Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “You don’t seem in a great hurry to conclude the case, Watson,” murmured Sherlock under his breath. He could not help but feel some relief that Watson’s attention was diverted from Miss Belle by Joëlle Janvier and Miss Veronika. But Sherlock knew his duty to his friend. “I assure you that Miss Janvier is not one to play with. You might find that you are the mouse and she the cat, Watson.”

  “TO THE DEATH! KILL THE BLAGGARD!” The knife throwers shouted the sword fighters on.

  Mycroft took a sip of the lemonade just provided. He turned to his aide who was standing beside him. “Do see if you can procure some of that pink spun candy, my good man. It looks quite appealing.”

  The attendant nodded and vanished.

  Mycroft pulled an ornate oriental fan from his pocket and began fanning himself with it, but his gaze remained fixed on Watson. One of Mycroft’s aides moved forward in an obvious attempt to take over the fan duties, but Mycroft motioned the attendant to keep his distance.

  Excellent decision. Sherlock nodded in approval. In addition to the security concerns, waving the thin fan about might be all the exercise Mycroft had that day.

  “Rowwwwwwaaaaaa!!” an elephant roared on the stage below them as its trainer urged the animal up on two legs, a sort of domino game with ten thousand pound animals being played, four on each side of center. A midget standing on his head moved in and out of the elephants.

  Mycroft glanced about him. “It is rather like the Roman army collided into a rainbow, is it not? Gad, the resplendent cerulean blue and pulsating pink is atrocious! The blinding lights and screaming color positively give one a headache!”

  “To hell with your headache, Mycroft!” retorted Sherlock through a clenched jaw, lowering his voice with effort. “Why the devil did you call this meeting here in this public place?”

  Mycroft sighed heavily. “Miss Janvier already knows you and Watson to have a business arrangement of sorts, our meeting only confirms it if word were to get back to her.” Mycroft knew very well that he stood out wherever he went—an effect he worked ardently to promote. “And who am I? A mere mid-level government official. No one has the slightest idea who I am—or cares.”

  “Stated in your characteristically modest fashion,” Sherlock murmured.

  “Humility is apparently a family characteristic,” muttered Watson.

  “As far as anyone knows I am your brother come to visit Paris. To attempt secrecy is the worst thing we could do, making it appear that we have something to hide. Someone would see us beyond a doubt.” Mycroft tapped his manicured finger on the small table, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Moreover, if Miss Janvier does get nervous, that tells us a great deal. A mere circus girl would have no way of finding out who we are—and would not care.”

  “It must be delightful to always be so confident in the thoughts and behavior of everyone around you, in the laws of nature, and even in the weather,” Sherlock muttered. “And in the meantime, if Watson is murdered, we shall write it up to a miscalculation.”

  “The weather? Not at all!” Mycroft pointed to his umbrella leaning against the wall. “And I must say, Shirley, you are a bit of a curmudgeon today—even for yourself.”

  I had thought it myself. Usually I am in a state of ecstasy when working on a case. . It seems I have not been able to do anything but worry about Miss Belle’s safety for the last month—and now Watson . . . I who hire children to work for me—the Baker Street Irregulars—whom I worry less about than these two adults. “Curmudgeon? Nothing of the sort. I am a pragmatist and a teller of truth, neither of which suits you, Mycroft.”

  “To be sure,” Mycroft replied smugly.

  “The relevant point is that I can understand being confident in oneself, but do not be overconfident about the forces of evil around us—or in the predictability of behaviors,” Sherlock mused.

  “Strange coming from you, Holmes,” Watson said.

  Mycroft languidly took a sip of lemonade. “And Dr. Watson has successfully become one of the divine Miss Janvier’s suitors, not so easily accomplished for the average bon homme.”

  “It is my patriotic duty,” murmured Watson, a wicked smile forming on his lips. He was handsomely dressed in a dark jacket and vest teamed with beige pants, his face shaven and his sideburns and hair stylishly cut. The man was a veritable advertisement for male grooming.

  “I don’t believe you are fully aware of the sacrifices which this dear fellow has made, Mycroft,” stated Sherlock solemnly, his glass still untouched.

  “Reasonably aware. I have seen the bill,” said Mycroft, patting his forehead with his handkerchief. “At least the lady is much less in Prince George’s company since the good doctor came upon the scene. To be quite honest, I am simply mortified the old duke will say something he shouldn’t to our beautiful sequined rider.”

  “I fear Watson will over-exert himself,” Sherlock said. “He has been romancing both Miss Janvier and Miss Vishnevsky, with attentions to the latter in a purported attempt to determine her likelihood as a suspect in Beckham’s murder.”

  “Indeed. It is too much for one man,” Mycroft said, now holding the candy cone in his hand, meticulously pinching off small bites so as to preserve his immaculate dress while clearly enjoying the spun sugar. “Exhausting.”

  “I am managing. It is better I should do the job than you should hire two men,” Watson said.

  “True. It simplifies things,” Mycroft agreed.

  “And at the close of our case we shall have only one more dead agent instead of two,” muttered Sherlock.

  “I have confirmed that Miss Vishnevsky is both Russian and in the anti-Czarist movement,” Watson added.

  “Definitely a suspect,” Sherlock murmured.

  “Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “Miss Vishnevsky would certainly not wish to be exposed to the Czar’s government.”

  “But does Miss Vishnevsky have the temperament and the intelligence to enact such a cold-blooded murder?” Watson considered.

  “Miss Vishnevsky’s family history is not good. She puts her father’s death at the Czar’s door,” Mycroft added.

  “As did Miss Janvier,” Sherlock added.

  “Miss Janvier has the current advantage of being protected by the Czar’s government which is not available to Miss Vishnevsky,” Mycroft said. “The threat of the Czar’s police makes Miss Vishnevsky a greater suspect in my mind.”

  “In theory at least,” Sherlock said. “But your view from the chair can be different from the reality. It takes interaction and legwork to know with a certainty.”

  “It appears that the good doctor is covering that for us.” Mycroft lowered his cotton candy that he might see Watson more clearly.

  “And what have you learned about Miss Janvier?” Sherlock asked.

  “Miss Janvier did say something interesting,” considered John Watson, shaking his head at the pink fluff offered to him.

  “Ah. And what is that, Watson?” asked Sherlock.

  “Joëlle said that, about the time of her marriage, she made two additional vows for a total of three vows—and that only one of the vows did she take seriously.” He cleared this throat. “I can guarantee you that it isn’t her marriage vow.”

  “An extremely revealing comment,” considered Sherlock.

  “Hmmmph,” suggested Mycroft, his mouth full with candy.

  “The three vows were—“ Watson began.

  “—Hello!” Sherlock sat up suddenly, speaking over Watson in the excitement of his sudden realization. Finally they were making progress! “I have no doubt one of the vows would include revolutionary activity.”

  “Yes, and, the other—“ continued Watson patiently.

  “—but we now know that Miss Janvier is on the Okhrana’s payroll,” interjected Mycroft, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s in the excitement of discovery.

  “The Okhrana? The Russian Imperialist Police and protector of the Czar?” exclaimed Dr. Watson. “That might have been very helpful information to convey. When
did you intend to inform your operatives of this fact?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Mycroft asked politely.

  “It is for the best that Mycroft didn’t tell you, Watson,” Sherlock said.

  “Better not to lay the facts before me?” demanded Dr. Watson.

  “Beyond a doubt. It could only lead to mental laziness,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

  “Holmes, I should land you a facer!” Watson muttered, a flash of anger in his eyes.

  “Giving you too much information would only skew your observations and interject your conclusions with a bias,” said Sherlock. “And I suppose it is all irrelevant. Simply because she is being paid by the Okhrana, doesn’t mean that’s where her allegiance lies. She could be a double agent.”

  “QUIET!” ordered Watson. “I’m trying to tell you what I have learned, if you could only but stop speculating theoretically for an instant!”

  “Really, my man, we’re all ears,” murmured Mycroft, his eyes running over Dr. Watson with disapproval. Mycroft shrugged, holding out the empty cone of his cotton candy while one of his attendants rushed forward to take it from him. In general the entourage stood just far enough away so as to be out of hearing range but to be immediately available should Mycroft need his lips patted with a handkerchief or his shoes tied.

  “Why don’t you tell us, Watson, rather than keeping us waiting? We’ve a case to solve,” Sherlock said. “Clearly the vows were to her husband in marriage, to the revolutionaries, and to the Czar, the latter two being on opposite sides.”

  Watson sighed heavily. “Yes. Precisely my conclusion. Joëlle let it slip that she once made a vow to kill the Czar—that vow was unquestionably made to the revolutionaries.”

  “Is this the vow she kept?” Mycroft posed. “And, if so, did she assist with the murder of Alexander II? And is she still plotting to kill Alexander III?”

  “She claims that she had nothing to do with the assassination,” Watson said. “But she became noticeably angry, as if I had come close to the mark.”

  “I wonder,” Sherlock murmured. “If Miss Janvier was on the Czar’s side, she was sadly ineffective in protecting him from the assassination.”

  “Ah, with friends like that, who needs enemies?” Mycroft agreed.

  “Why wasn’t the Czar told not to go out in the carriage that day? If Miss Janvier knew of the attack . . .” Sherlock grew pensive.

  “Maybe he was,” Mycroft added. “If Alexander II had not left the bullet-proof carriage either, he would not have been killed. It was insanity to do so given the circumstances. He didn’t show the best of judgment. Perhaps he believed himself to be invincible.”

  “Whether or not she is still part of the revolutionary movement, Miss Janvier indicated that she was never loyal to it,” Watson added.

  “If she was telling the truth, that only leaves the Okhrana as the one vow she kept,” Sherlock said. “A fairly big ‘if’.”

  Watson paused, as if running her words through his mind. “Yes, she was strangely emotionless in revealing her true allegiance.”

  “Capital work, Watson!” Mycroft exclaimed, staring at Sherlock’s friend in surprise. “You shall make a detective of him yet, Shirley.”

  “I must admit that I was initially perplexed,” stated Watson, leaning back in his chair. “The Okhrana is the opposing force to the revolutionaries. It didn’t precisely make sense to me that one of her vows would then be to the revolutionaries.”

  “Ah, but it does,” said Sherlock. “If she were, in fact, working for the Czar, it would be quite natural that she should be spying on revolutionary groups pretending to be one of them. I would expect her to do nothing else.”

  “Yes, Miss Janvier would naturally have to take a vow of allegiance to the revolutionary cause while infiltrating the group,” agreed Mycroft.

  “But the question remains,” posed Sherlock, leaning back in his chair and looking quite content, “where does her true allegiance lie—with the revolutionaries or the Okhrana?”

  “Clearly she has no difficulty in lying,” Watson said.

  “And, in fact, may take some pride in it,” Mycroft agreed.

  “I think there is a way to resolve the question of where her allegiance lies,” stated Watson. “Even though Miss Janvier has made excellent work of confusing the issue, for my part I would expect her loyalty to be wherever the most money lay.”

  “Assuming she has any loyalties, Watson,” murmured Sherlock. “In my mind Miss Janvier is a wild card.”

  “True. To be quite honest I would be very surprised if the elusive Miss Janvier held to any ideals at all,” chuckled Watson.

  “What do you think motivates the beautiful Miss Janvier then, Dr. Watson?” asked Mycroft pointedly.

  “Her own pleasure,” Watson replied off-handedly. “And nothing more or less.”

  “The Czar can offer far more money than the revolutionary groups, which are no doubt unpaid, being formed on high ideals. A shortage of money is the primary reason the revolutionary groups exist to begin with. And yet,” mused Sherlock. “It all begs the question.”

  “Who killed Beckham?” asked Mycroft. “And why?”

  “And to which cause would we wish any of British military secrets leaked?” Sherlock posed. “The Russian Czar or the Russian revolutionaries?”

  “Neither,” stated Mycroft.

  Sherlock turned to Watson. “So have a care.”

  Mycroft added, “We know that anti-Czarist activity is widespread here at the Circus. But was Beckham killed because he had the names of all those involved—or because he had learned something about the murderer personally?”

  “Indeed.” Sherlock nodded. “Beyond a doubt there are dark days ahead.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Seeds of Revolution

  As Sherlock’s mood was blackening, a slight young man of medium height approached. Looking nervously about himself, he wore a loose smock, a wide-brimmed straw hat as might be seen worn by a laborer in the fields, and a moustache which appeared too thick for his young age. One of Mycroft’s guards stepped in between the party and the young man with a decidedly threatening stance.

  Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the intruder, a slight smile on his lips, adding in quiet undertones, “Here comes our other operative.”

  Mycroft motioned to his guard to allow the visitor in overalls to join them, all seated in the shadows behind the Cirque d’Hiver stage, inasmuch as anything in the Cirque d’Hiver was in shadow.

  “Ah, Miss Hudson,” Sherlock murmured in a low tone as she sat down.

  “And how did you know it was me, Mr. Holmes? I thought my disguise was reasonably good.”

  “You cannot simply put on different clothes and add a moustache, Miss Hudson. You must also speak the part—and move as your subject would move,” Sherlock admonished, shaking his head.

  Sherlock was certainly one to criticize one’s presentation! He looked half-mad, his eyes jutting everywhere. His hair was tousled, and he was unshaven. And yet, somehow he managed to look . . .well . . . masculine instead of disheveled. His dark, navy pants were neatly pressed at least. No doubt the hotel where he was staying took care of that.

  The hotel with hot water.

  And a private room in which to bathe. How she missed her room, her wash basin, and her bar of Pears’ soap at Baker Street!

  She closed her eyes momentarily. Who would have thought one might have such sweet dreams about a bar of soap?

  “And how should I have moved?” she asked as complacently as she could muster, biting her lip.

  “Most certainly not with that sway of the hips which you employ.”

  Moving her eyes to the other two men in the party, now visible even in the shadows and through the blind of a straw hat, her jaw dropped.

  Sherlock’s older brother is positively exquisite.

  “My brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, as if knowing where her eyes alighted.

  “There is no need to tell m
e that,” she murmured, quickly tipping her hat up that she might get a better view.

  “They are very much alike, are they not?” John Watson asked.

  She nodded, experiencing a rare moment when she was unable to find words. After a long pause she whispered, “And yet, so different.”

  The resemblance was uncanny, Sherlock and Mycroft were clearly related, but where the Great Detective was inattentive to his appearance and managed to blend in when he wished to, this striking brother of his was of a larger build and taller. Mycroft Holmes could not blend in if it were the greatest desire of his heart.

  The elder brother was impeccably dressed in a modish style with a crisp white shirt, a silk grey paisley vest the color of his steel-grey eyes, black top hat, and black tails, as if he were going to a society dress party rather than the circus! The tips of his shirt collar were very high and starched and he wore a fancy bowtie in a grey satin, further accentuating his melancholy—but dreamy!—grey eyes.

  She glanced at the current object of her infatuation. Whereas Dr. John Watson was well-dressed, Mycroft Holmes was splendid. She wasn’t man crazy, truly she wasn’t, Mirabella assured herself, but neither was she blind.

  Her eyes moving to Sherlock, Mirabella reflected that Mycroft was at least three inches taller than his younger brother. Sherlock was only somewhat taller than average height, allowing the Great Detective to successfully utilize his various disguises, at times requiring a slight bending of his torso. An overly tall man would be too easily identifiable, as well as one in possession of any remarkably distinctive features. In point of fact, Sherlock had chiseled, aristocratic features. It was a credit to his abilities in disguise that had learned how to make himself less identifiable.

  “An honor to be sure, Monsieur Hudson.” Mycroft bowed his head momentarily, a teasing smile on his lips, as if conveying a compliment to her costume.

  If her jaw was not already dropped, she dropped it then. Mycroft’s words were a decided affront to Sherlock for having criticized her! But the elder Holmes brother made his remarks with a lightness of manner which could be offensive to no one.