“H-h-how is that your fault?” Mirabella asked, remembering how recently she herself had had such a fall.
“It is their instinct to attack when you run or become like prey. There can be no sudden movements, you see.”
Gasp! “They attacked because you fell?” Mirabella repeated, wrapping her arms around her waist, thinking of the high-heeled shoes she was required to wear which were so difficult to walk in.
“Ja. They go in for kill when they see one who is weak. It is instinct.” Mummy Girl nodded her head. “So don’t trip and you will be fine.”
Mirabella felt her head spinning. “Even as the presenter, I thought I was merely supposed to stand about and look pretty, maybe crack the whip about. I thought Mr. Afanasy took care of the tigers.”
“That is true. All you must do is not fall.” The girl moved forward, waving her right crutch in a circle, adding, “And do not look like prey.”
Mirabella felt herself hyperventilating as she clutched her throat with her hands.
“Do not worry. You have only to be presenter. I want to be trainer.”
“Whyever would you wish to do that, Miss?” Mirabella exclaimed, her terror momentarily displaced by shock. Have you lost your mind as well as your body? Mirabella thought the wise course would be to run from the circus and to take the first boat for London.
“Ich liebe sie,” the girl replied tenderly. I love them.
“After they did . . . this . . . to you?” Mirabella motioned to the girl’s body, entirely covered in bandages.
“Of course. They do what they are made to do.” Mirabella thought of the singularly disturbing Sherlock Holmes, doing precisely what he was made to do—solving crime. The world’s first consulting detective. If Sherlock were any less annoying that he was, he would not be the best. The mummy girl added, “And usually—they do whatever I ask them to do—even though they don’t wish it. The tigers they are my friends.”
“Who are you?” Mirabella asked abruptly. She did not wish to be impolite, but she had never before talked to a girl covered in bandages bearing tidings of her imminent death.
“Ashanti Van Horn.” Somehow the mummy girl’s strange accent was comforting in that it was distracting Mirabella from the fatal prophecy. The girl spoke English but as if her native language were something close to German.
“And what is your name?” Ashanti asked.
“Mirabella.” But you can call me ‘Dead Girl’.
“Is your accent . . . German?” Mirabella asked.
“Dutch,” she replied. “But I know a little German.”
“And you work in the circus?” Studying the poor girl, even through the bandages Mirabella could tell that her guest was tall and muscular, with an athletic build. Her bone structure was slim but shapely and her legs were unusually long like her own. Standing out in an appearance which was surprising in every way was her visitor’s puffy lips. Possibly the girl’s mouth was accentuated because the mummy girl was covered in bandages and it was one of the few parts of her body visible. Or possibly she was swollen from head to toe and her lips were no exception.
“I will never leave circus,” the girl murmured, moving towards Pasha’s cage.
Oh, you may leave quite suddenly, Mirabella reflected. But not in the way you imagine.
Pasha began pawing at the cage. Ashanti put her face very close to the cage and the tiger licked her bandaged cheek.
“Stand back!” Mirabella commanded in a whisper through gritted teeth. “You shouldn’t get that close!” Clearly the girl had no concept of danger, had lost her mind, and was, in all likelihood, insane.
The mummy girl put her hand next to the cage—which one was never to do!—and Pasha licked her hand.
“You must nicht be afraid. Your fear they can see.”
“The blind in Siberia can see my fear,” Mirabella murmured.
“They’re so big.” The mummy girl said, stating the obvious. “Even when they love you and play with you, can hurt you without meaning to. You know damage a ten-pound housecat can do. Pasha, he is Bengal tiger and weighs four hundred pounds.”
“That makes me feel a great deal better.” Mirabella swallowed.
“They’re tigers,” Ashanti giggled, which was a strange sound emanating from a mummy just risen from the dead. “Look at tiny cage. In wild tigers are most territorial and roam the large spaces. A cage would make any creature miserable, but it inflicts particular suffering on tiger.”
Mirabella looked at Pasha’s huge head, gazing lovingly at Ashanti.
She was coo-ing at a wild beast. Such a bizarre sight. Particularly since one moment ago the girl had been shy and cautious in front of a harmless female laboratory assistant. How odd that the girl should feel more comfortable with the ferocious beast who had attacked her than with a human being.
Mirabella somehow managed not to make a sound although her strongest instinct was to run from the circus screaming. She didn’t want to startle the tiger while Ashanti’s hand was near the cage.
“What do you think is biggest cat?” Ashanti asked, withdrawing her hand.
“The Lion, of course. King of the Jungle,” Mirabella answered mechanically.
“No,” Ashanti shook her head. “Lions seem larger because of their mane, but the tiger, she is bigger. Male lions, they weigh 320 – 500 pounds, but the male tiger he weighs 500-700 pounds. Shikar, the Siberian, weighs six hundred, but the Siberians, they can weigh up to seven hundred pounds.”
Mirabella swallowed hard, whispering, “Twice as big as the Bengal.”
“Look at how they are treated. And yet he licks my face and my hand. How can you not love him?”
“I suppose he can’t help being a ferocious killer,” Mirabella said.
“Ja,” Ashanti nodded. “That is how the gods they made him. I tell you secret.”
“Yes?”
“I never use whip myself. I carry it because I am required to, but I use it not.”
“How do you get the wild beast to do what you wish?”
“I talk to him. He knows what I say, and he choose to do it. I find what each of them they like to do. Some they like to roll over, and Evangeline she will go through a ring of fire. Unusual for a cat. They fear the fire.”
“Is this the animal that . . . did Pasha do this to you?”
She nodded. “He is sorry for what he did. Stanislav, he teaches them with fear. But because Pasha loves me, he did not kill me. If he had feared me, in the moment that the fear it was overcome, he would have killed me. You hear of many injuries, but very few killings. Believe me, if the tiger he wants to kill you, it will be over in a second. It was a warning.”
“My heart begs to heed the warning.” She swallowed hard. “Do you know why the tiger attacked the English gentleman?”
“How you know about that?”
“It was in all the papers. Are these tigers particularly ferocious?”
Fury crossed Ashanti’s face. “Goro was killed after that. Not right. Goro was sweet tiger.”
“Sweet?”
“Something was done to make Goro mean.” There was pure vengeance in Ashanti’s eyes. “If I find out who did it, I will kill him.”
“Are you . . . will you get better, Miss Van Horn?”
“I’ll perform again. The wound almost severed my leg, I had face lacerations and a hole in my shoulder.”
“Why do you stay?” gasped Mirabella.
“I love them.” Ashanti answered simply. “And I had very bad life before this.”
“Worse than . . . this?”
“Much worse,” she murmured. “And when the bright lights they come on, the chute door it opens, and the tigers they leap into the air roaring, there can be nicht to match the joy I feel in my heart in that instant.”
“I am quite happy without joy,” murmured Mirabella. “Ecstatic, in fact.”
“That I have seen. I have watched you. I had to make sure you deserve my tigers.”
“What do you mean?”
Mirabella looked deep into Ashanti’s dark eyes, still black and bruised, knowing that she would never be able to fool her. “I can’t tell you, Miss Van Horn, but I assure you that I mean no harm to the tigers.”
“Why are you here?” Ashanti repeated, unmoved.
“I must work if I am to eat,” Mirabella replied. This was entirely the truth.
“But you have not worked with animals, Miss Mirabella. That is not your occupation.”
“Everyone must have a first day sometime.” Mirabella felt discouraged and embarrassed; she was clearly incapable at pretending to be anyone other than herself despite having the master of disguise as her teacher. Every time she had gone undercover she had been most unconvincing: first as a debutante, now as a circus presenter.
Ashanti tapped her gloved finger to her bandaged face. “Is something you want to find out. Is why you are here.”
“Something I want to find out?” Mirabella repeated suspiciously.
“Ja.” Ashanti nodded. “Like spy.”
“You think I am a spy?” giggled Mirabella, acting amused though feeling alarmed. Oh, Goodness! If this young girl can see right through me, can someone else?
“It is nicht so easy to fool me,” admonished Ashanti, as if continuing to read her mind. “Mine auntie she has taught me the old ways. And . . . there are others.”
“Other spies?” Mirabella giggled, attempting to appear as silly and foolish as possible.
Ashanti pursed her lips, saying nothing.
“I am sure I would be no better at spying than I am with the tigers!” exclaimed Mirabella, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Probably you are right about that,” agreed Ashanti, nodding. “You do not know how to lie.”
I’ll have to work on that.
Mirabella motioned to the tigers. “Do the tigers like to do the show?”
Ashanti laughed at her foolishness, which seemed to be a general source of amusement in every court. “They are solitary. They require much less light to see than humans. And their hearing it is best sense—even better than sight. The high pitches and loud noises on tigers is very hard.”
“It is all some have ever known, I suppose. And perhaps they live longer than in the wild,” considered Mirabella.
“Do you know, I adopted a sickly tiger cub, Rajah, and he lives with me—when I am well. We are working on a show.”
“You live with a tiger? How ridiculously dangerous!” Mirabella glanced at Rajah in his cage, aghast at the idea.
I live with a tiger as well, Mirabella reflected upon further consideration. One learns to adjust.
“Not dangerous with Rajah,” Ashanti smiled, watching the direction of Mirabella’s eyes. “When I can care for him he will come back to live with me. Stanislav thinks I am verrückt—crazy—but every now and again there is special one, Ja? You can just tell.”
Yes, you can. And you should run for the hills.
Ashanti sighed, her eyes caressing Rajah. “I cannot bear to see him in this little cage. And he loves the bath. Most people don’t know that tigers they love the water.”
And meat. They love the flesh.
Ashanti turned to stare at Mirabella with disapproval.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” Mirabella asked.
“I saw you let Shikar get broom handle in show tonight.”
“Of course I did! Shikar weighs six hundred pounds; if he wants the broom, he can have the broom!” she swallowed hard, remembering the tug-of-war with the tiger. “Honestly, I didn’t like the broom that much, anyway.”
“You can’t let the tigers get away with anything. Even small things, Especially small things. It is little actions teach them you are in charge.”
“Oh, have you been misinformed, Miss Ashanti? Why can you not see what is to obvious to me and everyone else? It is the tiger who is in charge! All the tiger has to do is grab you, shake you a few times, and you’re dead.”
“You must call them by name,” admonished Ashanti, ignoring her outburst. “They know when you have not taken trouble to learn their names.”
“Of course! I don’t want to make the nice kitty mad! Let us practice their names.” As a matter of fact, Mirabella knew all the tigers’ names, but she wished for a disruption in the mummy girl’s stare, which was torturous in that it was almost as penetrating as Sherlock Holmes’ piercing gaze.
“Siberian Tiger—largest tiger—that is Shikar,” Ashanti began, reviewing their names. “The white tiger, and sweetest and most beautiful—that is Rajah. Golden, the rarest of all the tigers, is Evangeline. Bengal—male is only around four hundred pounds—that is Pasha, Andrei, Major, Prince, Cleo, and Zamba.”
“Can you teach me how to manage the cats, Ashanti?” Mirabella gulped. “I so wish to live.”
Ashanti laughed as she waved her crutch in the air, her smile the only thing visible beneath her bandages. “I’ll teach you everything I know, Miss. I don’t know why you’re here, but for some strange reason, I trust you. I don’t trust anyone. But whyever you are here, I would hate to see you die.”
“I would truly hate that too,” Mirabella murmured. She swallowed hard.
Run! A voice inside her head was screaming to her. Leave the circus!
But instead, like an idiot I will ignore the voice of reason and do as the great Sherlock Holmes commands. Staring at the crazy girl covered in bandages, when she should have been the most afraid, somehow Mirabella knew in her heart in that moment that she would go forward. That she would complete this assignment—even if it meant she had to go back in the tigers’ ring.
I must be insane too.
Do I do this for Sherlock? Or is it an insatiable desire to solve the case?
At that moment Mirabella made a commitment to herself to act in spite of her fright—it was an impossibility that she should overcome her fear of a very real danger, but act in spite of it she could. And she made another commitment: she would never again wear the red high-heeled shoes. Only the slippers. She would have every possible advantage on her side.
She frowned. The cut of her costume was surely low enough to take attention away from her feet. As a matter of fact, her usual undergarments revealed less than her performing outfit! Her chemise, drawers, and corset alone covered more than the red satin circus costume!
Mirabella didn’t know which was more terrifying—the tigers or the humiliation of parading herself about like a loose woman. She was a decent, God-fearing girl, but no one would believe it who saw her in that ensemble. It was the height of embarrassment. If she weren’t so frozen in fright from the tigers, she wouldn’t be able to present herself half-naked before all those people.
And yet, reflecting on her humiliation over her costume, the other ladies she knew in the circus were just working girls like herself trying to feed and house themselves while attempting to live long enough to have a life.
Mirabella sighed. Somehow she knew that, if she survived, she would never be afraid of anything else again.
That was a big ‘if’.
Staring at this girl who looked like a walking mummy, Mirabella’s peculiar companion seemed the most unlikely teacher in the world.
And very likely this mummy girl was her angel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aladdin's Lamp
“Tell me, my dear Watson,” Sherlock asked, “are you enjoying yourself?”
“Absolutely not,” murmured Watson. “Dreadful piece of business.”
“Hallo, Doctor John!” waved one of the four dancing girls of Baghdad, all dressed in sheer outfits and looking as if they had only just emerged from Aladdin’s lamp.
“Hello, Chloe´,” Watson smiled, nodding. “Elise. Francine. Veronika.” A blur of giggling gold, chartreuse, indigo, and scarlet chiffon floated by.
“And what progress are you making, Dr. Watson?” asked Mycroft, motioning to his minions to place a small table
with refreshments next to their seats just off the stage in the Cirque d’Hiver.
“I should think Watson’s progress is fairly obvious,” murmured Sherlock, his eyes trailing after the dancing girls.
“I understand that Miss Vishnevsky—the dancing girl in scarlet—was a particular favorite of Beckham’s,” Mycroft murmured, studying the trail of color.
“Beckham, like Watson, was pleased to spend time with the ladies,” Sherlock said, turning a critical eye to Watson. “Beckham’s interest wasn’t necessarily part of his investigation.”
“And did you travel all the way from London merely to see us, Mycroft?” Watson asked cordially, taking a seat.
Sherlock muttered under his breath. “The death of a British agent and the head of the British army walking into a Russian spy ring would warrant a slight effort, even on Mycroft’s part.”
“It isn’t far, just across the channel,” Mycroft drawled lazily, sitting down. Even before his black tails touched the chair, his attendants were obviously in the process of procuring refreshments for the small party of three. The elder Holmes brother was impeccably dressed in the highest style, as if he were going to a fancy dinner party—which he no doubt was after their meeting on the circus grounds. “I come to Paris often. All the fashionable people are here.”
“Except when you’re in London, old boy,” interjected Sherlock.
“Very true,” agreed Mycroft. His slight paunch as caused by his lack of physical activity and hedonistic lifestyle was easily hidden as well by his height and superb tailoring, which did not deter in the least from his dashing good looks. Only in a boxing match would the differences in the brothers’ comparative physiques become apparent, Sherlock reflected, being in the habit of analyzing appearances for the purpose of disguise.
Whizzzzz! The Whirling Dervishes of Constantinople somersaulted by. This was followed by a duel by the sword fighters, shouted on by the knife throwers, which gave every appearance of being a fight to the death.
Mycroft turned to the doctor. “And have you learned anything about Miss Janvier, Watson?”
“She is reluctant to give up her relationship with Prince George,” replied Watson, his expression contemplative. “Whether or not it is the game she enjoys or there is a political reason for her interest in Prince George I have not yet determined.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 13
