Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  The brothers are as different as night and day. She revised her earlier opinion of the similarity between them.

  Trill! While she sat down at their secluded table, she could hear the flute-like sound of a snake charmer luring the cobra out of its basket-home. She loved Bahadur, the white-bearded yogi, from the moment of meeting him. She could just catch a glimpse of his orange turban, yellow cotton tunic, and brown beige linen pants from behind the stage curtain.

  “A lemonade for our guest.” Mycroft motioned to an attendant standing some distance from them, obviously thinking of her comfort.

  She inhaled deeply, feeling as if she might swoon from the kindness. In an instant, she imagined that she saw a glow of light, not unlike a halo, around Mycroft Holmes’ head.

  “And what have you learned in the Cirque d’Hiver, Hudson?” Mycroft asked.

  Even in Mycroft’s addressing her as if she were a boy, the elder Holmes was definitely more playful than his brother. Sherlock was not without wit, but he used it to sting more often than not. And with those few words it was apparent that Mycroft Holmes was treating her with respect.

  “I found a key to the tigers’ cages among Veronika’s things,” she said without further ado. “And there was a red stain on her scarlet outfit—pale but there nonetheless.”

  “It certainly makes Miss Veronika appear to be our murderer, doesn’t it?” asked Mycroft. “She is a member of the anti-czarist group, we know: she had motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Unless the real murderer was attempting to frame her,” Sherlock considered. “The murderer would have destroyed the outfit, leading me to think that the key was planted.”

  “Veronika said as much,” Mirabella replied.

  Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disapproval. “Miss Vishnevsky knows that you know about the key? That was exceedingly careless of you, Miss Belle, and could put you in grave danger.”

  “I know. But I can’t help but feel that Veronika is not the murderer. She’s too sweet. Unlike Miss Janvier.”

  “Ah, but sometimes the cruel ones work harder to appear sweet,” Mycroft said. “Those who are themselves sometimes have less to hide.”

  Mirabella recounted the scene and her conversation with Veronika, to which Sherlock said, “Interesting.” He was often a man of few words while he was deep in thought, which was fine with her. He added, his mood now darkened, “And have you learned anything else, Miss Belle?”

  “In truth, I am too busy trying to stay alive to learn much!” exclaimed Mirabella. She hated to waste everyone’s time with a plea for her continued existence, but if it was not an important topic to them, it certainly was to her. “Might I have manned the taffy machine rather than be in the tiger’s den? Wouldn’t that work as well?”

  “Not much contact with Mr. Stanislav Afanasy with that endeavor,” said Sherlock.

  Mirabella considered the wisdom of her employer’s words, becoming thoughtful. “Stanislav does seem to disappear at regular intervals. Always on Sunday night. Or so Ricardo—he cleans the animals stalls—informed me.”

  “A regular outing,” Mycroft murmured. “Does Stanislav come back rowdy and smelling of drink?”

  “Stanislav sleeps in the men’s tent, of course, and I in the women’s, but I do keep an eye out through the slit in the tent.” Someone has to do the detective work here, and clearly no one else intends to. “He’s not stumbling or anything when he comes back. I have asked Ricardo and he says Stanislav has been drinking but not to excess. Ricardo says that Stanislav always comes back disturbed—and quiet.”

  “I hope that you were discreet in your questions, Miss Belle,” Sherlock interjected.

  “Naturally,” she replied. “Ricardo likes nothing more than to share his observations. I barely have to say a word.”

  “Not believable,” Sherlock considered.

  “I don’t doubt it,” murmured Dr. Watson. “All it takes is a pretty girl in the young man’s vicinity and he starts talking.”

  “What pretty girl?” Mirabella asked before understanding dawned, shaking her head in surprise. “Oh, no! He’s simply being friendly. Nothing of the sort.”

  “It was the part about Miss Belle not saying a word which I don’t find believable,” Sherlock stated, his expression reflective. He added languidly, “I do not dispute her beauty.”

  Compliments from Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The moon must be full.

  “When does Mr. Afanasy leave?” Mycroft interjected.

  “About six o’clock on Sunday nights,” recollected Mirabella.

  “We’ll have him trailed,” Mycroft remarked definitively, tapping his finger on the table.

  “Joëlle was not available on Sunday night,” considered Dr. Watson, rubbing his chin. “I assumed it was Prince George, but now I wonder . . .”

  “Don’t you have anyone trailing Miss Janvier, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

  “Of course. Dr. Watson,” Mycroft replied, waving his hand which revealed his diamond and gold cufflinks.

  “And you, Miss Belle, did you observe Prince George with Miss Janvier on Sunday night?” Sherlock asked.

  “No I didn’t,” Mirabella considered. “But she has a private room, she doesn’t sleep in the tent with the rest of the ladies. It is possible she has escaped my notice. Now, if you were to obtain a private room for me . . .”

  Mycroft pulled his watch out and glanced at it. He motioned to one of his staff who appeared to be his number one man, the same man who had attempted to stop her from joining the party. He was a large man and she was relieved she hadn’t had to engage in fisticuffs with him.

  “What time is my dinner engagement?”

  “Seven thirty, sir.”

  “Very good.” Mycroft nodded. “Do see if you can round up some fruit and cheese, my good man. Something light, I don’t wish to spoil my appetite.”

  “An impossibility, to be sure,” Sherlock murmured.

  “And some tea, please,” Mycroft added.

  “Certainly sir.”

  “We’d best add someone else on Sunday nights,” suggested Sherlock, once the attendant had withdrawn.

  “To trail each Miss Janvier and Stanislav? Definitely,” agreed Mycroft, who had apparently already mentally filed away the agenda despite appearing distracted.

  “We also must consider the animal trainer’s assistant as a murder suspect,” considered Sherlock, rubbing his unshaven chin with his hand.

  “I don’t think Ashanti thinks about anything except the tigers.” Mirabella shook her head. “Honestly. Ashanti is a lovely girl: quiet and shy. And she has taught me a great deal about the tigers—probably saved my life.” Thankfully someone cares about my life.

  “If Miss Van Horn can manage the tigers, she may be Beckham’s murderer,” Mycroft suggested.

  “Oh, no! I can’t believe Ashanti would do such a thing!” Mirabella exclaimed.

  Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. “And why is that, Miss Hudson?”

  “Because Ashanti knows right from wrong,” Mirabella stated definitively.

  “Ah. So Miss Vishnevsky isn’t the murderer because she is sweet. And Ashanti didn’t do it because she is righteous,” Sherlock stated.

  “And Miss Janvier: what dealings have you had with her, Miss Hudson?” asked Mycroft.

  “Oh, Joëlle taunts everyone: Stanislav is obviously in love with her—and she is so cruel to him, telling him how he is worthless. Why doesn’t Joëlle just leave him alone if she doesn’t like him? She is even mean to Ashanti! I have seen Joëlle whispering to the poor girl, and Ashanti running off crying. Ashanti wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”

  “Miss Janvier unkind?” Watson raised his eyebrows at this, as if surprised by the revelation. Dr. John Watson was a good man and a loyal friend, but sometimes he struck Mirabella as naïve. Particularly where women were concerned. “It’s difficult to believe someone so warm-blooded could be so cold-blooded,” John murmured.

  “Tsk! Tsk! Watson, I beg you to have a ca
re.” Sherlock turned to Mirabella. “Try to find out what Miss Janvier is taunting your friend with, Miss Hudson.”

  Why not? I’m doing everything else. In between the tiger attacks I shall do so.

  “Yes, sir.” Mirabella sighed, inwardly agreeing that there must be a great significance to Ashanti crying. Whether or not it was relevant to their case, Mirabella didn’t know, but if it was relevant to her friend, it mattered to her.

  “Obviously the bare-backed rider has something she could hurt Ashanti with,” Sherlock mused.

  “If Joëlle hasn’t already done so.”

  “Excellent work, Miss Hudson.” Mycroft looked up to bestow his dazzling smile upon her.

  Mirabella shrugged. She couldn’t see that she had accomplished anything—though no one could say she wasn’t giving one thousand percent.

  “The existence of the red-stained outfit has enormous implications,” Sherlock said, appearing to be deep in thought.

  “Do you think so, Holmes?” Watson asked.

  “Veronika Vishnevsky has no reason at all to encounter blood as she is removed from the animals, her act being one of dance. Neither is she prone to accidents in her act. If the harem outfit is, in fact, the garment worn by Beckham’s murderer, further promoted by the existence of the key, we now know that the murderer was a woman.” He tapped his finger on the table. “Which I suspected by the fact that Beckham was separated from his gun. More easily accomplished by a love interest.”

  “To our knowledge, only Miss Vishnevsky fall in that category,” Mycroft said.

  “Ah, but the murderer would have taken pains to be discreet.”

  “Discreet? Miss Janvier?” Watson laughed.

  “This is considerable progress,” Mycroft agreed. “Oh good, the refreshment is here. I am positively wilting.” Mycroft placed a grape in his mouth as he motioned for the tea to be poured.

  “Miss Hudson.” Sherlock turned to her once the servants had retired. “Do you still have the gun I gave you?”

  She nodded.

  “And do you keep it with you at all times?”

  “Where would I keep a gun in my costume, Mr. Holmes?” She knew it was not appropriate for women to discuss such things, but it was a particular sore point with her among many. “There is not enough material in my costume to cover my body! My aunt would be quite scandalized to see it!”

  “There is a pocket in the cape, is there not?” asked Sherlock.

  “I recall a lovely pink velvet cape,” remarked Watson.

  “Pink velvet is a complement to your chestnut brown hair, Miss Hudson,” Mycroft remarked, enjoying a strawberry. “Very advisable.”

  Watson turned to stare at the government official.

  “Have I offended you, my good Dr. Watson? I am not color blind.”

  “To be sure,” nodded Watson, his expression stiff.

  “Miss Hudson?” demanded Sherlock, his usual gruffness returning too quickly for her pleasure. “I asked you a question.”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” She was somewhat perplexed by all that had passed, not being accustomed to so much attention from men. But rather than all this male attention—the main purpose of which was to assign her more duties—if one or the other might simply arrange for a hot bath and a hot meal, that would warm her heart far more than compliments she could not take to the bank. Or to the wash basin as the case may be.

  “I desire you to have a weapon with you at all times, Miss Hudson,” Sherlock ordered sternly.

  “And do you think it is safe that I should be seen speaking to you?” Mirabella asked. “You have already said that my disguise is not convincing.”

  “She has a point, Holmes,” considered Watson. “Though in that disguise I would never have known her . . .”

  “We will resolve upon a better place to meet,” Sherlock nodded.

  “Perhaps we could meet somewhere where I might have a hot meal.” Mirabella turned to Dr. Watson. “I understand that you have taken Miss Janvier to Le Grand Véfour. I have heard it is very quaint and beautiful.” She sighed heavily.

  “It is marvelous. Yes, and everyone goes there, I have made a number of significant acquaintances while dining at Véfour,” remarked Mycroft, taking a sip of tea. “Napoleon and Josephine met there for their trysts; it is quite famous.”

  “If the point is to not be seen, obviously we will not meet there,” stated Sherlock.

  “And where are you staying, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella sighed heavily, turning to Sherlock.

  “At Le Grand Hôtel de la Paix,” answered Dr. Watson, nodding appreciatively. “Sometimes referred to as the Paris Le Grand.”

  “It is quite nice?” she asked breathlessly, staring into turquoise eyes.

  “Nice? I suppose so,” shrugged Sherlock. “I chose the hotel because it is only steps from the metro station.”

  “And close to the Opéra Garnier, the Louvre, Place Vendôme—and with a view of the Eiffel Tower,” interjected Mycroft as if he were being forced to undergo a great trial but was enduring it due to his devotion to discipline. “An acceptable location.”

  One thing Mirabella had observed in her short acquaintance with the Great Detective’s brother was that, in contrast to Sherlock’s almost compulsive discipline, his brother was devoted to enjoying himself. Most certainly Mycroft performed well in his trade, but it appeared to be rather an aside for him whereas Sherlock slept, ate, and breathed his profession.

  “Though I personally prefer the Hotel Pont Royal on the Left Bank,” murmured Mycroft.

  “On Saint-Germain des Prés?” asked Sherlock. “And why is that, brother dear? It is much smaller is it not?”

  “Precisely the point, Shirley,” agreed Mycroft,” and thus the Pont Royal is able to provide exceptional service. I, of course, do not require much, but it is desirable that my associates should have all they wish.”

  “The food is very good at the Pont Royal, I understand,” Watson said with a knowing glance.

  “Yes. Again, my needs are simple, but the food is good,” agreed Mycroft, taking a sip tea. “Predominantly I like the Pont Royal because it is so fashionable. I adore style—and it is a marvelous place to host a party. Beautiful décor, always fresh flowers. Everyone of importance has been there.”

  “And at the Pont Royal—do they have baths—with hot water?” she sighed longingly.

  Sherlock replied mundanely, “Now, my talkative agent, if we are quite finished discussing meaningless and pointless topics—and I assure you we are—let us return to the matter at hand.”

  “I expect that food and hot water are of little importance to you because you have them!” retorted Mirabella.

  “A lack of food won’t harm you, my girl,” concluded Sherlock, scanning her figure, “and hot water is completely unnecessary to our purpose. If we might return to matters of national security and away from your need of pampering?”

  “True, I have been terribly spoilt . . . locked in a cage with fierce jungle carnivores.”

  “Do forgive this behavior. I am accustomed to it, but no doubt you are not.” Sherlock frowned, turning to the others present. “Miss Hudson is young, and has not yet learned the importance of devotion to one’s profession.”

  A knife flashed by out of her side vision. Ah, the knife throwers were at it again. I wish I had one.

  She directed her gaze to Mycroft, pointedly ignoring Sherlock. “As long as you are asking after my comfort, sir, I do have a question. I should like to know how I ended up in the tiger’s den while Dr. Watson is wining and dining to his heart’s content each night and Sherlock is comfortably situated in an opulent hotel.”

  “To each according to his abilities,” replied Mycroft without the slightest hesitation, accenting his words with a winning smile at precisely the right moment. “The most difficult pursuits must necessarily go to the most capable.”

  Goodness sakes, the elder brother was in possession of a charm so great he could make one believe that it was a great honor to be shot by t
he firing squad. She began to doubt that he and Sherlock came from the same womb.

  What struck her immediately was that Mycroft Holmes was in possession of an unmatched charisma. Whereas the electrical field about Sherlock propelled him on in jagged bursts of flame, reminiscent of insects hovering about one in the most annoying fashion—or of lightning bolts frying one’s intestines—Mycroft obviously harnessed the field as a warm glow emanating from him.

  “Tsk. Tsk. I can assure you, my dear Mycroft, that were we to outfit Miss Hudson in the Queen’s Palace she would complain about the accommodations.”

  “I rarely complain,” she muttered. She glanced at Sherlock who was smiling sardonically as if it were all a joke.

  “You never heard anyone protest so much as when we enrolled her in Miss de Beauvais Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies,” Sherlock continued, unabated, pulling on his brocade vest in a decided but genteel manner. “We outfitted her in jewelry and gorgeous gowns. All she had to do was sit about and drink tea, embroider and chat all day and you would have thought we had placed her in a medieval torture chamber.”

  “All I had to do?” she objected indignantly. “I was also required to learn fencing, Jiu-Jitsu, and boxing in addition to hand-to-hand combat. To which I never objected.”

  “Never objected? You, Miss Belle?” Sherlock laughed heartily, a sight which seemed to both surprise and amuse Mycroft exceedingly.

  “Miss Hudson,” interjected Mycroft. “You work for my brother. I should think the tiger’s den is not that great of a change for you.”

  Mirabella saw that her cause was lost. She studied Mycroft. “If I may ask, that you are so apparently social, while your brother—“

  “—Could give a rat’s ass?” finished Watson, laughing.

  “We are much more alike than you might think,” remarked Sherlock. “Rest assured that Mycroft, like myself, could care less what anyone thinks of him. However, unlike me, he enjoys people immensely. But we don’t have time to go into that here.”