Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (34 page)

“But though the work is perceived as glamorous by some, it is more accurate to call it
dangerous
, as evidenced by Miss Janvier’s untimely death,” Mycroft surmised.
 

“Entirely true,” Mr. Harting agreed.

“And where did Miss Joëlle Janvier’s motivations fit in on the continuum?”
 
Sherlock leaned forward, nonchalantly stirring his tea.
 
“In other words, how greedy was she?”

“Mercenary, with a lust for power and riches,” Mr. Harting replied simply.
 
He leaned back in his chair, evincing a slight smile.
 
“And one of the best because of it.”

“You were terribly jealous of Miss Janvier, weren’t you, Mr. Afanasy?
 
She taunted and demeaned you.”
 
Sherlock noted the accused’s lack of concern.
 
His hair was long and dark, which he separated into a small braid on each side of his head, allowing the remainder of his hair to flow freely.
 
He wore a white leotard and a gold belt, the stretchy top dipping low on his torso, revealing a muscular chest.
 
His face was clean-shaven.

“This she did to everyone,” Stanislav shrugged with indifference.
 

“You were once her lover, were you not?” pressed Sherlock.

“Once.”
 
Stanislav looked away, appearing suddenly emotional.

Sherlock pressed his advantage.
 
“Miss Janvier found out about your activities—she was working for the
Okhrana
—and she threatened to turn you in, which would necessarily result in your being pursued by the Russian secret police.
 
And you killed her.”

“Kill her why?” he asked sadly.
 
“I loved her.
 
No reason to kill her.”
“You had every reason, I should say,” Mycroft said.
 
“It would silence her.”

“If had silenced her, why you know so much?”

“There is more to learn, I assure you, Mr. Afanasy.”
 
Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

“Will not tell what you don’t know.
 
Ha! ha!”
 
Merriment crossed his expression of overall sadness, entirely out of place.

“Ah, your political activities, of course we know about that, Mr. Afanasy,” replied Mycroft.
 
“We know that you are involved with revolutionary groups here in Paris.
 
The
Okhrana
has been following you for months.”

“Pssst!”
 
Stanislav spit on the ground.
 
“Let follow.
 
I am no traitor to Mother Russia!”
 
There was no fear in his eyes, only courage, as one would expect from a trainer of the big cats.
 
But there was, however, a sadness and determination, revealing an acceptance of misery.
 

The man is terribly unhappy and expects always to be so
, Sherlock considered.
 
“The point is that you are involved with groups plotting to overthrow the Czar.
 
We know this for a fact so there is no point in pretending and wasting everyone’s time.”

“So to Siberia send me.”
 
Stanislav threw back his head, laughing.
 
“Am in France now, cannot touch me.”

“I imagine the Czar has his methods if the threat is great enough.”
 
Sherlock added softly, “An assassination plot would certainly qualify.”

“You care why?
 
Nothing to do with Joëlle.”

“Untrue.
 
And maybe you didn’t know if she had yet told anyone about your connection to the group—maybe she just held it over you to torture you,” Mycroft said.
 
“That combined with your passionate involvement makes you a perfect candidate for murder, Mr. Stanislav.”

“I knew.
 
And . . . I not kill woman.”

“But you might kill a viper,” Mycroft suggested.

“Joëlle not viper!
 
You not know her!”
 

I knew her as well as I wished to.

Stanislav spat on the ground again, then grew closer, his stance threatening.
 
He placed the whip inside his gold belt which freed his hands.
 
Sherlock held his fists close to his chest in the event he might need them.

Touching, though.
 
And remarkable.
 
In spite of all Miss Janvier had done to him and the threat she posed—the Russian police was well known for its cruel tactics— Stanislav loved her.

Stanislav twirled the whip which was in his hand.
 
“Not afraid of tigers.
 
Not afraid of Siberia.
 
Not afraid of woman.”

“Fear and hate are closely linked emotions.”
 
Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
 

“How I did it?”
 
Stanislav pursed his lips.
 
“I not able to enter room.”
 
Stanislav pursed his lips and a genuine hatred crossed his countenance.
 
“Wish I had been in room.
 
Might have saved her.”

“Were you talking to Miss Janvier through the window before you proceeded to her room, Mr. Afanasy?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.
 
We found your footprints outside the window.”

“So what?” Stanislav shrugged.
 
“Many footprints there.”

“Was the window open when you spoke with Miss Janvier?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes.
 
How Joëlle she hear me otherwise?”

“And what time was that?”

“Four thirty.”

“Precisely?”

“Da.”

“How do you know, Mr. Afanasy?”

“I hear ringing of clock tower.”
 
He smoothed his hair back on his head and then wrapped his fingers around the thin straps of his leotard which covered very little of his muscled chest.

“And what did you say to Miss Janvier?”
 
Sherlock asked.

“I ask her not turn me in.
 
Not afraid.
 
Just want to see what she say.”
 
Stanislav’s countenance turned somber.

“What did she say?”

“She laugh. Joëlle she always laugh.
 
She say she already did.”

Sherlock watched Stanislav fingering the whip.
 
If, indeed, this were true, it gave Mr. Afanasy no motive unless it were that of revenge.
 

A strong motive indeed.

Or perhaps Stanislav didn’t believe Joëlle Janvier and presumed her to be playing with him as a cat played with a mouse—as she had always done.

If it was a crime of passion, there was often no logic to it.
 
And Stanislav Afanasy didn’t appear to care what happened to him.

A perfect candidate for murder.

“There were an enormous amount of foreign substances in Miss Janvier’s system.
 
Do you know anything about that, Miss Van Horn?” asked Mycroft, leaning his tall body forward.
 
He was clean-shaven, revealing his fine, chiseled features, and his hair was cut short.
 
He was dressed in light-colored pants, a dark, fine frock coat, and a low-cut vest paired with a slim cravat. Though the mismatched pants and jacket were all the rage in the fashion world, it was uncharacteristically informal for the elder Holmes brother from what Mirabella had observed.

He is obviously going slumming on this particular evening
, Mirabella reflected—a fashionable pastime of the privileged for diversion and amusement, instigated with the newly popular East End novels describing the slum conditions in St. George’s, Mile End, and, of course, the notorious White Chapel.
 
She herself found nothing amusing in viewing the suffering of others.
 

“Of course, poison is the method of choice for women,” Sherlock said.
 
“In addition, poison could be administered and the murderer not actually be present when the murder took place.”

“I gave Miss Janvier medicines, not poisons!”
 
Ashanti shook her head in surprise, seated just inside the circus tent at a makeshift table where interrogations had been initiated.

“So . . . was Miss Janvier poisoned or wasn’t she?” asked Mirabella.

“There was morphine in her system.
 
But many people use that drug recreationally.”
 
Mycroft glanced at his brother.
 
“Did she take the drug herself, or did someone else administer the drug?
 
And, if it was someone else, did it contribute to her death?”

“Oh, my head is swimming,” murmured Mirabella.

“It has only just begun,” Sherlock pronounced.
 
“Our bare-backed rider makes an elephant look like a light diner with no appetite.
 
She was hedonistic and indulgent in every way.
 
In addition to the chocolate, strawberries, and champagne in her stomach, there were vast amounts of strange herbs in Miss Janvier’s system.
 
Were they in the chocolate or the strawberries?
 
And were they harmful to her?
 
The herbs could be harmless to one person and fatal to another.
 
And were they taken voluntarily or forced upon her?”

“But the sheer variety of substances in her stomach make it highly probable that an attempt at poison was made,” Mycroft added.

“Probable but not irrefutable.
 
The first course is, of course, to identify everything that was in her stomach and then to find the corresponding item in her boudoir,” Sherlock said.
 
“We then test the item in her boudoir in an attempt to determine if the poisons and questionable substances were in the strawberries, the chocolate, or the champagne.
 
We then attempt to determine who provided each of the items.
 
We know that the champagne was from Dr. John Watson.
 
The chocolates may have come from the mysterious woman who had dropped the handkerchief, either “SF” herself, her carrier, or one who wished to implicate her.
 
The strawberries add yet another suspect.
 
And then there is you, Miss Van Horn and your voodoo ritual with the herbs.”

“Since there were so many substances in the stomach of the deceased,” Mycroft said, “either everyone was attempting to kill Miss Janvier at once—or a number of people were providing her with unharmful herbs.
 
It seems unlikely doesn’t it?”

“Again, unlikely, but possible,” Sherlock mused, as if he had already come to some conclusions.

“True.
 
And finally,” Mycroft added, “We must conclude if any of these substances were actually the cause of Miss Janvier’s death, regardless of who might have made the attempt.”
 
He turned to Ashanti.
 
“We start with you, Miss Van Horn.
 
The herbs believed to have come from you—the voodoo elements of herbs, bark, and dried snake—are not known to be poison unless she was fatally allergic to them.
 
Perhaps you had inside knowledge?”

“And, if Miss Janvier wasn’t allergic, why were they given to her?”
 
Sherlock asked.
 

Ashanti shook her head, refusing to answer.

“Just tell us this, Miss Van Horn,” demanded Mycroft, brushing the sleeves of his jacket with his hand.
 
“Did you give Miss Janvier the strawberries?”

“Why would I give Joëlle strawberries?”
 
Ashanti was strangely not reluctant to speak on this topic.
 

“Perhaps the herbs were a ruse to draw our attention elsewhere . . .” Sherlock considered.
 
“Perhaps there was something in the strawberries.”

“We found strawberries in your room, Miss Van Horn,” stated Mycroft.

“It is no crime to eat strawberries,” replied Ashanti, covering her hand with her mouth.
 

“That’s true!
 
I ate some of those strawberries in my tent,” Mirabella came to her friend’s aid.
 
“They can’t have been poisoned.”

“Indeed they were,” Mycroft said.
 
“The strawberries in Miss Janvier’s room were, in fact, poisoned, and the poisons match the contents of Miss Janvier’s stomach.”

Both Ashanti and Mirabella gasped in unison.

“Ah, so Ashanti gave you strawberries on the day in question, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked, his piercing gaze directed at her.

Mirabella bit her lip, nodding, feeling her eyes watering.

“Are you holding anything back, Miss Belle?
 
I forbid you to do so in a murder investigation,” Sherlock said.

“Many people ate strawberries on that day, they came from a vendor outside,” Mirabella added.

“I am inclined to believe her,” Sherlock stated to his brother.
 
“Miss Janvier could have been in no doubt that Miss Van Horn hated her—and Miss Janvier was not stupid however cruel she might have been.
 
She would not have eaten food given to her by Miss Van Horn.”

“And yet . . .” Mycroft considered, “Miss Janvier ingested the herbs on her nightstand—and the strawberries.”
 

“B-b-but I did not give her the strawberries!” exclaimed Ashanti.
 
“What was in them?”

Mycroft took a piece of paper out of his pocket and read it out loud.
 
“I’ve only just received the report.
 
Henbane, jimson weed, angel’s trumpets, and corkwood.”
 

Sherlock turned abruptly to stare at Mycroft.

“What is it, Shirley?”

“I don’t even know what any of those things are,” Ashanti wailed.