Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (36 page)

“What do you speak of, Miss Belle?” asked Sherlock.
 

“I was thinking of Ashanti,” she replied sadly, tearing her eyes from John to look at Sherlock.
 
“What happened?
 
I don’t understand it.
 
It makes no sense that our country should have invaded her country.”

“Why not?” muttered Watson, rubbing his wounded leg with his free left hand, an injury which must have been exacerbated by the dampness.
 
“It is a violent world and the innocent are often persecuted.”
 

The three were situated outside Watson’s jail cell, with only Mycroft being seated in a chair which had been procured for him.
 
Ever the gentleman, he had offered it to Mirabella, who had declined.
 

“Indeed.
 
There have been seventy-two invasions in this century alone,” answered Sherlock.
 
“The sun doesn’t set on the British empire without some effort on our part.”

“Queen Victoria never sanctioned the invasion of Zululand, I assure you,” stated Mycroft indignantly.

“Are you quite serious, Mr. Holmes?” demanded Mirabella, her eyes were glued to Mycroft.
 
“Then how . . . ?”

“Shhh!
 
Curb your excitement and lower your voice, Miss Belle.
 
The guards might hear you.
 
We don’t want them to confiscate the things we have brought for Watson,” cautioned Sherlock.

“We definitely don’t want that!” admonished John, gulping down a few swallows from the wine bottle.
 

Mirabella leaned forward, staring at Mycroft aghast, as she whispered, “What do you mean the Queen didn’t sanction the invasion, Mr. Holmes?”
“Sir Henry Bartle Frere undertook the invasion at Isandlwana without the approval of the crown,” stated Mycroft.
 
“Neither did Cetshwayo wish to fight, the Zulu were British allies.”

“But they did fight,” replied Mirabella.

“Naturally, when the British invaded.
 
It was that or surrender their homeland.”
 
Mycroft raised his pants legs so they did not touch the ground.

“But the Zulu lost anyway,” murmured Mirabella.

“Not at Isandlwana,” Mycroft shook his head.
 
“The Zulu won that battle.
 
It was, in fact, the worst defeat in British colonial history.”

“It was this defeat which rallied British approval for the final annihilation of the Zulu,” Sherlock murmured.

“But how did the Zulu win Isandlwana?” asked Mirabella.
 
“The Zulu only had spears and clubs.
 
And the British had modern rifles and artillery.”

“Indeed,” nodded Mycroft.
 
“And the Zulu defeated six fully manned companies of the famous first Battalion of the 24
th
almost to the last man with spears and clubs.”

“But
how
?” asked Mirabella, covering her mouth.

“With shear numbers.
 
The Zulu died ten to one,” answered Mycroft.
 

“They were like dominoes falling left and right,” Sherlock uttered, a stark expression crossing his countenance.

“But why did Frere invade without the approval of the Queen?” persisted Mirabella.

“He wished to crush the savage foe,” replied Sherlock, shrugging matter-of-factly.
 
“Frere’s Secretary of Native Affairs, Sir Theophilus Shepstone, feared a black uprising.
 
And polygamy was repulsive to those stationed in Africa with the charge of uniting the natives and Boers under the British emblem.”

“The sexual behavior of those wholly removed from oneself has long been a reason for murder and persecution,” Mycroft said.

“Polygamy
is
repulsive,” agreed Mirabella.
 
“Ashanti fled from becoming one of a harem.”

“You must allow for cultural differences, Miss Hudson,” advised Mycroft.
 

“No I mustn’t!” Mirabella replied.
 
“Slavery in any form is wrong.
 
And I understand that polygamy was not so distasteful to John Dunn and his thirty-eight wives!”
 
Give or take a wife
.
 

“Indeed, Miss Belle?
 
I am most gratified to see that you are expanding your knowledge of the world.”
 
She thought she saw a twinkle of laughter in Sherlock’s eyes, but it must be that the dim light was obstructing her vision.
 
“To be sure, I expect that there has been no decrease in polygamy as a result of the Anglo-Zulu war.”
 

She paused to reflect.
 
“It is also wrong that Frere acted without the Queen’s approval.
 
But in the end, rather than the Queen’s government apologizing for their act, they rallied the troops and crushed the Zulu, validating Frere’s initial invasion.”

 
“Hello!
 
I’m sure I’m enjoying this history lesson here in this jail cell,” exclaimed John Watson.
 
“If you don’t do anything about it, I will hang by the neck for the murder of Miss Janvier while you debate the causes of freedom across the globe.”

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella replied, reaching in her basket for a baguette of French bread and a pear, passing them through the jail bars.
 
“I was merely allowing you to eat your lunch without being interrogated.”

“Hmph!” John muttered, tearing into his loaf of bread as he downed the piece with wine.

“Do you have another bottle of wine?” John asked, swallowing.
 
He re-corked the bottle and hid it under his blanket, apparently wishing to save the small amount remaining for later.

“No, but I shall bring you another bottle tomorrow,” Mirabella replied.

“Bring two,” John muttered.
 
“Or a dozen.”

“That is an excellent idea,” mused Sherlock.
 
“Watson may be able to bribe the guards for special treatment with a fine bottle of wine.”

“I’ll drink it myself, thank you for your concern, Holmes,” replied Watson with a stinging insincerity.

Mycroft straightened his collar from the seated chair, running his hand along his neckline.
 
Mirabella considered that it was the only time she had ever been in Mycroft’s company and not seen him eating.
 
It appeared the atmosphere had removed his appetite, and that was saying something for Mycroft Holmes.

 
“My good doctor, the Zulu wars do have some bearing on the case,” remarked Sherlock.
 
“It speaks to motive and the character and stability of one of the suspects.
 
Believe me, we are putting our heads together in an attempt to get you out of here.”

“Don’t speak to me, Holmes,” Watson retorted to Sherlock.

 
“Shirley has the right of it,” added Mycroft reflectively.
 
“We must do a thorough analysis of each of the suspects in order to save our friend here.”

“Here!
 
Here!
 
Let’s not kill the innocent!” exclaimed Watson.

“I would expect Miss Van Horn to be extremely bitter as a result of the Zulu-Anglo war.”
 
Mycroft considered the facts before them.
 

“Most certainly,” Sherlock considered.
 
He was the only one of the four who appeared comfortable in this venue.
 
It never ceased to astonish Mirabella that Sherlock looked at home wherever he was, be it before the Queen of England, in the dungeons of a prison, or scouring the sewers.
 
“Essentially a rogue band of our countrymen invaded Zululand, the British got their asses served to them on a silver platter, the sympathies of the English people rose up, we went back in and finished off the Zulu, and then we left.

“Do you believe . . .” considered Watson, suddenly reflective, “That Miss Van Horn is disturbed enough that her violent impulses might be mis-channeled?
 
It is her father, her family, and her country we are speaking of.”

She considered John’s words momentarily, determined to answer truthfully.
 
“And yet . . . Ashanti is
different
.
 
If anything Ashanti is somewhat removed from this world.
 
She only inhabits it a small percentage of the time.
 
It has been a place of great suffering for her.”

“But is she capable of murder?” asked Mycroft.

“Most definitely,” nodded Sherlock.
 

“The other possibility, of course,” contemplated Mycroft, “is that Miss Van Horn killed Miss Janvier accidentally.”

“Accidentally?” asked Watson.
 
“What the devil . . .”

“She might have had the best of intentions in giving Miss Janvier the herbs—to kill the demon in her and to protect the baby—and it might have backfired,” Mycroft considered.

Her attention turned to John Watson.
 
As she considered the very real possibility of the doctor hanging by the neck, she felt her heart would break.

But neither did she wish Ashanti to hang.

Mirabella had never been so thankful for the genius of Sherlock Holmes in her life.
 
Everything depends upon it.

“But we already know that the strawberries had the poison in them, so the case is solved,” Mirabella said.

“The scopolamine?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“In combination with the morphine, scopolamine is a truth serum.”
 
Sherlock turned to Mirabella.
 

“So it is not a poison?”

“Certainly scopolamine is a poison,” Sherlock said.
 
“But it did not kill Miss Janvier.
 
However, it does speak to motive, and it is possible that the person who administered the scopolamine is the killer.”

“And, anyway, why do we care?” Mirabella insisted.
 
“Miss Janvier killed Beckham, we solved the murder, why don’t we just go home?”

“Ah, well, unfortunately Watson will hang if we do so,” Mycroft said, tapping his lips with his handkerchief.
 

“Just a slight glitch in an otherwise damn fine plan,” John muttered.

“In addition,” Mycroft added, “It is possible that whoever killed Miss Janvier is an even worse threat to Britain than she was.
 
Miss Janvier was mainly a threat to her own country—Russia—but there are greater considerations from our perspective.”

“That’s a relief,” John growled.

“Hide this in your jacket, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella commanded, slipping a candy confection through the bars.

“I’d rather have another bottle of wine,” John Watson muttered.
 

“Are you having the . . . nightmares . . . Dr. Watson?” she asked.

He glared at Sherlock.
 
“As if anyone cares.”

“Have you thought of keeping a journal?” she asked, reaching in her basket for a keyed notebook, fountain pen, and ink well.
 
She placed them through the bars.
 
“Sometimes simply writing one’s thoughts can bring peace.”

“No thank you, Miss Mirabella.”
 
John did not accept the items.
 
“Anything I would write now might be used against me in a court of law.”

“Or—I know!—have you thought of writing down your cases with Sherlock Holmes?”

John looked up, a certain light returning to his eyes.
 
He stated derisively,
 
“At this very moment I would love nothing better than to tell the world the truth about Sherlock Holmes!”
 

He moved to the bars and grabbed the items from her hands a bit too forcefully.
 
He added, “Another bottle of wine might help the words to flow, as it were.”
 
John ran his hands through his hair.
 
“And a comb and shaving knife.”

Mirabella sighed a sigh of relief.
 
A knife wouldn’t be allowed, Dr. Watson knew that, but the fact that he was suddenly concerned about his appearance was a sign that he was feeling better.

This was just the response she had hoped for.
 
“And when you have finished, Dr. Watson, I shall call on the English papers and ask if they are interested in your recounting.
 
It may yet further your case.”
 

“But do
not
mention Miss Hudson, Watson,” Sherlock interjected.
 
“I do not wish her name in the papers under any circumstances.”

“Never fear, Holmes, I have a great deal to say—and none of it about Miss Mirabella.”

“Good.”

“You might not think so when I am finished,” Dr. Watson stated in a low tone.

“And what of the other suspects?” Mycroft asked, clearly ready to leave the environ.
 
“Let us discuss them while the good doctor is still sober.”

“I fear that moment has past,” murmured Sherlock.

“What about Prince George?” Mirabella asked.
 
“What of his wife?”
 

“You speak of Sarah Fairbrother, I suppose?” asked Mycroft, crossing his arms in front of his waist as he glanced about the jail.
 
“Technically she’s not his wife, although there was a marriage ceremony performed.”

“How can she not be his wife, then?” asked Mirabella.

“Prince George, a prince of England, the Duke of Cambridge, and King George III’s namesake, cannot marry without the Queen’s consent.
 
If Sarah Fairbrother is not apprised of that fact, you can be certain that the king’s grandson is,” Mycroft pronounced.

“Do you mean that Prince George willingly went through a wedding ceremony knowing that it was not legal or binding?” asked Mirabella, astonished, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.

“How could he not know it?” murmured Mycroft with a raise of his eyebrows, bemused.
 
“Prince George was educated at Cambridge and his grandfather was the king of England.
 
He himself was in line for the throne until Victoria was born.
 
There could be no doubt that he knew whom he could and could not marry and under what circumstances from a very early age.”