Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (32 page)

“Someone else . . .
murdered
?” she managed to whisper.
 
“Do you really think?”

“It is a possibility.
 
Let us then solve the case with haste, shall we?”

“And what is the other reason, Sherlock?”

He took a puff on his pipe and she thought she saw a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
 
“Let’s just say that Watson needs time to reflect upon the sincerity of his affections.”

Some moments later Sherlock was in the courtyard framed by three red brick walls.
 
“Yes, the grass has been flattened.
 
Someone was recently standing here.”
 
He bent to examine the grass.

“Of course someone was standing here!” Lieutenant Dubuque laughed.
 
“This is a circus with every manner of person providing the entertainment most populaire à Paris!”

Ashanti was brought to the French police officers wearing loose clothing but still walking with some stiffness Sherlock observed.
 
“Did you see anything . . .
 
Miss Van Horn?” he asked.
 
“You were here, there is a piece of white bandage.”

“I was here.
 
But was at least thirty minute before the murder.”

“And where you were between the time you left and the time you entré the chamber of Mademoiselle Janvier with Mademoiselle Mirabella?”
 
Lieutenant Dubuque demanded.

“I went to the tiger’s cages.”

“Was anyone with you, Miss Van Horn?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Not until Miss Mirabella came running to find me after the murder, to go to her room.
 
We did not know was murder at time.”

“Why were you standing outside Miss Janvier’s window?” Sherlock asked in his most consoling tone.

“Practicing.
 
The wall is good for the practice.”

“Practicing what?” Dubuque pressed.
 

“Striking my whip.”

“You are well enough to utilize the whip, Miss Van Horn?” asked Sherlock, his eyes scanning her patches of swollen skin and awkward stance.
 
“I would not have supposed it.
 
You have only just had your bandages removed.”

“I am tired—and stiff,” Ashanti agreed.
 
“But doctors they say I have healed good and will perform again.”

“
Bon.
 
And did you Mademoiselle Janvier observe when you were in the courtyard practicing, Miss Van Horn?” asked L’Inspecteur Bertillon politely.

“How could one not observe her?
 
Joëlle, she made certain all see her,” replied Ashanti.
 
“She opened window and told me to go away.”

“
Alors!
 
Mademoiselle Janvier, did she give a reason for this
request
?” Bertillon asked.

“She said the noise it bothered her.”
 
Ashanti smiled.
 
“And it was not
request
.”

“Assist me if you please!
 
And Mademoiselle Janvier, did she generally have the window closed or open?” asked Inspector Dubuque, making notes in his notepad.
 

“Open.
 
She liked the air fresh.”

“Ah, but not the noise,” Sherlock considered.
 
“And you, Mademoiselle Van Horn, were you practicing outside her window simply to annoy her?
 
You weren’t truly exerting yourself very much, were you?”

Ashanti shrugged noncommittally.

“
Comment?
 
Mademoiselle Janvier, you did not like her?”
 
Bertillon persisted.

Ashanti shook her head.

“Pourquoi?”
 
Why?

“She was not kind, that one.”

“In what way?” L’Inspecteur Bertillon asked while Dubuque wrote furiously.

“How many ways are there not to be kind?”
 
Ashanti stared at the inspector.
 
“Joëlle, she was all of them.”

“The People they have seen Mademoiselle Janvier speaking with you on beaucoup occasions,” Dubuque pressed.
 
“What was she saying to you?”
 
It was clear that Dubuque was accustomed to interrogation and Bertillon to analysis, and, unlike everyone else present, L’Inspecteur Bertillon did not appear to object to Dubuque’s authoritative manner.

Ashanti glanced at Sherlock who nodded his approval.

“Joëlle told me that if I did not do as she told me, she would make sure I never worked with the tigers again.”

“What did she want from you, Mademoiselle?” asked Bertillon, breaking his silence.

Ashanti was silent.
 

“Ashanti, if you don’t tell them,” Mirabella interjected, her eyes pleading as she wrung her hands, “Dr. Watson will be hanged.
 
And he didn’t commit the murder; I know he didn’t.
 
We must tell the truth.”

Sherlock glanced momentarily at Dubuque before murmuring to Ashanti, “
Even the French Police
will piece it together eventually, Miss Van Horn.
 
Best to tell them.”

Ashanti stared at them a long while before answering.
 
“She wanted diamonds.”

“Les diamonds in the pouch velvet they were yours?” Dubuque exclaimed.

Ashanti nodded.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in exasperation.
 
“Obviously Miss Janvier was blackmailing Miss Van Horn.”

“Where did you get the jewels, Mademoiselle Van Horn?” Dubuque demanded.

“It is elementary, lieutenant,” muttered Sherlock.
 
“It isn’t necessary to distress the girl to this degree.
 
The answer is obvious.”

“
Bon Dieu
!
 
It is not evident!” sputtered Dubuque.

“My good man.
 
The diamonds,”
 
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “were Miss Van Horn’s dowry.”

“I told you, damnit!
 
She was alive when I left the room!
 
The puppy following Miss Janvier
around
told you that as well!”
 
The Duke of Cambridge twirled his long white moustache which met his white sideburns covering all but his chin, which was bare.
 
He wore his military dress, red jacket, blue sash, black slacks, and knee-high black Hessian boots.
   

The Royal George
, as he was called, looked every inch the monarch.
 
He towered over men.
 
The 2
nd
Duke of Cambridge, the Earl of Tipperary, Baron Culloden, and the grandson of King George III, was, in fact, the successor to the throne until Victoria was born, and he remained on close terms with his cousin the Queen.

And yet, George William Frederick Charles, born into royalty, was a working man.
 
He entered the military as a colonel in the Hanoverian Army.
 
He served in the 12
th
Royal Lancers, followed by the 8
th
Light Dragoons and the 17
th
Lancers.
 
He was promoted to Major-General in eighteen hundred and forty-five, and to general commander-in-chief of the British Army in eighteen hundred and fifty-six.

“Doctor Watson, do you mean?” Lieutenant Dubuque asked irreverently as he looked up into the eyes of the Duke who was well over six feet.
 
In addition to his own intimidating stature, the Royal George’s enormous body guard stood behind his master exhibiting rippling muscles, impressive to even a skilled boxer such as the Great Detective.
 

But the French lieutenant was neither intimidated nor impressed, not withstanding Prince George’s rank.

“I don’t mean nothing.
 
I’m telling you what was, you frog, and if I had my way we’d annex your flowery soil into Germany!” he said, showing his Hanover roots.
 
“I’ve got to get back to London, you ninny hammer!”

“
Arrêtez s'il vous plaît!
 
We have had a murder here.
 
Bon
.
 
The French police does not care how important you are in your country, your grand dukeship, that is of little moment to us!
 
We have a dead girl on our hands.
 
And you a married man.
 
Tsk! Tsk!”

“Don’t you tsk! Tsk! me” Prince George huffed.
 
“Talking about me when that Romeo doctor—”

“I beg your pardon, your highness.”
 
Sherlock interrupted this heated exchange.
 
“But I must inform you in all fairness that the good doctor, like you, has served his country.”

“You don’t say?” asked Prince George, his opinion of Dr. Watson clearly improved despite the fact that the doctor’s innocence was a threat to his own.
 
The Royal George tapped his cane on the bare ground of the courtyard framed by red brick which bordered Joëlle Janvier’s second-story room.

“Very true,” added Sherlock.
 
“Served in the Second Afghan war as a surgeon.
 
Injured at Maiwand.”

“Afghanistan, you say?
 
Must be brave.”
 
Prince George nodded, and it was obvious that his assessment of the man whose guilt could save his own neck from the noose was now altered.

“Better to answer the lieutenant’s questions, your Highness,” Mycroft interjected.
 
“It will be that much sooner that the matter is put behind us.”

“I’ve told you all I know, damnit!
 
If I knew who killed the lovely Miss Janvier, don’t you think I would say?”
 
Prince George glared at the Frenchman, his opinion in that court apparently much the same.
 
“So far as I know, it was the lieutenant himself!”

“M-m-moi?” sputtered the lieutenant.
 
“
Sacre Bleu!
 
What idiocy do you speak?”

“I left, the doctor left, you were the only one remaining guarding the door, you said so yourself!” yelled Prince George.
 
“You went in and killed her!
 
The window was locked.
 
This is as logical an explanation as any.”

“It is ridiculous, it is!” replied Lieutenant Dubuque with a sweep of the arm.

“And your companion here?” asked Sherlock, his eyes turning towards the bodyguard.
 
“Surely he saw something?”

Put a sword in his mouth, and Prince George’s foreign bodyguard looked to be Blackbeard’s larger, meaner brother.
 
The fierce-looking attendant wore a long, twirling moustache and a pointy short beard; his hair was dark.
 
He had a light blue fleece hat resembling a fez, from which emerged an oseledet, a simple long lock of hair whereby the majority of the head was shaved.
 
He had tall, knee-high leather boots.
 
He wore a grey-brown tunic and a light blue shirt-dress of sorts—a beshmet—held together with a long red silk sash at the waist.
 
The
shashka
, as the sword was called, was at his side, along with a whip tied to the beshmet.

“Wh—huh?
 
You mean Kazimir?” The Royal George asked.

“He is presumably your body guard?”
 
Sherlock asked.
 
“A military man?
 
It is his undertaking to watch and protect, is it not?”

“Kazimir is a Cossack.
 
Bravest men on earth.”
 
Kazimir’s expression did not flinch.
 
But unlike a British guard, who would look straight ahead knowing the conversation was none of his business, the Cossack kept his eyes all over the room.
 
He watched everything unashamedly, true to his heritage of keeping Russia’s borders safe in exchange for freedom and independence.

“
Explain
.
 
I thought the Cossacks they protect the Czar?” asked Dubuque, stepping back involuntarily as he studied the threatening stance of the man standing before them.

“Damn straight!” replied the Duke of Cambridge.
 

“Cossacks are frightfully loyal to the Czar,” explained Sherlock, “risking their lives to keep the Czar safe, in order that they might not be under the Czar’s jurisdiction.
 
In exchange for their protection, Cossacks do not pay any taxes to the Czar.”

“
Comment!
 
That does not make the sense,” murmured Lieutenant Dubuque.

“It don’t to you!
 
To a Cossack it makes all the sense in the world,” sighed Prince George, clearly exasperated.
 

“In effect, they give their loyalty that they might have none,” stated Sherlock.

“So the Cossack—he is loyal to you?” Dubuque asked.
 
“Or to Russia?”

“To
both
, didn’t we just say?”
 
Prince George growled.

“In the Cossack’s mind, it is one and the same,” Mycroft murmured.

“Can he not speak for himself?” Lieutenant Dubuque asked.

Kazimir glared at the Frenchman, clearly understanding, but he said nothing.

“Do you trust him, le Duc?”
 
Lieutenant Dubuque asked.

“Kazimir has been with me almost as long as my mother has,” muttered Prince George.
 
Even with blue eyes, his gaze was fiercely intense.
 
“I won’t have you question his loyalty.
 
Kazimir would die for me!”

“
Mais bien sûr!
 
And where was the Cossack at the time of the murder?” pressed Dubuque.

“Kazimir wasn’t anywhere close to the murder scene!” replied Prince George.
 
“He was outside guarding the building!
 
And doing a damn fine better job than you did, lieutenant!
 
The people he guards don’t
die
!”