Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (24 page)

“
Tsk. Tsk.
 
I can assure you, my dear Mycroft, that were we to outfit Miss Hudson in the Queen’s Palace she would complain about the accommodations.”

“I rarely complain,” she muttered.
 
She glanced at Sherlock who was smiling sardonically as if it were all a joke.
 

“You never heard anyone protest so much as when we enrolled her in
Miss de Beauvais Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies,
” Sherlock continued, unabated, pulling on his brocade vest in a decided but genteel manner.
 
“We outfitted her in jewelry and gorgeous gowns.
 
All she had to do was sit about and drink tea, embroider and chat all day and you would have thought we had placed her in a medieval torture chamber.”

“All I had to do?” she objected indignantly.
 
“I was also required to learn fencing,
Jiu-Jitsu
, and boxing in addition to hand-to-hand combat.
 
To which I never objected.”

“Never objected?
 
You, Miss Belle?”
 
Sherlock laughed heartily, a sight which seemed to both surprise and amuse Mycroft exceedingly.

“Miss Hudson,” interjected Mycroft.
 
“You work for my brother.
 
I should think the tiger’s den is not that great of a change for you.”

Mirabella saw that her cause was lost.
 
She studied Mycroft.
 
“If I may ask, that you are so apparently social, while your brother—“

“—Could give a rat’s ass?” finished Watson, laughing.
 

“We are much more alike than you might think,” remarked Sherlock.
 
“Rest assured that Mycroft, like myself, could care less what anyone thinks of him.
 
However, unlike me, he enjoys people immensely.
 
But we don’t have time to go into that here.”

“Very true,” agreed Mycroft.
 
“I only have two hours to dress for dinner.”

Mirabella stared at the elder Holmes brother in disbelief.
 
What more did the citadel of fashion need to do?

Dr. Watson tipped his hat to the debonair gentleman seated beside him.
 
“Now the truth comes out, Mycroft.
 
The fact is that you like to socialize as much as the Lutheran Ladies’ Knitting Club of Paddington Place likes to gossip.”

“Socializing and gossip are synonymous.”
 
Mycroft demurred.
 
“And, if I were not a gossip, I would never have made a name for myself in government.
 
Gossip is the essence of politics.”

“What do you mean?” Mirabella asked, perplexed.
 
“You have a respected position in government, Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock patted his lips with his handkerchief, smiling smugly.
 
“The very nature of Mycroft’s work is that the information of every government department descends upon him wherewith he assimilates, discards the useless, reorganizes the relevant, and spits out the conclusions which were invisible to everyone else.”

“So
information
is Mycroft’s trade?” asked Watson, his lips curving in amusement.

“Precisely,” nodded Sherlock, taking his pipe out of his pocket.
 
“
Gossip
.”

“I had understood that serving the people is the essence of politics,” suggested Watson.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Sherlock with unusual merriment.

“Oh! Ho! ho!” joined in Mycroft, lightly punching his brother in the arm in an uncharacteristic moment of camaraderie.
 
“Where did you find him, Shirley?”

“Most amusing,” added Sherlock, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face.
 
The Great Detective was in a rare state of joviality.
 
“Though I shan’t say that Mycroft has a servant’s heart, he does know right from wrong, unlike many of his contemporaries, and he cannot be swayed from his principles.
 
He could care less, frankly, about the opinions of others.”

“Like some others I know,” Watson murmured.

 
“So now that we have established Mycroft’s purpose, let us turn to Miss Hudson,” Sherlock said.
 
“Your job is to attempt to find out what Miss Janvier is holding over Miss Van Horn.
 
Also, probe Miss Van Horn—and Stanislav—about Beckham:
 
try to discern how the tiger could have killed him.”

“Ashanti said there must have been interference,” Mirabella offered.

“Yes, that we already know.
 
But were the cages locked?
 
How did the tiger get out?
 
Why did the tiger attack?
 
Discern if they were genuinely surprised by the attack:
 
this is the important thing.
 
We can piece together what happened, but I want to know their reactions, which will confirm or refute my conclusions.
 
Ask Stanislav if there could possibly be a third key to the tiger cages in existence.
 
We, of course, know there is, but find out if Stanislav believes there to be another key.
 
I want to know if he was involved in the murder.”

“Yes, sir,” Mirabella replied.

“And I wish to search Miss Janvier’s room.
 
With your assistance of course, Miss Belle.”

Her heart fell in her chest.
 
Her last search had not gone that well.

“As for you, Watson,” Sherlock continued, “Press Miss Janvier to cease seeing Prince George.
 
While you’re exhibiting your jealous rage, perhaps approach the topic of her relationship to Beckham:
 
try to find out the extent.
 
But be careful.
 
She is dangerous.
 
Many of her former lovers have died or been incarcerated.”

“I’m always careful, Holmes,” Watson replied.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said unconvincingly.
 
He studied his friend before him.
 
“But you may underestimate your foe, Watson. ”

“And what will you be doing, Holmes?” Watson asked.

“I’ll be undercover at the Sunday night meetings—disguised of course—to learn what I can about Miss Janvier, Stanislav, Veronika, and the plans of the group.”
 
Sherlock tapped his finger on the table.
 
“And you, Mycroft?”

“I’ll be paying a visit to the local key makers to attempt to determine who commissioned the additional key.
 
We must turn mere speculation into fact,” Mycroft said.
 
“And where shall we meet next to report our findings?”

“Let us meet at the
Au Rocher de Cancale
and give our young friend a proper meal,” suggested Dr. Watson.

Mirabella recollected
Au Rocher de Cancale
in her mind’s eye. “Oh, I saw that place!
 
A sidewalk café – so cute!”
 
She felt excited at the prospect, positioning her moustache.

“Do take more care with your moustache at that time,” Sherlock admonished her.
 
“It is drooping.
 
And too old for a boy your age.”

“Most certainly.
 
Whatever you say.”
 
Mirabella was terrified they would change their mind about feeding her and was thus determined to be agreeable.
 
“When shall we meet?
 
May we sit outside in the sidewalk café?
 
How romantic
.”

“No we may not,” replied Sherlock.
 
“It would have to be in the back in one of the dark corners.
 
You must be disguised.
 
Every precaution must be taken.”

“As long as I might order a hot beverage to warm my hands.
 
I begin to think I will never be warm again.”

“You may have tea and food,” proclaimed Sherlock.
 
“Whatever you wish.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not at all.
 
We’ll put it on Watson’s tab.”

Mirabella was possessed by a strange curiosity; respectable ladies didn’t wear make-up.
 

Joëlle Janvier was not a respectable girl.
 
Still, Mirabella’s instincts told her that this warranted further investigation.
 
Mirabella removed the lid of the rouge pot on Joëlle’s dresser, smelling the contents.

“It doesn’t smell right, Mr. Holmes.
 
It has a decided . . .
animal smell
. . . for want of a better word.”

Sherlock looked up from his search, moving swiftly to her side to smell the rouge pot.
 
Sherlock and Mycroft had brought her along to search Miss Janvier’s room while John Watson took the circus performer to yet another elaborate dinner after the evening’s performance.
 

“Fascinating.
 
I believe ‘animal smell’ is precisely the right word, Miss Belle.
 
An alarm substance as described by Jean-Henri Fabre.”

“I recall that paper,” Mirabella said, searching her memory for the various scientific papers of Sherlock’s that she was in charge of filing.
 
Technically she wasn’t supposed to stop working to read them, but she had learned to scan the introductory and closing paragraphs for the summary.
 
“What is the term for the substance?”
 

“Chemical messenger,” Sherlock replied.
 
“The scent has meaning only to the animal of a particular species.
 
It could communicate danger, the desire to mate, or other survival needs.”

“It affects the neurocircuits,” Mycroft added, seated in the lime-green winged back couch and fanning himself profusely.
 
“Something which might incite a beast but leave a human unaffected.”

“I wouldn’t think such a substance would be needed,” Mirabella said.
 
“The tigers are kept hungry.
 
They don’t need much incentive to attack.”
 

“Added incentive.
 
Perhaps the straw that broke the tiger’s back . . .” Sherlock considered.
 
“Take a small sample and put it in the bag, Miss Hudson.”
 

“What if Miss Janvier notices?” Mirabella asked.

“It is important that she doesn’t.
 
We don’t wish her to alter her behavior.”
 
He emphasized, “Or to put Watson in danger, who doesn’t appear to be proceeding with care.”
 

“And yet, Miss Hudson has a point,” Mycroft said.
 
“We may be able to prove that Miss Janvier attempted to use chemical messengers to provoke a tiger attack—but it doesn’t necessarily mean that she succeeded or is the killer.
 
She had an alibi, in fact.”

“It is difficult to establish the exact time of the murder,” Sherlock said distractedly, continuing his search.

He went through her clothing, pulling out a heavy beige overcoat.
 
“What would a woman who delights in showing off her figure want with a large, loose garment such as this?”

“To disguise herself?” Mirabella asked.

“And these boots,” he continued.
 
“Much too serviceable.”

“Precisely.
 
And there are an inordinate amount of books in this room.”
 
Sherlock began opening Miss Janvier’s books, apparently in search of missives which might have been placed inside the books.
 
“I don’t expect Miss Janvier is an extensive reader.”

It was shocking to be in the same room with so much brain power, Mirabella reflected.
 
“Mr. Stanislav brought up the tiger attack, and he seemed quite smug about it,” Mirabella said.

“Oh?” Mycroft asked, interested.

“He is very jealous of Miss Janvier, and it could be a motive,” she said.
 
“What if Beckham’s murder has nothing to do with the spy ring and it was simply a jealous boyfriend?”

“If we can match the scent from the rouge pot to Beckham, indications are that Miss Janvier was the murderer,” Sherlock murmured.
 
“It is fairly clear that the idea was in her head.
 
Animal hormones are not the type of things one generally finds in ladies’ toiletries.”

“But what about the duplicate key in Veronika’s things?” asked Mirabella.

“The key would be a simple item to plant on someone else,” Sherlock said.
 
“Not so the chemical messenger.
 
Only the murderer would have such a thing.
 
And why would anyone plant it here?
 
It is very unlikely to have ever been found—or understood.”

“Quite so.
 
If not for Miss Belle’s instincts, we never would have found it,” agreed Mycroft.

“And the blood-stained clothing which was not burned is further support of the idea that someone is attempting to frame Miss Vishnevsky.
 
Who better than the actual murderer?” Sherlock said.

“If Miss Janvier is the murderer,” Mirabella considered.
 
“That would mean that John . . .
Dr. Watson
. . . is in danger.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the book.
 
“But he has his revolver.”

“I’m sure Beckham did too,” Mirabella replied flatly.
 
“How could a trained spy be separated from his weapon?”

Sherlock looked up.
 
“I asked myself that same question when you were in the parlor purportedly protecting the princess of Montenegro on your first case and became separated from your pistol.”

“I take your point, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured.
 
“That was probably the only five minutes of the day when my gun was not with me.”