Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (22 page)

“Ah, with friends like that, who needs enemies?” Mycroft agreed.

“Why wasn’t the Czar told not to go out in the carriage that day?
 
If Miss Janvier knew of the attack . . .”
 
Sherlock grew pensive.

“Maybe he was,” Mycroft added.
 
“If Alexander II had not left the bullet-proof carriage either, he would not have been killed.
 
It was insanity to do so given the circumstances.
 
He didn’t show the best of judgment.
 
Perhaps he believed himself to be invincible.”

“Whether or not she is still part of the revolutionary movement, Miss Janvier indicated that she was never loyal to it,” Watson added.

“If she was telling the truth, that only leaves the Okhrana as the one vow she kept,” Sherlock said.
 
“A fairly big ‘if’.”
 

Watson paused, as if running her words through his mind.
 
“Yes, she was strangely emotionless in revealing her true allegiance.”

“Capital work, Watson!” Mycroft exclaimed, staring at Sherlock’s friend in surprise.
 
“You shall make a detective of him yet, Shirley.”

“I must admit that I was initially perplexed,” stated Watson, leaning back in his chair.
 
“The Okhrana is the opposing force to the revolutionaries.
 
It didn’t precisely make sense to me that one of her vows would then be to the revolutionaries.”

“Ah, but it does,” said Sherlock.
 
“If she were, in fact, working for the Czar, it would be quite natural that she should be spying on revolutionary groups pretending to be one of them.
 
I would expect her to do nothing else.”
 

“Yes, Miss Janvier would naturally have to take a vow of allegiance to the revolutionary cause while infiltrating the group,” agreed Mycroft.

“But the question remains,” posed Sherlock, leaning back in his chair and looking quite content, “where does her true allegiance lie—with the revolutionaries or the
Okhrana
?”

“Clearly she has no difficulty in lying,” Watson said.

“And, in fact, may take some pride in it,” Mycroft agreed.

“I think there is a way to resolve the question of where her allegiance lies,” stated Watson.
 
“Even though Miss Janvier has made excellent work of confusing the issue, for my part I would expect her loyalty to be wherever the most money lay.”

“Assuming she has any loyalties, Watson,” murmured Sherlock.
 
“In my mind Miss Janvier is a wild card.”
 

“True.
 
To be quite honest I would be very surprised if the elusive Miss Janvier held to any ideals at all,” chuckled Watson.

“What do you think motivates the beautiful Miss Janvier then, Dr. Watson?” asked Mycroft pointedly.

“Her own pleasure,” Watson replied off-handedly.
 
“And nothing more or less.”

“The Czar can offer far more money than the revolutionary groups, which are no doubt unpaid, being formed on high ideals.
 
A shortage of money is the primary reason the revolutionary groups exist to begin with.
 
And yet,” mused Sherlock.
 
“It all begs the question.”

“Who killed Beckham?” asked Mycroft.
 
“And why?”

“And to which cause would we wish any of British military secrets leaked?” Sherlock posed.
 
“The Russian Czar or the Russian revolutionaries?”

“Neither,” stated Mycroft.

Sherlock turned to Watson.
 
“
So have a care
.”
 

Mycroft added, “We know that anti-Czarist activity is widespread here at the Circus.
 
But was Beckham killed because he had the names of all those involved—or because he had learned something about the murderer personally?”

“Indeed.”
 
Sherlock nodded.
 
“Beyond a doubt there are dark days ahead.”
 

As Sherlock’s mood was blackening, a slight young man of medium height approached.
 
Looking nervously about himself, he wore a loose smock, a wide-brimmed straw hat as might be seen worn by a laborer in the fields, and a moustache which appeared too thick for his young age.
 
One of Mycroft’s guards stepped in between the party and the young man with a decidedly threatening stance.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the intruder, a slight smile on his lips, adding in quiet undertones, “Here comes our other operative.”

Mycroft motioned to his guard to allow the visitor in overalls to join them, all seated in the shadows behind the Cirque d’Hiver stage, inasmuch as anything in the Cirque d’Hiver was in shadow.

“Ah, Miss Hudson,” Sherlock murmured in a low tone as she sat down.

“And how did you know it was me, Mr. Holmes?
 
I thought my disguise was reasonably good.”

“You cannot simply put on different clothes and add a moustache, Miss Hudson.
 
You must also speak the part—and move as your subject would move,” Sherlock admonished, shaking his head.
 

Sherlock was certainly one to criticize one’s presentation!
 
He looked half-mad, his eyes jutting everywhere.
 
His hair was tousled, and he was unshaven.
 
And yet, somehow he managed to look . . .well . . .
masculine
instead of disheveled.
 
His dark, navy pants were neatly pressed at least.
 
No doubt the hotel where he was staying took care of that.

The hotel with hot water.

And a private room in which to bathe.
 
How she missed her room, her wash basin, and her bar of Pears’ soap at Baker Street!

She closed her eyes momentarily.
 
Who would have thought one might have such sweet dreams about a bar of soap?

“And how should I have moved?” she asked as complacently as she could muster, biting her lip.

“Most certainly not with that sway of the hips which you employ.”
 

Moving her eyes to the other two men in the party, now visible even in the shadows and through the blind of a straw hat, her jaw dropped.
 

Sherlock’s older brother is positively exquisite.

“My brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, as if knowing where her eyes alighted.

“There is no need to tell me that,” she murmured, quickly tipping her hat up that she might get a better view.

“They are very much alike, are they not?” John Watson asked.

She nodded, experiencing a rare moment when she was unable to find words.
 
After a long pause she whispered, “And yet, so different.”

The resemblance was uncanny, Sherlock and Mycroft were clearly related, but where the Great Detective was inattentive to his appearance and managed to blend in when he wished to, this striking brother of his was of a larger build and taller.
 
Mycroft Holmes could not blend in if it were the greatest desire of his heart.

The elder brother was impeccably dressed in a modish style with a crisp white shirt, a silk grey paisley vest the color of his steel-grey eyes, black top hat, and black tails, as if he were going to a society dress party rather than the circus!
 
The tips of his shirt collar were very high and starched and he wore a fancy bowtie in a grey satin, further accentuating his melancholy—but dreamy!—grey eyes.
 

She glanced at the current object of her infatuation.
 
Whereas Dr. John Watson was well-dressed, Mycroft Holmes was splendid.
 
She wasn’t man crazy, truly she wasn’t, Mirabella assured herself, but neither was she blind.

Her eyes moving to Sherlock, Mirabella reflected that Mycroft was at least three inches taller than his younger brother.
 
Sherlock was only somewhat taller than average height, allowing the Great Detective to successfully utilize his various disguises, at times requiring a slight bending of his torso.
 
An overly tall man would be too easily identifiable, as well as one in possession of any remarkably distinctive features.
 
In point of fact, Sherlock had chiseled, aristocratic features.
 
It was a credit to his abilities in disguise that had learned how to make himself less identifiable.

“An honor to be sure, Monsieur Hudson.” Mycroft bowed his head momentarily, a teasing smile on his lips, as if conveying a compliment to her costume.
 

If her jaw was not already dropped, she dropped it then.
 
Mycroft’s words were a decided affront to Sherlock for having criticized her!
 
But the elder Holmes brother made his remarks with a lightness of manner which could be offensive to no one.

The brothers are as different as night and day
.
 
She revised her earlier opinion of the similarity between them.

Trill!
 
While she sat down at their secluded table, she could hear the flute-like sound of a snake charmer luring the cobra out of its basket-home.
 
She loved Bahadur, the white-bearded yogi, from the moment of meeting him.
 
She could just catch a glimpse of his orange turban, yellow cotton tunic, and brown beige linen pants from behind the stage curtain.

“A lemonade for our guest.”
 
Mycroft motioned to an attendant standing some distance from them, obviously thinking of her comfort.
 

She inhaled deeply, feeling as if she might swoon from the kindness.
 
In an instant, she imagined that she saw a glow of light, not unlike a halo, around Mycroft Holmes’ head.

“And what have you learned in the
Cirque d’Hiver
, Hudson?” Mycroft asked.

Even in Mycroft’s addressing her as if she were a boy, the elder Holmes was definitely more playful than his brother.
 
Sherlock was not without wit, but he used it to sting more often than not.
 
And with those few words it was apparent that Mycroft Holmes was treating her with respect.

“I found a key to the tigers’ cages among Veronika’s things,” she said without further ado.
 
“And there was a red stain on her scarlet outfit—pale but there nonetheless.”

“It certainly makes Miss Veronika appear to be our murderer, doesn’t it?” asked Mycroft.
 
“She is a member of the anti-czarist group, we know:
 
she had motive, means, and opportunity.”

“Unless the real murderer was attempting to frame her,” Sherlock considered.
 
“The murderer would have destroyed the outfit, leading me to think that the key was planted.”

“Veronika said as much,” Mirabella replied.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disapproval.
 
“Miss Vishnevsky knows that you know about the key?
 
That was exceedingly careless of you, Miss Belle, and could put you in grave danger.”

“I know.
 
But I can’t help but feel that Veronika is not the murderer.
 
She’s too sweet.
 
Unlike Miss Janvier.”

“Ah, but sometimes the cruel ones work harder to appear sweet,” Mycroft said.
 
“Those who are themselves sometimes have less to hide.”

Mirabella recounted the scene and her conversation with Veronika, to which Sherlock said, “Interesting.”
 
He was often a man of few words while he was deep in thought, which was fine with her.
 
He added, his mood now darkened, “And have you learned anything else, Miss Belle?”
 

“In truth, I am too busy trying to stay alive to learn much!” exclaimed Mirabella.
 
She hated to waste everyone’s time with a plea for her continued existence, but if it was not an important topic to them, it certainly was to her.
 
“Might I have manned the taffy machine rather than be in the tiger’s den?
 
Wouldn’t that work as well?”

“Not much contact with Mr. Stanislav Afanasy with that endeavor,” said Sherlock.

Mirabella considered the wisdom of her employer’s words, becoming thoughtful.
 
“Stanislav does seem to disappear at regular intervals.
 
Always on Sunday night.
 
Or so Ricardo—he cleans the animals stalls—informed me.”

“A regular outing,” Mycroft murmured.
 
“Does Stanislav come back rowdy and smelling of drink?”
 

“Stanislav sleeps in the men’s tent, of course, and I in the women’s, but I do keep an eye out through the slit in the tent.”
 
Someone has to do the detective work here, and clearly no one else intends to.
 
“He’s not stumbling or anything when he comes back.
 
I have asked Ricardo and he says Stanislav has been drinking but not to excess.
 
Ricardo says that Stanislav always comes back disturbed—and quiet.”

“I hope that you were discreet in your questions, Miss Belle,” Sherlock interjected.

“Naturally,” she replied.
 
“Ricardo likes nothing more than to share his observations.
 
I barely have to say a word.”

“Not believable,” Sherlock considered.

“I don’t doubt it,” murmured Dr. Watson.
 
“All it takes is a pretty girl in the young man’s vicinity and he starts talking.”

“What pretty girl?” Mirabella asked before understanding dawned, shaking her head in surprise.
 
“
Oh, no!
 
He’s simply being friendly.
 
Nothing of the sort.”
 

“It was the part about Miss Belle not saying a word which I don’t find believable,” Sherlock stated, his expression reflective.
 
He added languidly, “I do not dispute her beauty.”