Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (25 page)

“Hmmm.
 
Pistol in the parlor purportedly protecting the princess.
 
Most poetic, Shirley.”

Sherlock frowned.
 
“Personal safety is not a laughing matter, Mycroft.”

“Certainly not, Shirley.
 
Nothing is.”
 
Mycroft suddenly appeared deep in thought.
 
“I can think of another way Beckham may have been separated from his weapon.”
 

“Seduction,” Sherlock stated simply, returning his eyes to his search.
 
“I believe that Miss Janvier is more dangerous than one might suppose.”

“She wasn’t seducing him in the tiger cages, I can assure you,” Mirabella said.
 
“Not romantic
at all
.”

Sherlock smiled to himself.
 
“I shall remember that, Miss Belle.”

“So now we have the means,” Mycroft stated.
 
“Beckham was killed by a tiger, which could have been accomplished with the alarm substance and a key to the cages.
 
Assuming Miss Janvier could have wrested Beckham’s gun from him.”

“But why?” asked Mirabella.

“Most likely Beckham knew too much,” Mycroft considered.
 
“Perhaps the names of all the spies in the ring—or perhaps even their plans.
 
The murderer got to him before he had time to convey the message via telegram.
 
Communication is rarely instant in this business.”

After a moment’s reflection Mirabella added, “Stanislav had a key too.
 
Just because Miss Janvier has a key doesn’t mean she is the one who used it.”

“Aha!
 
I’ve found something!” Sherlock exclaimed, flapping a piece of paper about.

“I wonder what it says,” Mycroft considered, fanning himself.

Sherlock handed the paper to his elder brother.
 
“I believe you know Russian, Mycroft.”

“Certainly.
 
One must do something in the evenings when one is not dining with friends.
 
And it is a language indispensable to the British government.”

Mirabella made a concerted effort not to drop her jaw.

“It is a personal letter to Miss Janvier,” Mycroft replied, his voice somber.
 
“From the Czar.
 
Inviting her to the palace in appreciation for her services.”

“Proof that she is on the side of the Czar,” stated Mirabella, feeling her disappointment.
 
She added in a whisper, “It has to be Stanislav, Ashanti, or Veronika who murdered Beckham—they are the only ones who had access to the tiger cages.”

“To the contrary,” muttered Sherlock, shaking his head.
 
“I’d say this letter is proof positive that Miss Janvier plans to murder the Czar herself.”

“To be honest, I am most impressed with her,” John Watson murmured, staring into the fire of the suite he shared with Holmes at Le Grand Hôtel de la Paix.
 
It was early Spring and the evenings were still a touch on the cool side.

“She is a very good bare-backed rider,” agreed Holmes, taking a puff on his pipe.

“Oh, no, I’m not speaking of Miss Janvier.”
 
Watson chuckled, taking a sip of his brandy.

I miss the familiar comfort of the Baker Street flat
, Watson reflected.
 
Despite the opulent surroundings and every convenience—even oil lamps and a private bath!—he was surprised to realize that he missed home.

And he was surprised to learn that the flat in Baker street had become home.
 
After a harrowing tour in Afghanistan where he almost lost his life in the Battle of Maiwand.
 
And he would have died had it not been for his orderly Murray who had thrown his commanding officer on a pack horse and led him through enemy lines.

Not surprisingly, John Watson had lost his fear of death.
 
And yet, he had begun to fear living.
 
Sherlock Holmes had given the army doctor not only a second chance at life—but this unlikely friend had given John Watson a new life.
 
John soon came to relish this life of adventure which helped him forget all he had seen in the war.
 

And here he was pining away for an outdated, foul-smelling flat in London!
 
In eleven months of living with Holmes he had become a sentimental old fool.

Damnation!
 
He was having the time of his life in circumstances he never would have thought possible.
 
Not that long ago he was recovering in an army hospital—merely lucky to be alive he was!

“You’re not impressed with Miss Janvier then?” Holmes asked, eyeing him with a scrutiny Watson had come to dread.

“Hmmm?
 
Miss Janvier is beautiful, certainly.
 
Devious, crafty, and intelligent.
 
But, no, I was speaking of Miss Mirabella.”

“Miss Belle?
 
Hmmm.”
 
Sherlock closed his book, appearing completely at home in his maroon satin robe as he took a puff on his pipe.

“Miss Mirabella has been the real star of this show—as she is of every endeavor she undertakes.” John Watson looked intently at his friend.
 
“As well you know, Holmes.”

“Do I?”

John looked about him as he set his pipe on the Louis IV stand.
 
The hotel rooms were elegant and subdued in taupe and mahogany with cream-colored carpets.
 
The wallpaper was an ornate white and taupe curli-cue pattern reminiscent of Versailles and the kings of France.
 
His room, just off this suite, contained a 4-poster bed, comfortable when he slept in it.

He could not help but chuckle as he thought of the not-so subdued décor of 221B Baker street:
 
the purple-maroon wallpaper, the bear skin hearth rug, the stacks of papers, the experiments in progress, and the deadly chemicals.
 
A smile came to his lips as he recalled the gramophone, the pictures of criminals on the walls, even the dreaded violin in the corner.
 

He wished he might have the opportunity to miss that cursed instrument as Holmes had brought it with him.
 
It was not that his eccentric friend was a bad musician—quite the opposite—but that the Great Detective chose the most inopportune times to exhibit his musical skill, transforming what might have been a receptive audience into the mongrel hordes bent upon murder.

Perhaps Holmes wishes to create his own murder cases through his musical renditions
.
 
Watson chuckled to himself.
 
There was support for his supposition:
 
Holmes, though no fool, had already alienated the hotel manager, forbidding his illustrious guest from playing the violin upon pain of being thrown out of the
Paris Le Grand.

“Watson, are you listening?”

“Certainly not.
 
I’m reminiscing.”
 

“Listen now, then.”

“If you say so, Holmes.”
 
John looked at his friend.

“And why is it you are impressed with Miss Belle?”
 
Holmes’ voice was strangely suspicious.

“She got in a ring with tigers.
 
Not a handful of women would do that.”

Holmes shrugged, taking a puff on his pipe.
 
“It is her job.
 
And yet, despite her continued practice, she still looks like a frightened puppy on the stage.”

John stood up to stoke the fire.
 
Sherlock’s arrogance was too much even for him at times, he who was quite accustomed to it and generally amused by it.
 
“As would you, Holmes, if you were trapped on the stage with eight tigers.”

“Very likely.
 
But you never suggested that you were impressed with me, Watson.
 
So I fail to see—“

John glanced at the beautiful white marble fireplace devoid of bones and jars of embalming fluid.
 
He even missed the wax replica of Holmes’ head with a hole in it, which had a cathartic effect when Sherlock was in one of his many annoying moods.
 

“I believe that the tiger aggression during Miss Mirabella’s first performance unnerved her and she is not yet recovered.” John added under his breath, “Much like a war trauma.”
 
He returned to his elegant satin winged back chair, not nearly as comfortable as the chairs in their London flat, and opened his newspaper.
 
“And that’s not the point.
 
Miss Mirabella had the nerve to go back on the stage despite her understandable terror.
 
And why did she do it?
 
Because you, Holmes, asked her to.
 
You might at least acknowledge that.”

“Miss Belle cares very little for my wishes, I assure you Watson.
 
It all has to do with her savings, her entrance into university, and her continued employment.”
 
Holmes frowned.
 
“But true . . . she does surprise one at times.”

“Oh?
 
The great and all-knowing Sherlock Holmes surprised?
 
In what way?”

“She is generally willing to step up to the plate,” Sherlock conceded.
 
“Striving, learning and always willing to stretch herself, as it were.”

“She’s made of strong stuff,” Watson agreed, scanning
The Times
.
 

“Or she can’t bear to leave the puzzle unsolved.”
 
Holmes shrugged.
 
“Risking all to solve the case.
 
Much like a compulsion and not necessarily to be admired.”

“Ah.
 
Like gambling, drinking or the illicit use of drugs, Holmes?”
 
John looked up from his paper.

“Yes, something like that, Watson.”
 
Sherlock continued after a long pause.
 
“Miss Belle has an incredible intellectual curiosity.
 
Very driven.
 
More like a man than a woman.”

“I don’t believe curiosity is the exclusive domain of men, Holmes.”
 
John shook his head in disagreement, his eyes returning to scan the news.
 
“And for a man Miss Mirabella has decidedly feminine curves.”

“I bow to your knowledge of the fair sex, Watson.
 
But I do not think you will find Miss Belle an easy one to decipher.”
 
He added in a low tone which sounded strangely threatening.
 
“And I do not recommend that you attempt it.”

“Perhaps I have no need to
decipher
her as you put it.”
 
It was true that Miss Mirabella was a smart girl,
too smart
, and too ambitious by half.
 
A
new woman
, to be sure.
 
But it was all part of a wonderful package.
 
He lowered his voice, muttering.
 
“I wouldn’t attempt it, in fact.”

“Indeed?
 
And what need would you have where Miss Belle is concerned?” Sherlock’s voice had an edge to it.

“She is, after all, eighteen years of age.”
 
John sighed, studying his companion.
 
As contented as he was, some of his old dreams were beginning to re-emerge.
 
“I am nine and twenty.
 
It is far from unheard of.
 
Is it so shocking that a man could find Miss Mirabella both beautiful—and amazing?”
 

“Are you saying your intentions are honorable Watson?”
 
Sherlock laughed robustly.
 
“And you cavorting with a circus bareback rider and presumed spy.
 
Let us not forget the Dancing Girls of Baghdad.”

“Let us not,” John mused, a smile forming on his lips.
 
“That would be a shame.”

“Clearly you haven’t, Watson.”
 
Sherlock set his pipe on the stand beside him, the amusement fading from his eyes.
 
“Do be reasonable.
 
You are not a man who can find satisfaction in one woman.
 
Consequently, respectable girls are not in your line.
 
And Miss Belle is, above all else, a respectable girl.”

“Precisely.
 
I had always assumed I would be married by now.
 
I wish to marry someday, and a finer girl than Miss Mirabella Hudson I will never find.”
 
And it did seem, if he was not mistaken—and he rarely was where the fair sex was involved—that she was interested.

“I have no doubt of that, Watson.
 
I am not arguing if she is worthy of you, but I am questioning if you are worthy of her.”
 
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his expression ominous.
 
“And advising you to leave her be.”

“To answer your question, Sherlock, where Miss Mirabella is concerned, yes, my intentions are honorable.” Watson snapped his newspaper.
 
“Do you know what I think, Holmes?”

“No, and it holds no interest whatsoever for me, Watson.
 
We are here to perform a function.
 
A very important engagement of international significance.”

“I think that you have feelings for Miss Mirabella, and in your determination to deny them, you are ignoring her, ignoring her safety, and throwing her in harm’s way.
 
As if to ignore her will resolve your feelings.
 
It will not
.”
 
He muttered under his breath, “Believe me on this.”

“Ridiculous, Watson!
 
I am merely concerned about Miss Belle—because she is my employee.
 
I have no feelings for her whatsoever!
 
I have no desire to have a woman in my life—now or ever.
 
And I’ve told you, it is perfectly safe.
 
She is merely on the stage for show—”