts and behavior of everyone around you, in the laws of nature, and even in the weather,” Sherlock muttered.
 
“And in the meantime, if Watson is murdered, we shall write it up to a miscalculation.”

“The weather?
 
Not at all!”
 
Mycroft pointed to his umbrella leaning against the wall.
 
“And I must say, Shirley, you are a bit of a curmudgeon today—even for yourself.”

I had thought it myself.
 
Usually I am in a state of ecstasy when working on a case. . It seems I have not been able to do anything but worry about Miss Belle’s safety for the last month—and now Watson . . . I who hire children to work for me—the Baker Street Irregulars—whom I worry less about than these two adults.
 
“Curmudgeon?
 
Nothing of the sort.
 
I am a pragmatist and a teller of truth, neither of which suits you, Mycroft.”

“To be sure,” Mycroft replied smugly.

“The relevant point is that I can understand being confident in oneself, but do not be overconfident about the forces of evil around us—or in the predictability of behaviors,” Sherlock mused.
 

“Strange coming from you, Holmes,” Watson said.

Mycroft languidly took a sip of lemonade.
 
“And Dr. Watson has successfully become one of the divine Miss Janvier’s suitors, not so easily accomplished for the average
bon homme
.”

“It is my patriotic duty,” murmured Watson, a wicked smile forming on his lips.
 
He was handsomely dressed in a dark jacket and vest teamed with beige pants, his face shaven and his sideburns and hair stylishly cut.
 
The man was a veritable advertisement for male grooming.

 
“I don’t believe you are fully aware of the sacrifices which this dear fellow has made, Mycroft,” stated Sherlock solemnly, his glass still untouched.

“Reasonably aware.
 
I have seen the bill,” said Mycroft, patting his forehead with his handkerchief.
 
“At least the lady is much less in Prince George’s company since the good doctor came upon the scene.
 
To be quite honest, I am simply mortified the old duke will say something he shouldn’t to our beautiful sequined rider.”

“I fear Watson will over-exert himself,” Sherlock said.
 
“He has been romancing both Miss Janvier and Miss Vishnevsky, with attentions to the latter in a purported attempt to determine her likelihood as a suspect in Beckham’s murder.”
 

“Indeed.
 
It is too much for one man,” Mycroft said, now holding the candy cone in his hand, meticulously pinching off small bites so as to preserve his immaculate dress while clearly enjoying the spun sugar.
 
“Exhausting.”

“I am managing.
 
It is better I should do the job than you should hire two men,” Watson said.
 

“True.
 
It simplifies things,” Mycroft agreed.

“And at the close of our case we shall have only one more dead agent instead of two,” muttered Sherlock.

“I have confirmed that Miss Vishnevsky is both Russian and in the anti-Czarist movement,” Watson added.

“Definitely a suspect,” Sherlock murmured.
 

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.
 
“Miss Vishnevsky would certainly not wish to be exposed to the Czar’s government.”

“But does Miss Vishnevsky have the temperament and the intelligence to enact such a cold-blooded murder?” Watson considered.
 

“Miss Vishnevsky’s family history is not good.
 
She puts her father’s death at the Czar’s door,” Mycroft added.
 

“As did Miss Janvier,” Sherlock added.

“Miss Janvier has the current advantage of being protected by the Czar’s government which is not available to Miss Vishnevsky,” Mycroft said.
 
“The threat of the Czar’s police makes Miss Vishnevsky a greater suspect in my mind.”

“In theory at least,” Sherlock said.
 
“But your view from the chair can be different from the reality.
 
It takes interaction and legwork to know with a certainty.”

“It appears that the good doctor is covering that for us.”
 
Mycroft lowered his cotton candy that he might see Watson more clearly.

“And what have you learned about Miss Janvier?” Sherlock asked.

“Miss Janvier did say something interesting,” considered John Watson, shaking his head at the pink fluff offered to him.

“Ah.
 
And what is that, Watson?” asked Sherlock.

“Joëlle said that, about the time of her marriage, she made two additional vows for a total of three vows—and that only one of the vows did she take seriously.”
 
He cleared this throat.
 
“I can guarantee you that it isn’t her marriage vow.”

“An extremely revealing comment,” considered Sherlock.
 

“Hmmmph,” suggested Mycroft, his mouth full with candy.
 

“The three vows were—“ Watson began.

“—Hello!”
 
Sherlock sat up suddenly, speaking over Watson in the excitement of his sudden realization.
 
Finally they were making progress!
 
“I have no doubt one of the vows would include revolutionary activity.”

“Yes, and, the other—“ continued Watson patiently.

“—but we now know that Miss Janvier is on the Okhrana’s payroll,” interjected Mycroft, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s in the excitement of discovery.
 

“The Okhrana?
 
The Russian Imperialist Police and protector of the Czar?” exclaimed Dr. Watson.
 
“That might have been very helpful information to convey.
 
When did you intend to inform your operatives of this fact?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Mycroft asked politely.

“It is for the best that Mycroft didn’t tell you, Watson,” Sherlock said.

“Better not to lay the facts before me?” demanded Dr. Watson.

“Beyond a doubt.
 
It could only lead to mental laziness,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

“Holmes, I should land you a facer!” Watson muttered, a flash of anger in his eyes.

“Giving you too much information would only skew your observations and interject your conclusions with a bias,” said Sherlock.
 
“And I suppose it is all irrelevant.
 
Simply because she is being
paid
by the Okhrana, doesn’t mean that’s where her allegiance lies.
 
She could be a double agent.”

“QUIET!” ordered Watson.
 
“I’m trying to tell you what I have learned, if you could only but stop speculating theoretically for an instant!”

“Really, my man, we’re all ears,” murmured Mycroft, his eyes running over Dr. Watson with disapproval.
 
Mycroft shrugged, holding out the empty cone of his cotton candy while one of his attendants rushed forward to take it from him.
 
In general the entourage stood just far enough away so as to be out of hearing range but to be immediately available should Mycroft need his lips patted with a handkerchief or his shoes tied.

“Why don’t you tell us, Watson, rather than keeping us waiting?
 
We’ve a case to solve,” Sherlock said.
 
“Clearly the vows were to her husband in marriage, to the revolutionaries, and to the Czar, the latter two being on opposite sides.”

Watson sighed heavily.
 
“Yes.
 
Precisely my conclusion.
 
Joëlle let it slip that she once made a vow to kill the Czar—that vow was unquestionably made to the revolutionaries.”

“Is this the vow she kept?” Mycroft posed.
 
“And, if so, did she assist with the murder of Alexander II?
 
And is she still plotting to kill Alexander III?”

“She claims that she had nothing to do with the assassination,” Watson said.
 
“But she became noticeably angry, as if I had come close to the mark.”

“I wonder,” Sherlock murmured.
 
“If Miss Janvier was on the Czar’s side, she was sadly ineffective in protecting him from the assassination.”