Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (39 page)

And if anyone else found out, she would be ruined.
 
She should have paid more attention when Sherlock taught her disguises.

“Good morning, Miss Belle.” Sherlock looked like a man who had indulged in a drunken orgy the night before.
 
He was unshaven and his skin was ashen, his eyes red, and the curls of his dark, uncut hair rebellious.
 
He had a decidedly masculine scent, though she knew he had bathed as she had drawn the bath herself.
 
The only undisturbing thing about the Great Detective was his maroon velvet dressing gown, pressed and clean.

She rang the bell for tea and toast, retiring to the bedroom while it was delivered.
 
Once the bellboy had left, she attended to the preparations.

Sherlock took the hot tea she offered, and she was relieved to see that his hold on the teacup was firm and steady.
 

“You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Holmes!
 
Here you sit in your luxury hotel—no doubt recovering from an orgy of hedonism—while your friend sits in jail,
alone
.”

“Not any closer?
 
Au contraire
, Mademoiselle Belle.”
 
He stared out the window sipping his hot tea, appearing to savor it.
 
Quite different from his disturbed countenance of late.

“Excuse me?”
 
She spun around, her hands now on both cheeks.
 
“What do you mean Mr. Holmes?”

He raised his eyebrows at her.
 
“You really must improve your French, Miss Belle.”

“Are you . . . did you . . . solve the case, Mr. Holmes?”

“I did.”

“Who is the murderer?” she demanded.

“Ha! Ha!
 
I am not a puppy dog at your beck and call, Miss Hudson.
 
Nor will I condone the lazy of intellect.”

Thank goodness.
 
He is himself again.

“If you are unable to piece it together for yourself, you shall know in due time,” Sherlock added.

“How did you solve it, Mr. Holmes?” she asked excitedly.
 
She wanted to scream with joy from the top of the Eifel Tower.
 
She might do just that.

“The way I always solve it.
 
I told you mine was a tried and true method.”

She shook her head in disapproval.
 
“Mr. Holmes, I’m quite sure you could solve the case without the use of hallucinogens.”

“Possibly.
 
But, as you say, Watson was in jail, and the clock was ticking.
 
Moreover, I rarely use hallucinogens.
 
Now
that
is purely a drug for play.”
 
He held his teacup as if toasting her, a devilish smile on his lips.
 
“Stimulants are more in my line.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” she exclaimed, exasperated.

“Yes, Miss Belle?” he asked as he studied her, for once completely attentive, a smile on his unshaven face.
 
She had to admit that Sherlock had a lovely smile on those rare occasions when he chose to utilize it, enlivened by his silver eyes which were always intensely focused.

“Are you certain that you know who the killer is, Mr. Holmes?”

“I do.”

“When will Dr. Watson be out of jail?”
 
She felt a heavy sigh emerge from her lips, as if she had only begun breathing again.

“Soon.
 
Very soon.”

She moved closer to him, attempting to divert her eyes from his masculine form.
 
“Who is the murderer, Mr. Holmes?
 
Please tell me.”

Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back.
 
“Do you think I am simply going to tell you, Miss Belle?
 
Show me that you have exercised your brain cells and made the slightest progress.
 
You who have accused me of being undisciplined can provide me with nothing.”

She gulped.
 
Oh, so Sherlock remembered that conversation, did he?
 
I might have known
.

“Show me some effort on your part,” he insisted.
 
“Tell me who killed Joëlle Janvier.”

“Well,” she gulped.
 
“It had to be someone who hated Miss Janvier.
 
So that would be . . . me, Stanislav, Sarah Fairbrother, or Ashanti.
 
And possibly Joëlle’s estranged husband
.
”

“The list of people who hated Miss Janvier is much longer than that, Miss Hudson,” Sherlock chuckled, taking another sip of his tea.
 
“And who had the opportunity to kill her?”

“John . . . er, I mean, Dr. Watson or Prince George.”

“Tsk.
 
Tsk.
 
Wrong on both counts, Miss Belle.”
 
He shook his head, his disappointment evident.

“But the only people who had access to Miss Janvier were Dr. Watson and Prince George.”

“Incorrect.
 
They are the only two people I didn’t suspect from the beginning.”

“But—“

“Who is the murderer, Miss Belle?
 
If you don’t answer the question correctly an innocent man will hang.”
 
He placed his teacup on the mantle and moved closer to her, his robe open at the neck revealing his bare chest.
 
His proximity made her a bit on the agitated side.
 
Softly he added in an ominous tone, “I’ll give you a hint, although you have not earned it.
 
It was a whipster.”

“But I don’t see . . . ?
 
The murder weapon cannot possibly be a whip!” she exclaimed, utterly perplexed.
 

“The murderer must of necessity be someone who is able to use a whip.
 
Since neither Prince George nor Doctor Watson are whipsters, neither of them could be the murderer.
 
All the evidence points to someone else, it could not have been either of them anyway, but this is added confirmation.”

“You are saying that the murder weapon was . . .
a whip
?” she asked, disbelieving.

“Miss Belle, you astonish me,” murmured Holmes, leaning against the fireplace mantle.
 
He left the teacup on the mantle and returned to his seat abruptly, moving to light his pipe.
 
“I did not say a whip was the murder weapon.
 
To the contrary, I said the murderer is someone who knows how to use a whip.”

I am completely confused
.
 
But regardless of whether or not she understood the words of Sherlock Holmes, she did not doubt their accuracy for a minute.

Oh, dear.
 
It had to be Stanislav or Ashanti.
 
Stanislav had an alibi—he was seen—at the time of the murder.
 
It has to be Ashanti
.
 
Oh, heavenly Father,
no
.
 
Please not Ashanti.
 

“Answer me, Miss Belle,” Sherlock implored her.
 
“
Who was the murderer
?”

This was one of the most surreal moments of her life.
 
“I think the murderer was . . . it was . . .
Stanislav
.”
 
She studied Sherlock’s expression, hoping against hope that his countenance confirmed it.

“And what is the reasoning which led you to that conclusion, Miss Belle?”
 
She could see his pulse beating rapidly at his neckline, a match to her own, she was sure.

“Because . . . he . . . because . . .”

“Because you like Mr. Afanasy the least of all the suspects?”

She nodded.
 
It was so infuriating when Sherlock knew precisely what she was thinking.
 
Of all Sherlock Holmes’ annoying qualities, this was the one she liked the least.
 
It was much too intimate.
 
Especially now.
 

“Tsk.
 
Tsk.
 
We are British, Miss Belle.”
 
He set his pipe down.
 
“If you wish to decide cases in that manner, you will have to move overseas, I fear.”

“Move overseas?
 
Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

“There may very well be a place for you in the American judicial system, Miss Hudson.”

It was a veritable party of Europe’s most powerful and influential law enforcers.
 
Chief Arkadiy Harting, head of the Russian Imperialist Police in Paris was present.
 
Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson, head of Scotland Yard, had crossed the English channel to be one of the esteemed party.
 
Prince George, supreme commander of the British army, as well as cousin to and confidante of Queen Victoria, was reluctantly in attendance, along with his Cossack bodyguard Kazimir who stood near the door in his gypsy attire, as colorful as it was billowy, a saber strapped to his side.
 
Also present was Alphonse Bertillon, Head of the French Forensic Identification Department.

Never to be absent from any gathering of importance, Mycroft Holmes was present, who some said had far too much influence in the British government, along with his younger brother, Sherlock, fast climbing the ladder of fame and beginning to catch the notice of both Scotland Yard and the Queen of England.

Here some of the leading minds in criminology spanning three countries converged.

“All for the death of a circus bare-backed rider,” Mycroft Holmes murmured under his breath as his eyes scanned the room, seated beside his brother at a round table.

“Ah, but Mademoiselle Janvier was so much more than a circus performer to have warranted such a gathering,” replied Sherlock quietly, only heard by Mycroft as everyone else was chatting amongst themselves.
 
Sherlock was not only a master of disguise but had learned to control his voice so that it was only audible to the intended party.

“True,” replied Mycroft.
 
“She represented revolutionary unrest across Europe, in France, England, and Russia, and, in fact the entire continent.
 
Monarchies have ruled for centuries, a remnant from feudal times.
 
Whether that which is to come will be better or worse is yet to be seen, but everyone knows that change is in the air.”
 
He took a sip of the tea already served.
 
“Miss Joëlle Janvier was an affront to the
old school
represented here, desperately clinging to the status quo.”

“Do you think so, brother dear?” Sherlock murmured.
 
“I should say Miss Janvier was an affront to almost everyone.”

Mycroft shrugged with indifference.
 
“True.
 
But was her death politically motivated—or was it personal, an act of passion?”

“And have you worked out the answer to that question, Mycroft?”

“Of course.
 
But do carry on, Shirley.”
 
Mycroft yawned, having no need of the glory—or the effort required to obtain it.
 
“Should you like to go for an early drink when this is concluded?
 
I fear it has taken a toll on my nerves.”

“Naturally.
 
I worry for your continued health, Mycroft.
 
You must learn not to exert yourself to such an extreme.”
 
Sherlock glanced at Watson, in chains, accompanied by Dubuque, who had escorted the good doctor here from La Santé Prison.

“Quite so.”
 
Mycroft put a large dollop of cream in his tea.
 
“I can’t seem to contain myself.”

“You’re not the only one, my dear brother.”
 
Studying Watson more closely, Sherlock concluded that Watson didn’t look any worse for wear, the color having returned to his complexion.
 
The good doctor was looking well if unshaven and unkempt.
 
No doubt the news that he was soon to be released from his chains had elevated his mood.
 

No, the ordeal had not hurt the handsome philanderer and had no doubt given Watson time for reflection.
 
Of which he was seriously in need.
 
Sherlock had always known Watson to be a lady’s man but had been dismayed to learn just how much of a rake his friend could be given enough blunt and encouragement.

There are some places a man of honor should never go.
 
Sherlock pursed his lips as he thought of Miss Belle.
 
Even a rake should keep his actions confined to those ladies who understood what the game was about.

Sherlock forced himself to observe all those present as his thoughts were momentarily more uncontrolled than was comfortable for him.
 
In addition to the criminologists, also present were the murder suspects:
 
the maid Francine, Stanislav Afanasy, Ashanti Van Horn, Veronika Vishnevsky, and, of course, Dr. John Watson and Prince George.

Sarah Fairbrother, Prince George’s mistress and the mother of his children, sent her regrets due to her infirmity, and was excused.
 

The party sat in a large room overlooking the River Seine in a building near to the Ministere de la culture.
 
The air was dark with the smoke of coal-burning tug boats putting along on the river, mixed as they were with pleasure boats and fishing boats.
 
Despite the black smog, a more beautiful city was difficult to imagine with its cathedrals and palaces, exquisite architecture, elaborate formal gardens and statues, quaint bridges and fashionable people.

“Gentlemen.”
 
Sherlock rose at the head of the table, seated beside his brother Mycroft.
 
“And ladies.”
 
He nodded his head towards Miss Ashanti Van Horn and Miss Francine.