Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (41 page)

“It is difficult to believe that she deceived so many,” Inspector Bertillon mused.

“Sometimes the mentally demented are far more successful than the normal person because the deranged believes his inner lie so unequivocally that he is able to convince everyone else of it,” Mycroft replied.

“There is someone she did not deceive, however,” murmured Sherlock, looking at the group of suspects before him.
 
“
The murderer
.”

“
You
killed her!”
 
Prince George exclaimed to Chief Harting.
 
“You should have turned her in!”

Chief Harting grew somber.
 
“I did not kill her.”

“True, you were not at the scene of the murder,” Sherlock stated.
 
“Logically, there could have been only one person to have killed Miss Janvier.”

Everyone leaned forward at the table.

“The last person to enter the room,” Sir Edmund Henderson stated.
 
“And the person no one suspected.
 
Miss Francine.”

“Moi?
 
I did not kill her!” Francine, the maid, exclaimed.

“If Prince George did not kill her and Dr. Watson did not kill her, it had to be you, Miss Francine,” Sir Edmund continued.
 
“Lieutenant Dubuque swears that no one else entered or left the room.”

“Non!
 
Non!
 
I did not!” Francine exclaimed, throwing her head into her hands.

“Ordinarily you would not have been strong enough to kill such an athlete as Miss Janvier was,” Mycroft murmured.
 
“Unless she had been drugged.”

“She was drugged,” Dubuque offered.
 
“There were odd herbs in her system.
 
Even morphine.”

“Yes, in trace amounts,” Dr. Watson offered.
 
“In quantities which might have drugged an ordinary woman, but recall that everyone has a different tolerance to drugs.
 
I don’t believe the amount present would have impacted Miss Janvier significantly.”

“Oh, and why is that?”
 
Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson asked.

Dr. Watson added under his breath, “You would be astonished at how much champagne she could drink.”

“I must say that I agree.
 
I believe the herbs in her system were for a different purpose altogether.”
 
Sherlock turned to alight his eyes upon Ashanti, seated next to Francine.

“
Arretez!
 
Enough of this!” exclaimed Lieutenant Dubuque.
 
“Whatever the political intrigue you seek to confuse us with, Mr. Holmes, it matters not!
 
We all know, Mr. Holmes, that vous amie,
your friend
, Dr. Watson, was the murderer!”

“Impossible, Lieutenant Dubuque,” replied Sherlock with a heavy sigh.
 
“Please listen this time, so I do not have to repeat myself unnecessarily.”

“And why is it impossible that Dr. Watson should be the murderer?” asked Bertillon.
 

Watson’s eyes were glued to Sherlock in intense interest.

“Dr. John Watson could not have strangled Miss Janvier with his bare hands as the marks on her neck were not those made by hands,” explained Sherlock.
 
“And there was no weapon found on his person.
 
It is very simple, really.
 
The murderer could not have been Dr. Watson.”

“Hmmm,” replied Bertillon, tapping his cheek in thought.
 
“Prince George, on the other hand—”
 

“
Oui
, the handkerchief with the initials ‘SF’,” muttered Dubuque.

“An interesting point,” considered Bertillon.
 
“
Voila
!
 
Sarah Fairbrother is a very interesting suspect from the beginning.”

“Did Miss Fairbrother kill Miss Janvier?” asked Sir Edmund Henderson, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, not one to beat around the bush.
 
“Were the chocolates from Miss Fairbrother?”
 

“They were,” replied Sherlock.
 
“It is inconceivable that both Miss Janvier and Mrs. Beauclerk would have had an anonymous gift of the exact same chocolates from two separate people, particularly since Miss Fairbrother was so resentful of both.”

“Are you saying Sarah was the murderer?” Prince George asked, as if he believed her fully capable of performing the deed despite her infirmity.

“No.”
 
Mycroft repeated.
 
“The remaining chocolates in the box were not poisoned, and we do not believe that the one she ate was poisoned either—or that the cause of death was poison, despite the odd contents of her stomach.”

“I will unveil the murderer to everyone’s satisfaction,” said Sherlcok.

“Do continue, Shirley, I don’t wish to miss afternoon tea,” murmured Mycroft, dipping a cookie into his hot tea in an elaborate blue china cup.
 

“That would be a travesty,” muttered Watson, jingling his iron chains.

“Very well.
 
Miss Fairbrother sent the chocolates, but they were not poisoned.
 
No doubt they arrived with a note of warning in the vein of ‘Stay away from other women’s husbands,’ words Miss Fairbrother uttered to me herself.
 
It would not surprise me in the least if Miss Fairbrother believes the words to have some power in ensuring that justice will prevail.”

“Particularly since two of her rivals have perished shortly after reading them,” murmured Mycroft patting his mouth with a handkerchief.

“You can’t mean the chocolates and the note were a threat and nothing more?” sputtered Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson.

“Indeed I do,” Sherlock stated definitively.

“Do you have any intention of revealing the real murderer during this lifetime, Holmes?” Prince George demanded.
 
“I don’t think it necessary to bring the mother of my children into it if she has nothing to do with it!”

“Everyone has something to do with it,” retorted Sherlock.
 
“From the beginning, this was a difficult case to solve as there were so many people who had reason to hate Miss Janvier.”

“Difficult but not impossible,” murmured Mycroft.

“Agreed.
 
As we established, Miss Janvier investigated revolutionary activity and reported it to her boss, Chief Harting.”
 
Sherlock turned to stare at Stanislav, no amusement in his expression.
 
“
Your
revolutionary activity, Mr. Afanasy.”

“I am not murderer!
 
Only attended meetings,” exclaimed Stanislav.
 
His eyes grew suddenly soft.
 
“And I loved her.”

“Did you?” asked Mycroft.

Sherlock then turned to Ashanti, who looked particularly beautiful in a white linen day suit with bustle which was cut to her athletic form, her dark eyes and skin radiant.
 
“And Miss Janvier was blackmailing you, was she not, Miss Van Horn?”

“Yes,” nodded Ashanti.
 
“She said she would hurt tigers if I did not give her diamonds.”

“But you were saving the diamonds to build better facilities for the tigers, were you not?
 
So, no matter what Miss Janvier did, it hurt the tigers, the creatures you love most in all the world.”

Ashanti nodded.
 

“And you drugged her with the intent to kill her?” Mycroft asked.

“No.
 
I did so she would not come back in animal form—and to help the baby.”

“The baby who was Stanislav’s?” Sherlock asked quietly.

Ashanti did not answer.

“O Bozhe moi!”
 
Oh my God!
 
Stanislav’s eyes grew wide open in obvious surprise.
 
He clearly hadn’t known.
 
He took his head in his hands in sudden grief.

“I do not believe that you killed her, Miss Van Horn,” Sherlock nodded.
 
“Someone beat you to it.”

“Yes,” agreed Ashanti, a hint of disappointment in her expression, as if she might have wished it to be her.
 
“But I could not have killed her.
 
I could not harm the innocent baby.”
 
She added quietly, “I have seen too much killing and pain.”

“You are not on trial for the desires of your heart, Miss Van Horn—or we would be able to convict many in this room,” added Sherlock.

Ashanti stared at the Great Detective aghast as if she had fully expected to be the scapegoat for the murder.

“As we have learned, Miss Janvier was ever in search of greater reward, both in terms of riches and excitement.”
 
Sherlock returned his gaze to Chief Harting.
 
“And she was not a double agent but a triple agent.
 
Subsequently, she betrayed even you, did she not, Chief Harting?”

“Of course, I already said . . .”
 
He stood up, but his demeanor was perfectly calm.

“No, I am speaking of her betrayal of you, personally, not of her betrayal of Russia.
 
It wasn’t that you had attempted to inform the Czar of her duplicity—but that you dared not.
 
She was blackmailing you as well.
 
That is the source of your guilt, is it not?
 
That because you kept quiet, the Czar died.
 
She threatened to reveal your secret to the newspapers, did she not, in spite of the fact that your alliance had given her everything she had.”

“All the information was there!
 
It was as clear as the red blood on the white snow!” Harting exclaimed.
 
“It would have made no difference!”

“We’ll never know, will we, Mr. Harting?”

Mycroft’s cookie paused in mid-air as he stared at Chief Harting, suddenly very interested in the proceedings.

“She knew,” Sherlock leaned forward, “as you must, that you are the convicted terrorist Abraham Hackelman, and an escapee from prison.”

“You idiot!
 
You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Prince George, jumping up out of his seat, “The head of the Russian Imperialist Police a
terrorist
!”

“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” remarked Bertillon, smiling.

But a splash had been heard and Harting was out the window, landing in the Seine below.
 
In a short time he was out of view amidst the steamboats, although the commotion was further aggravated with people shouting and bells whistling.

“Attrapez-le! Attrapez le meurtrier!”
 
Catch him!
 
Catch the murderer!
 
Lieutenant Dubuque yelled out the window.

“Oh, but it wasn’t Harting who killed Miss Janvier,” remarked Sherlock, staring distractedly out the window as he moved to stand by the lieutenant.

“
Mon Dieu
!
 
But you said—” demanded Bertillon.
 
“He’s jumped out the window!”

“I didn’t direct Harting to jump out the window!” replied Sherlock, shaking his head in disapproval.
 
“I hardly think I can be blamed for that.”

“Possibly he has always had a longing to do such a thing,” Mycroft added.

“Why did Harting run then, if he wasn’t the killer?” demanded Bertillon

“I should think it would be obvious by now,” murmured Sherlock, wrinkling his brow in disappointment.
 
“He ran because he was found out.
 
Harting was a double-agent for years, acting as one of the revolutionaries, even being convicted and going to jail to maintain his cover, and eventually rising to the rank of Chief of Police in the Okhrana.”

“Harting is not, in truth, a terrorist,” considered Sir Edmund Henderson, who understood the workings of espionage as the head of Scotland Yard.
 
“He was merely convicted as one.
 
He was an underground agent.”
 

“Precisely,” added Sherlock.
 
“Harting was playing his role so well that no one knew he was working for the other side.
 
He was sent to jail as one of the revolutionaries.
 
It is extremely dangerous work to be a double-agent.”

“He might have learned something in jail,” considered Dr. Watson reluctantly.
 
“He had to keep his faith with the revolutionaries.”

“Even so, you can’t have the Director of the Russian Imperialist Police exposed as a convicted terrorist.
 
Very bad for the image,” argued Mycroft.
 
“What if the Prime Minister of England, or the President of the United States were exposed as a convicted terrorist?
 
Do you think they would long stay in power?”

“But only
think
—“ insisted Dr. Watson, joining the conversation.

“We may certainly think, Watson, but we can never force anyone else to do so, nor will we,” murmured Sherlock.

“
Alors!
 
I assure you that the publicity alone will damage the reputation of both the Okhrana and the Russian Czarist government,” considered Lieutenant Dubuque.
 
“Not to mention the French police that it was under their nose.”
 

“I am sorry to ask question, but . . . do you think they will catch Harting?” asked Ashanti.
 
Clearly she knew what it was to be hunted and to be in hiding.

“No possibility of that whatsoever,” stated Mycroft.

“Why?” demanded Prince George, inadvertently touching one of the medals on his sash.
 
“He should be tried.
 
It is the law.
 
If he is not guilty he will be released.”

“Remember that when Harting was convicted, many others were too,” considered Sir Edmund.
 
“Why was he never executed?
 
Because he was on the side all along of the Czars and he was merely doing his job.”