Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (28 page)

Man, get a hold of yourself!
 
You won’t be pursuing Miss Belle—that you have already decided—so it is nothing to say to you
.

“Oh, for heavens’ sake, Sherlock, it was only a kiss.”
 
Disappointment crossed her face, which was even worse.

“Only a kiss.
 
Only a
kiss
?
 
And what next?
 
Is that how you regard being in a man’s arms?
 
As a playful interlude?”
 

“I suppose so,” she retorted.
 
“Yes, it was rather like that.”

“Miss Hudson!” he exclaimed.
 
“I am sorely ashamed!”

“No doubt you are, Mr. Holmes.”
 
She raised her eyebrow at him.
 
“But I don’t see how it is any of your affair.”

Sherlock stared at her, aghast.
 
The beautiful woman before him, no longer a girl.
 
He recalled when he had held her in his arms at Miss de Beauvais’ Christmas ball, what an enchanted evening that had been.

That was a lie—as all emotion was.

Emotion and women were not to be trusted.
 
Get a hold of yourself, man!
 
You are eight and twenty years!
 
These are the rules you have lived by all your life—with great success!
 

This is no time to jump ship.

“Actually it wasn’t even a kiss.”
 
Sherlock didn’t need to know that there had been a kiss before the second one
 
which he had—thankfully—broken up.
 
She had wanted to know what it would be like to kiss a handsome, wonderful, grown man—outside of a peck or two at home with a country boy when she was young, it was her first real kiss—and she didn’t regret it, marvelous as it was.

She was unaccustomed to the attentions of men—much less worldly, debonair,
handsome
men—was it any wonder she had fallen for John Watson?
 

Not this girl.
 
Not any more
.
 

She was older and wiser now, and that was a thing of the past.
 
She had no use for a man who was only playing the field.
 
She would prefer to be alone than to pine over that type!
 
Besides, she and John Watson would remain friends and colleagues, she had no doubt.
 

Which was where she should have left it to begin with.
 
She loved John as a friend, but she could not envision a more serious commitment—on either side.

She could thank Joëlle Janvier for that lesson and for opening her eyes.
 
Wasn’t it the oddest thing how so often a person one wholly disliked brought important lessons into one’s life?

“Thank the heavens I was there to put a stop to this nonsense!”
 
Sherlock pulled at his blue satin vest.

Yes, thank the heavens
Sherlock hadn’t seen the kiss.
 
He was so often a mind-reader, she began to wonder if not actually seeing the act made the slightest difference in the world.

“I had thought Watson was the one to watch, but perhaps it is you, Miss Belle!”

“Sherlock Holmes!”
 
Her mouth flew open in shock, her face now flushed.
 
“How dare you!”

“How dare I
what
?”

“Oh, that is outside of enough!”
 
She was furious.
 
“I have the right to determine for myself whom I wish to kiss, and you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, have nothing to say to it!”
 
He almost made her want to pursue John Watson again.

Almost.

“Miss Hudson, there is no employer in the world who would not dismiss you for kissing a man while on his clock, and well you know it.”

“I am always on your clock, Mr. Holmes,” she fumed.

“Good.
 
I am glad that we finally come to an understanding.”

“But John . . . Dr. Watson . . . he is kissing Miss Janvier—at your request, no less!”
 
She felt a fury to match the look in his eyes.
 
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but how can you be such a hypocrite?”

“Romancing Miss Janvier is Watson’s assigned task—which, I might add, he has performed with admirable eagerness.
 
Perhaps you should remind yourself of that before allowing Watson to take liberties with you, Miss Belle,” he retorted, his voice cracking as he spoke the words.

“Remind myself of what?” she demanded.

“That his services are for sale.”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I greatly resent your taking that tone with me—not to mention talking that way about your friend!”

“John Watson is the best of friends—perhaps my only friend.
 
And you, my dear, are my only employee.
 
Remember that.
 
Your affections you may give freely to whosoever you so wish, but do not jeopardize my work.
 
That I can never forgive
.”

“So you have said.
 
I am well aware that nothing else matters to you but your work, Mr. Holmes.”
 
She pursed her lips.
 
“You are the most unfeeling man on the planet—almost a machine.
 
And yet, I have the strange sense that you would not wish me to like any man.”
 
He moved closer to her and she felt her skin tingle as she felt his breath on her neck.

He loosened his necktie.
 
“Naturally, it would interfere with my work.
 
And, again, there is not an employer in the world who feels differently.
 
Girls who become
involved
, shall we say, are dismissed.
 
There are no married maids, only the upper servants would be allowed to marry.”

“In the first place, I am not a maid, by your own admission,” she retorted.
 
He had called her the world’s first lady detective!
 
“And second, I don’t think that it is quite fair to expect me to have no warmth or feeling for anyone—as you do not.”

“Would that it were so.”
 

“You don’t wish to have any feelings, Mr. Holmes?”
 
She studied him.
“I do not.”
 
He tipped his hat to her.
 
“And nor should you.
 
Good day, Miss Hudson.”

She placed her hands are her hips.
 
“Good day,
Mr. Holmes
.”

“There is no need to proceed to Miss Janvier’s dressing room, Watson,” Sherlock intervened, taking his friend’s arm, which required no small amount of force given Watson’s forward movement.
 
“The case is solved.”
 

Dr. John Watson’s broad smile diminished instantly at the news of their success.
 
He carried a bottle of champagne and a large bouquet of red roses, a complimentary contrast to his olive green tweed three-piece suit.
 
A brown top-hat and pearl cuff-links completed the doctor’s ensemble, giving him the appearance of one who was both eager and dapper.

“Your services are no longer required, Watson,” Sherlock repeated.

“What?
 
Excuse me?”
 
The good doctor’s fallen countenance was pronounced.

“You have fulfilled your duty.”
 

“Do you have all the answers you seek?” Watson asked, brushing blonde hair out of his eyes with his free hand.
 
“Surely there is something else I can discover?”

“No doubt, but it would be of no interest to national security.”
 
Sherlock stared at his friend pointedly.
 
“We have concluded that Miss Janvier murdered Beckham—the results from the lab conclude the match between Miss Janvier’s red rouge and a scent on Beckham’s body.
 
The fact that the scent was in her room rules out Stanislav Afanasy and condemns her.”

As well as the attack on Miss Belle by a person too slight to be Stanislav and the scent on Miss Belle’s cape
.
 
Sherlock had thought it better to keep the attack from Watson as any alteration in the good doctor’s behavior towards the femme fatale could have put Watson in immanent danger.
 
Sherlock still held to this opinion until the resourceful Russian spy was behind bars.
 
John Watson was loyal above all things, and he would be furious were he to be apprised of Miss Belle’s endangerment.

Sherlock smiled to himself.
 
As was he.
 
But he intended to enact his revenge with a cooler head.

“It’s difficult to believe Miss Janvier murdered Beckham,” Watson considered.
 

“There are indications that she has designs on the Czar even though she is officially working for Okhrana,” Sherlock said.
 
“We’re going to take her in for questioning.
 
The British government wants her for Beckham.
 
The Czar’s government is interested in her as a possible double agent.
 
We believe she attempted to get information from Prince George to pass onto the Czar in order to gain favor and access.
 
But none of this can be made known to Miss Janvier—yet.”

“So I can still be of use, Holmes?” asked Watson hopefully.
 

“No.
 
You’re lucky to be alive, Watson.
 
I want to pull you out while you still are.”
 
Sherlock tapped his can on the ground.
 
“At my insistence, Prince George has been advised in the strongest terms to sever the relationship.”

“He must be quite disappointed,” sighed Watson.

“He is bearing up as best he can,” replied Sherlock.

Watson sighed.
 
“Are you certain there is nothing more I can do?
 
If there are unanswered questions, I’m sure I can oblige . . .”

“We all appreciate the great sacrifice which you have made, old chap.”
 
Sherlock bowed his head with reverence.

“It was a regrettable piece of business.”

“Indeed.
 
Your feelings on the matter were obvious to even the dullest of observers, Watson.”

Suddenly Watson’s countenance rose.
 
“At least I should tell Miss Janvier I won’t be able to meet her this evening.
 
We had a dinner planned.
 
It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Decidedly.”
 
Sherlock sighed heavily, taking a step back.
 
He removed himself from the pathway, doubting that he would be able to physically retain Watson without knocking him out.
 
Thankfully Mycroft had placed a French policeman outside Miss Janvier’s door—for her safety or for the safety of her suitors was a question debatable.

Sherlock considered forcibly detaining his friend, but the good doctor was already half-way down the hall, clearly determined to pay his regards.
 

“Prince George has already headed in the same direction to say his farewells.
 
I don’t advise you to meet him, old chap,” Sherlock called out, certain to reach Watson’s ears.
 
Receiving no reply, Sherlock wondered that the army man who walked with a limp was already out of earshot.

Some minutes later Watson returned looking downcast.
 

“How did she take the news?” Sherlock asked, now seated and enjoying his pipe as he watched the knife throwers, always ready to learn a new technique.

“Rather well, I should say.
 
If I didn’t know better, I would say Miss Janvier has a new love interest.”

“And why shouldn’t she?” Sherlock laughed, turning towards his friend as he took a puff on his pipe.
 
“Surely you didn’t expect to be the last of her lovers, Watson?”

“Why no, it’s just that Prince George had only just left and she seemed rather happier to see him.”

“She’s dead!
 
She’s dead!” Miss Janvier’s maid came running into the main coliseum.

“Who is dead?” demanded Watson, spinning around.

“Joëlle!” the maid replied, tears running down her cheeks.

The French policeman in charge of watching Miss Janvier’s room arrived on the maid’s footsteps, turning toward Dr. Watson.
 
“
Arrêtez s'il vous plaît
!
 
That makes you the murderer!
 
There were only two people to enter that room since I last saw Mademoiselle Janvier alive:
 
you and Prince George.
 
Prince George swears the mademoiselle she was alive when he left.”

“She was fully alive when I left as well, Lieutenant,” Watson replied indignantly.
 
“But before I would let the British Commander-in-Chief hang for the offense, I would hang myself.”

“
Bon.
 
I don’t believe that will be a problem, Monsieur le Doctor.”
 

***

“
Entendre!
écouter!
 
Either it was Dr. John Watson or it was the English Prince,” Lieutenant Dubuque argued.
 
“No one else went in or left.
 
I stood by the door the entire time.”
 

“I saw Mr. Afanasy heading that direction as well,” Sherlock stated.

“Mr. Afanasy he came wanting the entrance, which was
denied
by moi!”
 
Dubuque pulled at his jacket.
 
“Then maid ran out screaming girl was dead.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear lieutenant,” Sherlock said, “but the maid had to have gone in after Dr. Watson, or who found the body?”