Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (37 page)

“Very likely in the womb.”
 
Sherlock began to load his pipe with tobacco.
 
“It is quite inconceivable that he would be ignorant of such matters.”
 

“If the dictates of his own family and his superior education are not enough, try the Royal Marriages Act of 1772.”
 
Mycroft covered his nose with a white handkerchief as if he found the smell deplorable.
 
“Not to mention that Prince George did not even sign his name on the marriage certificate.”
 

“You can’t be serious,” muttered Watson, appearing to take an interest in the conversation for the first time.
 
“He had to sign the marriage certificate.
 
Impossible to conclude the ceremony otherwise.”

“I didn’t say he didn’t sign the marriage certificate,” replied Mycroft.
 
“I said he didn’t sign
his name
.
 
He signed instead ‘George Cambridge, Gentleman’.”
 

“In all probability he momentarily forgot his name,” stated Sherlock matter-of-factly.

“If so, it was admittedly at a very opportune time,” Mycroft mused, now patting his forehead with the handkerchief.

Watson chuckled, and Mirabella was relieved to witness a smile..

“Why would Prince George go through such a charade?” asked Mirabella, tapping her finger against her cheek.

“Perhaps to get the woman off his back,” considered Mycroft.
 
“She is reputably quite strong-willed—and jealous.”

“And so that he might continue to partake of the marriage bed,” remarked Sherlock.

“Really Holmes, most unsuitable conversation,” Watson remarked, nodding his head towards Mirabella.
 
“There is a lady present.”

“Glad to see you’re reviving, Watson,” remarked Sherlock, taking a puff on his pipe.

“And what is the Queen’s objection to Miss Fairbrother?
 
Why wouldn’t she let Prince George marry her?” Mirabella asked, ignoring John’s censure, her curiosity getting the better of her as often happened.

“Miss Fairbrother is a stage actress.
 
Reputedly the greatest beauty of her day,” Mycroft explained.

“The Queen objected to the match simply because Miss Fairbrother was a working woman?” huffed Mirabella, placing her hands on her hips.
 

“At the time of the wedding Miss Fairbrother had four illegitimate children by three different fathers,” added Mycroft.
 
“If the second coming had commenced and Jesus Himself had asked her royal highness to approve the match as a personal favor to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, the Queen would not have consented to such a marriage.”

“I see,” murmured Mirabella, biting her lip.

“Never mind that two of those four children were by Prince George,” interjected Sherlock.
 
“And she pregnant with a third at the time.”

“And yet he is taking up with a bare-backed rider in sequined tights!” fumed Mirabella.

 
“Excellent observation, Miss Belle.
 
And if the morals of everyone present as well as all of the world’s countries meet with your approval, may we continue with the case?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, adding softly,
 
“I’m sure I think of nothing else.”

 
“Good.
 
Prince George is a weak man where women are concerned.
 
But he is not alone among royalty in that.”
 
Sherlock glanced at Watson.
 
“Or among men in general.”
 

“And yet—”considered Mycroft, “It is not that Prince George is incapable of love or loyalty.
 
Or even that he requires a younger woman.
 
The Duke of Cambridge had a second mistress, a Mrs. Louisa Beauclerk, whom Prince George has described as the idol of his life and his existence.
 
She died only months ago after a love affair spanning over thirty years.”

“It is no wonder he is seeking consolation.
 
Though possibly in places where he shall not find it,” murmured Dr. Watson.
 
“And Sarah Fairbrother still lives?”
 

“Oh, yes.
 
But the Duke and Miss Fairbrother live in separate residences in Piccadilly,” Mycroft said.

“And how old is Prince George?”

“Sixty-five years of age,” Mycroft replied.
 
“And still going strong.
 
With no legal heirs.”

“Indeed.
 
All of his illegitimate children unrecognized by the crown.
 
And yet all are direct descendents of Queen Elizabeth 1 and every other British monarch as well as being related to all the royal families of Europe.
 
Something very few respectable people are able to say,” remarked Sherlock.

“I wonder if any of the prince’s children are bitter?” mused Mirabella.

“Aha!
 
Finally!
 
Now we are getting somewhere,” Sherlock exclaimed approvingly.
 
“Let us solve the case with haste!”

“How could they not be?” asked John, his interest in the conversation growing.
 
“Their mother ill-treated, her devotion completely undeserved and unreturned, and their own status one of shame.”

“And yet Prince George is a devoted father, I understand, and has paid off his sons’ gaming debts more than once,” Mycroft mused.
 
It was amazing the information that man stored in his head, Mirabella reflected, not for the first time wondering how he came by it.

“And what are their names?” asked Mirabella, her interest intensifying.
 
“The children of Prince George and Sarah Fairbrother?”

“George, Adolphus, and Augustus,” Mycroft replied.
 
“All with the surname of ‘FitzGeorge’, and all in military service like their father.”

“And all great-grandsons of King George III,” murmured Sherlock.
 

“I wonder,” mused Mycroft, touching his index finger to his chin.

“I as well,” nodded Sherlock, their eyes locking.
 
“I wonder if any of the three might have had strong objections to their father cavorting with a young woman in sequined tights while their mother lives.”

Sherlock stood outside 6 Queen Street in Mayfair, London, neat but not extravagant by any means.
 
Certainly the address was in a desirable part of town.

All the homes were terraced, sharing walls, and 6 Queen Street was a four-story white washed building with three doors and wrought iron balconies on each of the levels.

Inspector Tobias Gregson, a tall, formidable man, took his peaked cap off his head and nervously twirled it in his hands.
 
His full beard was neatly trimmed and he was dressed in a frogged jacket.

Gregson knocked on the door and was soon after greeted by a maid.
 
“Is Miss Fairbrother home?”

The maid scrutinized the two gentlemen.
 
“And who do you be?”

“Sherlock Holmes.
 
And Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard.”
 
The great detective stepped forward, removing his hat and bowing, but the gesture was lost on the plump woman who had already turned away and was yelling, “Madame, Scotland Yard is here to sees ya.
 
Will you sees them?”

“No,” a response was heard from the other room in a robust voice.
 
Clearly the room’s inhabitant had the gift of projection which had been put to good use on the stage.

“The mistress ain’t at home,” the maid said.

“Excuse me, madam.”
 
Sherlock brushed past her into a small parlor where he bowed again before an older woman, seated, who stared unapprovingly at him even as Gregson joined them.
 
“I am Sherlock Holmes, here on behalf of the Duke of Cambridge.”

“Shall’s I call the police Madame?
 
I couldn’t stop ‘im!”

“I am the police, Madame,” murmured the inspector.
 
“Inspector Gregson at your service.”
 

The older woman shook her head in the negative.
 
“Bring some tea, please, Dorothy.”

Sherlock remained standing, watching her.
 
She had classic features and large blue eyes.
 
Her hair was now white and braided in a style which must have been popular when she was young:
 
in loops around her ears and across her head in a Grecian fashion.
 
Though she had had a shapely figure in her youth, it was apparent that she was not now very active.
 
There was pain in her eyes, emotional or physical, he surmised it was both.
 
He glanced about the room in search of a cane and saw none—most unexpected—but he did see an unusual amount of clutter for a home which was four stories high, as if everything of importance was crammed into this one level.
 
His eyes ran to the hem of her skirt to see excessively flimsy shoes which would not support a woman of her weight.

“Would you like a seat, sirs?”
 
Her expression was calm and accepting, but her eyes were those of someone who had experienced much disappointment.
 
Somewhat ironic since all about the room were paintings of Miss Fairbrother in her theatrical successes.

“Thank you, Miss Fairbrother,” Gregson replied politely while seating himself.
 
Sherlock moved to stand beside the fireplace.

“My husband sent you?” she asked, looking at Gregson.

“Well, no, Ma’am,” the inspector replied.
 
“But his Royal Highness is in a bit of trouble, and I’m wondering if you could help me with that.
 
We’d like to clear his name if at all possible.”

“A woman?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” nodded Sherlock, studying the photographs on the mantle piece.
 
If, in fact, she had been married to the Duke of Cambridge, she would be the Duchess of Cambridge and he extended the proper address in the hope of winning her confidence, a ploy Gregson had clearly overlooked.
 
Sherlock felt the woman who had borne the Duke three children deserved such an address, though the law didn’t agree.

And I who have always been a stickler for the law
.
 
What is becoming of my ordered world?
 
He knew who was stirring the pot:
 
a Miss Mirabella Hudson.

Fighting his distracting thoughts, Sherlock answered the lady.
 
“A circus performer.
 
Found dead.”

Sarah shook her head.
 
“George is a lot of things, but he would never kill a woman.”

“And why is that, Miss Fairbrother?” asked Gregson.

“Loves them too much,” she replied simply.

“And you, Duchess, when was the last time you saw the Duke?” murmured Sherlock, moving about the room.

“About a month ago, sir.”
 
Her gaze rested favorably on him.

“Does Prince George visit often?” asked Sherlock seating himself beside Gregson even as the tea arrived.

The woman who had borne three children fathered by the grandson of the King of England and whose children were cousins to the Queen of England shook her head, adding a lump of sugar to her tea while unable to hide the longing in her eyes.
 
“He pays his respects.
 
And he takes care of the boys.”

“There was a handkerchief found in the dead woman’s room with the initials ‘SF’” remarked Sherlock, taking a sip of tea.
 
“How do you suppose it got there?”
 
Sherlock watched her, noting that there was no surprise in her expression, which ordinarily would have been indicative of her guilt.
 
Unfortunately, nothing about this case was ordinary.

“I would expect that George dropped it accidentally,” she replied, her blue eyes steady and her lack of concern remarkable.
 
She must know that the question inferred that she was a murder suspect.
 
“He always picks up the lace for me when he travels to Paris.”

“I need to ask, when Mrs. Beauclerk died—“ Gregson began.

“George married me.
 
He didn’t marry her, you know.”
 
She glanced at a photograph on the mantle, her expression suddenly youthful if belligerent.
 
“You’ve come from Scotland Yard, ‘ave you?
 
That case is closed.”
 
Sarah Fairbrother grew very stiff and her lips pursed together, as if she were finished with the conversation.
 
She smoothed her blue taffeta dress around her which was of a fine material, and plenty of it.
 
The furnishings were of fine quality, if outdated, and Miss Fairbrother had a maid.
 
It was obvious that Prince George was taking care of her even if he was no longer in love with her.

“There were chocolates in Mrs. Beauclerk’s room,” Gregson continued.
 
“There was an identical box in the room of the deceased circus girl.”

“You sent those chocolates, didn’t you Duchess?” Sherlock asked gently, already knowing the answer.

“And poisoned them?” Gregson muttered.

Sarah Fairbrother came quickly back to the present, but her eyes rested favorably on Sherlock.
 
She then glared at Inspector Gregson, demanding, “You didn’t find any poison in the chocolate, did you?”

“Not in the remaining chocolates,” Gregson replied.
 
“We can’t be certain there wasn’t any poison in the chocolate she consumed.”

“Do tell us, Your Grace, I have a friend rotting in jail for the crime who will surely hang if I don’t get to the bottom of this.”
 
Sherlock added, “Forgive the inspector.
 
He is not accustomed to be in the presence of royalty.”