“Very true,” agreed Mycroft. “I only have two hours to dress for dinner.”
Mirabella stared at the elder Holmes brother in disbelief. What more did the citadel of fashion need to do?
Dr. Watson tipped his hat to the debonair gentleman seated beside him. “Now the truth comes out, Mycroft. The fact is that you like to socialize as much as the Lutheran Ladies’ Knitting Club of Paddington Place likes to gossip.”
“Socializing and gossip are synonymous.” Mycroft demurred. “And, if I were not a gossip, I would never have made a name for myself in government. Gossip is the essence of politics.”
“What do you mean?” Mirabella asked, perplexed. “You have a respected position in government, Mr. Holmes!”
Sherlock patted his lips with his handkerchief, smiling smugly. “The very nature of Mycroft’s work is that the information of every government department descends upon him wherewith he assimilates, discards the useless, reorganizes the relevant, and spits out the conclusions which were invisible to everyone else.”
“So information is Mycroft’s trade?” asked Watson, his lips curving in amusement.
“Precisely,” nodded Sherlock, taking his pipe out of his pocket. “Gossip.”
“I had understood that serving the people is the essence of politics,” suggested Watson.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Sherlock with unusual merriment.
“Oh! Ho! ho!” joined in Mycroft, lightly punching his brother in the arm in an uncharacteristic moment of camaraderie. “Where did you find him, Shirley?”
“Most amusing,” added Sherlock, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face. The Great Detective was in a rare state of joviality. “Though I shan’t say that Mycroft has a servant’s heart, he does know right from wrong, unlike many of his contemporaries, and he cannot be swayed from his principles. He could care less, frankly, about the opinions of others.”
“Like some others I know,” Watson murmured.
“So now that we have established Mycroft’s purpose, let us turn to Miss Hudson,” Sherlock said. “Your job is to attempt to find out what Miss Janvier is holding over Miss Van Horn. Also, probe Miss Van Horn—and Stanislav—about Beckham: try to discern how the tiger could have killed him.”
“Ashanti said there must have been interference,” Mirabella offered.
“Yes, that we already know. But were the cages locked? How did the tiger get out? Why did the tiger attack? Discern if they were genuinely surprised by the attack: this is the important thing. We can piece together what happened, but I want to know their reactions, which will confirm or refute my conclusions. Ask Stanislav if there could possibly be a third key to the tiger cages in existence. We, of course, know there is, but find out if Stanislav believes there to be another key. I want to know if he was involved in the murder.”
“Yes, sir,” Mirabella replied.
“And I wish to search Miss Janvier’s room. With your assistance of course, Miss Belle.”
Her heart fell in her chest. Her last search had not gone that well.
“As for you, Watson,” Sherlock continued, “Press Miss Janvier to cease seeing Prince George. While you’re exhibiting your jealous rage, perhaps approach the topic of her relationship to Beckham: try to find out the extent. But be careful. She is dangerous. Many of her former lovers have died or been incarcerated.”
“I’m always careful, Holmes,” Watson replied.
“Perhaps,” Sherlock said unconvincingly. He studied his friend before him. “But you may underestimate your foe, Watson. ”
“And what will you be doing, Holmes?” Watson asked.
“I’ll be undercover at the Sunday night meetings—disguised of course—to learn what I can about Miss Janvier, Stanislav, Veronika, and the plans of the group.” Sherlock tapped his finger on the table. “And you, Mycroft?”
“I’ll be paying a visit to the local key makers to attempt to determine who commissioned the additional key. We must turn mere speculation into fact,” Mycroft said. “And where shall we meet next to report our findings?”
“Let us meet at the Au Rocher de Cancale and give our young friend a proper meal,” suggested Dr. Watson.
Mirabella recollected Au Rocher de Cancale in her mind’s eye. “Oh, I saw that place! A sidewalk café – so cute!” She felt excited at the prospect, positioning her moustache.
“Do take more care with your moustache at that time,” Sherlock admonished her. “It is drooping. And too old for a boy your age.”
“Most certainly. Whatever you say.” Mirabella was terrified they would change their mind about feeding her and was thus determined to be agreeable. “When shall we meet? May we sit outside in the sidewalk café? How romantic.”
“No we may not,” replied Sherlock. “It would have to be in the back in one of the dark corners. You must be disguised. Every precaution must be taken.”
“As long as I might order a hot beverage to warm my hands. I begin to think I will never be warm again.”
“You may have tea and food,” proclaimed Sherlock. “Whatever you wish.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes.”
“Not at all. We’ll put it on Watson’s tab.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Animal Attraction
Mirabella was possessed by a strange curiosity; respectable ladies didn’t wear make-up.
Joëlle Janvier was not a respectable girl. Still, Mirabella’s instincts told her that this warranted further investigation. Mirabella removed the lid of the rouge pot on Joëlle’s dresser, smelling the contents.
“It doesn’t smell right, Mr. Holmes. It has a decided . . . animal smell . . . for want of a better word.”
Sherlock looked up from his search, moving swiftly to her side to smell the rouge pot. Sherlock and Mycroft had brought her along to search Miss Janvier’s room while John Watson took the circus performer to yet another elaborate dinner after the evening’s performance.
“Fascinating. I believe ‘animal smell’ is precisely the right word, Miss Belle. An alarm substance as described by Jean-Henri Fabre.”
“I recall that paper,” Mirabella said, searching her memory for the various scientific papers of Sherlock’s that she was in charge of filing. Technically she wasn’t supposed to stop working to read them, but she had learned to scan the introductory and closing paragraphs for the summary. “What is the term for the substance?”
“Chemical messenger,” Sherlock replied. “The scent has meaning only to the animal of a particular species. It could communicate danger, the desire to mate, or other survival needs.”
“It affects the neurocircuits,” Mycroft added, seated in the lime-green winged back couch and fanning himself profusely. “Something which might incite a beast but leave a human unaffected.”
“I wouldn’t think such a substance would be needed,” Mirabella said. “The tigers are kept hungry. They don’t need much incentive to attack.”
“Added incentive. Perhaps the straw that broke the tiger’s back . . .” Sherlock considered. “Take a small sample and put it in the bag, Miss Hudson.”
“What if Miss Janvier notices?” Mirabella asked.
“It is important that she doesn’t. We don’t wish her to alter her behavior.” He emphasized, “Or to put Watson in danger, who doesn’t appear to be proceeding with care.”
“And yet, Miss Hudson has a point,” Mycroft said. “We may be able to prove that Miss Janvier attempted to use chemical messengers to provoke a tiger attack—but it doesn’t necessarily mean that she succeeded or is the killer. She had an alibi, in fact.”
“It is difficult to establish the exact time of the murder,” Sherlock said distractedly, continuing his search.
He went through her clothing, pulling out a heavy beige overcoat. “What would a woman who delights in showing off her figure want with a large, loose garment such as this?”
“To disguise herself?” Mirabella asked.
“And these boots,” he continued. “M
uch too serviceable.”
“Precisely. And there are an inordinate amount of books in this room.” Sherlock began opening Miss Janvier’s books, apparently in search of missives which might have been placed inside the books. “I don’t expect Miss Janvier is an extensive reader.”
It was shocking to be in the same room with so much brain power, Mirabella reflected. “Mr. Stanislav brought up the tiger attack, and he seemed quite smug about it,” Mirabella said.
“Oh?” Mycroft asked, interested.
“He is very jealous of Miss Janvier, and it could be a motive,” she said. “What if Beckham’s murder has nothing to do with the spy ring and it was simply a jealous boyfriend?”
“If we can match the scent from the rouge pot to Beckham, indications are that Miss Janvier was the murderer,” Sherlock murmured. “It is fairly clear that the idea was in her head. Animal hormones are not the type of things one generally finds in ladies’ toiletries.”
“But what about the duplicate key in Veronika’s things?” asked Mirabella.
“The key would be a simple item to plant on someone else,” Sherlock said. “Not so the chemical messenger. Only the murderer would have such a thing. And why would anyone plant it here? It is very unlikely to have ever been found—or understood.”
“Quite so. If not for Miss Belle’s instincts, we never would have found it,” agreed Mycroft.
“And the blood-stained clothing which was not burned is further support of the idea that someone is attempting to frame Miss Vishnevsky. Who better than the actual murderer?” Sherlock said.
“If Miss Janvier is the murderer,” Mirabella considered. “That would mean that John . . . Dr. Watson . . . is in danger.”
“Indeed.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the book. “But he has his revolver.”
“I’m sure Beckham did too,” Mirabella replied flatly. “How could a trained spy be separated from his weapon?”
Sherlock looked up. “I asked myself that same question when you were in the parlor purportedly protecting the princess of Montenegro on your first case and became separated from your pistol.”
“I take your point, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured. “That was probably the only five minutes of the day when my gun was not with me.”
“Hmmm. Pistol in the parlor purportedly protecting the princess. Most poetic, Shirley.”
Sherlock frowned. “Personal safety is not a laughing matter, Mycroft.”
“Certainly not, Shirley. Nothing is.” Mycroft suddenly appeared deep in thought. “I can think of another way Beckham may have been separated from his weapon.”
“Seduction,” Sherlock stated simply, returning his eyes to his search. “I believe that Miss Janvier is more dangerous than one might suppose.”
“She wasn’t seducing him in the tiger cages, I can assure you,” Mirabella said. “Not romantic at all.”
Sherlock smiled to himself. “I shall remember that, Miss Belle.”
“So now we have the means,” Mycroft stated. “Beckham was killed by a tiger, which could have been accomplished with the alarm substance and a key to the cages. Assuming Miss Janvier could have wrested Beckham’s gun from him.”
“But why?” asked Mirabella.
“Most likely Beckham knew too much,” Mycroft considered. “Perhaps the names of all the spies in the ring—or perhaps even their plans. The murderer got to him before he had time to convey the message via telegram. Communication is rarely instant in this business.”
After a moment’s reflection Mirabella added, “Stanislav had a key too. Just because Miss Janvier has a key doesn’t mean she is the one who used it.”
“Aha! I’ve found something!” Sherlock exclaimed, flapping a piece of paper about.
“I wonder what it says,” Mycroft considered, fanning himself.
Sherlock handed the paper to his elder brother. “I believe you know Russian, Mycroft.”
“Certainly. One must do something in the evenings when one is not dining with friends. And it is a language indispensable to the British government.”
Mirabella made a concerted effort not to drop her jaw.
“It is a personal letter to Miss Janvier,” Mycroft replied, his voice somber. “From the Czar. Inviting her to the palace in appreciation for her services.”
“Proof that she is on the side of the Czar,” stated Mirabella, feeling her disappointment. She added in a whisper, “It has to be Stanislav, Ashanti, or Veronika who murdered Beckham—they are the only ones who had access to the tiger cages.”
“To the contrary,” muttered Sherlock, shaking his head. “I’d say this letter is proof positive that Miss Janvier plans to murder the Czar herself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Le Grand Hôtel de la Paix, Paris
“To be honest, I am most impressed with her,” John Watson murmured, staring into the fire of the suite he shared with Holmes at Le Grand Hôtel de la Paix. It was early Spring and the evenings were still a touch on the cool side.
“She is a very good bare-backed rider,” agreed Holmes, taking a puff on his pipe.
“Oh, no, I’m not speaking of Miss Janvier.” Watson chuckled, taking a sip of his brandy.
I miss the familiar comfort of the Baker Street flat, Watson reflected. Despite the opulent surroundings and every convenience—even oil lamps and a private bath!—he was surprised to realize that he missed home.
And he was surprised to learn that the flat in Baker street had become home. After a harrowing tour in Afghanistan where he almost lost his life in the Battle of Maiwand. And he would have died had it not been for his orderly Murray who had thrown his commanding officer on a pack horse and led him through enemy lines.
Not surprisingly, John Watson had lost his fear of death. And yet, he had begun to fear living. Sherlock Holmes had given the army doctor not only a second chance at life—but this unlikely friend had given John Watson a new life. John soon came to relish this life of adventure which helped him forget all he had seen in the war.
And here he was pining away for an outdated, foul-smelling flat in London! In eleven months of living with Holmes he had become a sentimental old fool.
Damnation! He was having the time of his life in circumstances he never would have thought possible. Not that long ago he was recovering in an army hospital—merely lucky to be alive he was!
“You’re not impressed with Miss Janvier then?” Holmes asked, eyeing him with a scrutiny Watson had come to dread.
“Hmmm? Miss Janvier is beautiful, certainly. Devious, crafty, and intelligent. But, no, I was speaking of Miss Mirabella.”
“Miss Belle? Hmmm.” Sherlock closed his book, appearing completely at home in his maroon satin robe as he took a puff on his pipe.
“Miss Mirabella has been the real star of this show—as she is of every endeavor she undertakes.” John Watson looked intently at his friend. “As well you know, Holmes.”
“Do I?”
John looked about him as he set his pipe on the Louis IV stand. The hotel rooms were elegant and subdued in taupe and mahogany with cream-colored carpets. The wallpaper was an ornate white and taupe curli-cue pattern reminiscent of Versailles and the kings of France. His room, just off this suite, contained a 4-poster bed, comfortable when he slept in it.
He could not help but chuckle as he thought of the not-so subdued décor of 221B Baker street: the purple-maroon wallpaper, the bear skin hearth rug, the stacks of papers, the experiments in progress, and the deadly chemicals. A smile came to his lips as he recalled the gramophone, the pictures of criminals on the walls, even the dreaded violin in the corner.
He wished he might have the opportunity to miss that cursed instrument as Holmes had brought it with him. It was not that his eccentric friend was a bad musician—quite the opposite—but that the Great Detective chose the most inopportune times to exhibit his musical skill, transforming what might have been a receptive audience into the mongrel hordes bent upon murder.
Perhaps Holmes wishes to cr
eate his own murder cases through his musical renditions. Watson chuckled to himself. There was support for his supposition: Holmes, though no fool, had already alienated the hotel manager, forbidding his illustrious guest from playing the violin upon pain of being thrown out of the Paris Le Grand.
“Watson, are you listening?”
“Certainly not. I’m reminiscing.”
“Listen now, then.”
“If you say so, Holmes.” John looked at his friend.
“And why is it you are impressed with Miss Belle?” Holmes’ voice was strangely suspicious.
“She got in a ring with tigers. Not a handful of women would do that.”
Holmes shrugged, taking a puff on his pipe. “It is her job. And yet, despite her continued practice, she still looks like a frightened puppy on the stage.”
John stood up to stoke the fire. Sherlock’s arrogance was too much even for him at times, he who was quite accustomed to it and generally amused by it. “As would you, Holmes, if you were trapped on the stage with eight tigers.”
“Very likely. But you never suggested that you were impressed with me, Watson. So I fail to see—“
John glanced at the beautiful white marble fireplace devoid of bones and jars of embalming fluid. He even missed the wax replica of Holmes’ head with a hole in it, which had a cathartic effect when Sherlock was in one of his many annoying moods.
“I believe that the tiger aggression during Miss Mirabella’s first performance unnerved her and she is not yet recovered.” John added under his breath, “Much like a war trauma.” He returned to his elegant satin winged back chair, not nearly as comfortable as the chairs in their London flat, and opened his newspaper. “And that’s not the point. Miss Mirabella had the nerve to go back on the stage despite her understandable terror. And why did she do it? Because you, Holmes, asked her to. You might at least acknowledge that.”
“Miss Belle cares very little for my wishes, I assure you Watson. It all has to do with her savings, her entrance into university, and her continued employment.” Holmes frowned. “But true . . . she does surprise one at times.”
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