Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “Oh? The great and all-knowing Sherlock Holmes surprised? In what way?”

  “She is generally willing to step up to the plate,” Sherlock conceded. “Striving, learning and always willing to stretch herself, as it were.”

  “She’s made of strong stuff,” Watson agreed, scanning The Times.

  “Or she can’t bear to leave the puzzle unsolved.” Holmes shrugged. “Risking all to solve the case. Much like a compulsion and not necessarily to be admired.”

  “Ah. Like gambling, drinking or the illicit use of drugs, Holmes?” John looked up from his paper.

  “Yes, something like that, Watson.” Sherlock continued after a long pause. “Miss Belle has an incredible intellectual curiosity. Very driven. More like a man than a woman.”

  “I don’t believe curiosity is the exclusive domain of men, Holmes.” John shook his head in disagreement, his eyes returning to scan the news. “And for a man Miss Mirabella has decidedly feminine curves.”

  “I bow to your knowledge of the fair sex, Watson. But I do not think you will find Miss Belle an easy one to decipher.” He added in a low tone which sounded strangely threatening. “And I do not recommend that you attempt it.”

  “Perhaps I have no need to decipher her as you put it.” It was true that Miss Mirabella was a smart girl, too smart, and too ambitious by half. A new woman, to be sure. But it was all part of a wonderful package. He lowered his voice, muttering. “I wouldn’t attempt it, in fact.”

  “Indeed? And what need would you have where Miss Belle is concerned?” Sherlock’s voice had an edge to it.

  “She is, after all, eighteen years of age.” John sighed, studying his companion. As contented as he was, some of his old dreams were beginning to re-emerge. “I am nine and twenty. It is far from unheard of. Is it so shocking that a man could find Miss Mirabella both beautiful—and amazing?”

  “Are you saying your intentions are honorable Watson?” Sherlock laughed robustly. “And you cavorting with a circus bareback rider and presumed spy. Let us not forget the Dancing Girls of Baghdad.”

  “Let us not,” John mused, a smile forming on his lips. “That would be a shame.”

  “Clearly you haven’t, Watson.” Sherlock set his pipe on the stand beside him, the amusement fading from his eyes. “Do be reasonable. You are not a man who can find satisfaction in one woman. Consequently, respectable girls are not in your line. And Miss Belle is, above all else, a respectable girl.”

  “Precisely. I had always assumed I would be married by now. I wish to marry someday, and a finer girl than Miss Mirabella Hudson I will never find.” And it did seem, if he was not mistaken—and he rarely was where the fair sex was involved—that she was interested.

  “I have no doubt of that, Watson. I am not arguing if she is worthy of you, but I am questioning if you are worthy of her.” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his expression ominous. “And advising you to leave her be.”

  “To answer your question, Sherlock, where Miss Mirabella is concerned, yes, my intentions are honorable.” Watson snapped his newspaper. “Do you know what I think, Holmes?”

  “No, and it holds no interest whatsoever for me, Watson. We are here to perform a function. A very important engagement of international significance.”

  “I think that you have feelings for Miss Mirabella, and in your determination to deny them, you are ignoring her, ignoring her safety, and throwing her in harm’s way. As if to ignore her will resolve your feelings. It will not.” He muttered under his breath, “Believe me on this.”

  “Ridiculous, Watson! I am merely concerned about Miss Belle—because she is my employee. I have no feelings for her whatsoever! I have no desire to have a woman in my life—now or ever. And I’ve told you, it is perfectly safe. She is merely on the stage for show—”

  “Holmes, sometimes your brilliant mind is your worst enemy. It allows you to build walls and to convince yourself of anything you wish to believe.”

  “Outrageous!” Holmes appeared truly aggravated now, displaying a rare show of emotion. “The scientific method is my god!”

  “Sherlock Holmes is your god! I will never forgive you if you allow something to happen to Miss Mirabella.” Watson’s voice was rising now to match his friend’s. “You have the right to be reckless with your own life—or with mine, of course—but Miss Mirabella is special.”

  “Of course she is special. Beautiful and intelligent.” Holmes turned to study his friend. “But then, so is Miss Janvier. Or do you forget the woman you are currently embroiled with?”

  “I’m not talking about outward beauty, and well you know it, Holmes, though Miss Mirabella is certainly beautiful—as well as talented.”

  “Ah, so we’re discussing talent, are we? If that is the topic of conversation, then let me say that it is, frankly, impressive that Miss Janvier can maintain her balance and does not fall to her doom hopping about as she does on the horses,” Holmes continued convivially, impervious to Watson’s cues. “I am still attempting to determine why none of the fillies ever startle.”

  John put his paper on the table beside him and took a sip of brandy, not above savoring the taste of the expensive warm liquid which was ordinarily well beyond his pocketbook, as he glanced out the window at the Eiffel Tower, a view which continued to be magnificent to him. “As for Miss Janvier’s balance, frankly, I’d be more concerned about the stallions than the fillies.”

  “Believe me, I am, Watson,” Holmes said, his piercing gaze intent upon his companion, a look which never ceased to unnerve the military man, who had thought to have seen it all in the war.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Ring of Fire

  “What in the world…” Mirabella turned abruptly, hearing a noisy metallic click behind her. She spun, seeing that the door to the cage had been shut. Mirabella sprang towards the door in an instant. Locked.

  Frantically she patted her training suit for the key. It was in her pocket, but it would be very difficult to reach through the bars to turn the key in the lock. She would have to try. It was hoped she would be allowed the time to do so.

  And then she saw what filled her heart with terror: blood splattered on the floor.

  Her hands began shaking uncontrollably. No! No! She wrung her hands, glancing in the direction of the tigers, who were now aware that she was frightened.

  They feed on fear.

  Who locked the door? Looking frantically about her, Mirabella saw a figure standing in the gloom of the tent. She could make out few details, as her captor obviously intended. Dressed in a long baggy coat and wearing a wide-brimmed slouch hat, the fiend had made sure that identification would be extremely difficult if not impossible. A woman or a small man, not very tall. The figure, deep in shadow, watched her for a moment.

  “Release me!” Mirabella cried. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The culprit turned and walked towards the lever between the two tiger cages. Mirabella felt her heart suddenly beating like a stallion at full gallop. She had been lured into a trap—enhanced with blood—in which she would have to face aggravated predators. Just like Beckham.

  Except there were three tigers, not one.

  “Stop!” she yelled. “This is inhuman!” She knew her plea would most likely fall on deaf ears. “I don’t have a pistol, I don’t have anything . . .”

  “Ha! ha!” her captor laughed, and she heard that it was a woman’s voice. It was strange that the attacker let this be revealed, as if she were certain of success.

  Mirabella refused to accept defeat until it was the only outcome. Sherlock Holmes had taught her that.

  Think. Think. Mirabella admonished herself. Do not put your hope in this viper. Put it in yourself.

  In spite of Mirabella’s pleas, the mysterious woman walked through the door, closing it behind her, but as she left Mirabella saw something strange trailing behind the bulky overcoat: a wisp of scarlet chiffon.

  Scarlet. Fire. Inadvertently the murderer had given Mirab
ella an idea. The ring of fire.

  I will use the tigers’ training to my advantage. Mirabella hurried to the props, finding the whip. The tigers feared the whip, with its small end-tassel moving faster than the speed of sound.

  But the ring might also prove to be an asset. This the tigers associated with a specific movement—the act—and with a reward. In the act, she was not prey. The act put her in the role of both alpha animal and of the provider of the reward.

  Beckham might have faced one tiger and she three, but neither had Beckham ever been in the role as alpha. She had that advantage.

  Mirabella heard the grinding of gears, seeing what she had feared. The door between the two tiger enclosures was opening, and the big cats were immediately taking an interest in the blood—and in her.

  She took care not to move too quickly and to remain facing the tigers. Continuing to search the props she found a bowling pin which the cats batted about. She also found the ever present steel ring, with its groove for holding flammable liquid for the Ring of Fire act.

  Shikar, the largest of all the big cats at six hundred pounds, stepped through the entrance and began to walk towards her. He began pacing only a few feet from her. Not a good sign.

  Mirabella waved the hoop at him. If she could make Shikar believe it was time to practice, he might not be so inclined to attack. And if she could command Shikar and entice him to return to his enclosure before the other two came through, Mirabella thought she could reach the door lever between the cages.

  It was a slim chance, but any chance at all was better than waiting for a horrible death . . .

  “Pereyti!” She called out and held up the hoop. To her amazement, Shikar complied and performed his trick, moving to his place in the imaginary row. Mirabella glanced at the other two tigers and was dismayed to see Evangeline, the beautiful, rare Golden Tiger, approaching the gateway.

  Oh this is very bad. Evangeline’s mate had tasted human flesh. Mr. Beckham’s flesh. The tiger who had killed Beckham, Goro, had been destroyed, but Evangeline was Goro’s mate, and Evangeline had never been the same since losing Goro. It was as if Evangeline knew. She was angry.

  An angry tiger was simply not good.

  “Come! Shikar!” She tried to coax the first tiger back to the gate, but he had scented the blood on the floor, which left him in a great state of confusion. Shikar began a combination of purring and growling. Shikar remained in his place, but the noises he was making prompted Evangeline to enter the ring, as well as convincing the ordinarily more peaceful Rajah that there might be something of interest where Evangeline was going.

  Control your fear, Mirabella. Panic will not aid you in any way here. Do not act like prey.

  Mirabella slowly backed towards the edge of the cage while Evangeline sniffed and licked the blood. Mirabella grew horrified when the female tiger looked up at her, eyes calculating.

  Tigers in the wild only occasionally went man-eater, avoiding their two legged cousins in general. But Evangeline had lost her fear of lone humans.

  To Mirabella’s horror, the huge tigress began to stalk her. Evangeline crouched down, tale whipping, preparing to pounce.

  Use the ring of fire! Use the show! Mirabella admonished herself.

  At just the right instant, Mirabella managed to jump to the side, placing the ring perfectly so that Evangeline had to jump through it, reinforcing the idea that this was a show, not a kill.

  Crack! Mirabella cracked her whip as she might during the show. “Good Girl, Good Evangeline!” she managed to say.

  Evangeline whirled around, a look of confusion crossing her expression even as the tigress took her place in the row.

  “Excellent!”

  Mirabella held the ring out for Rajah to take his turn. “Jump, Rajah!” she commanded, snapping the whip.

  Rajah did as he was told, jumping through the hoop and moving to stand beside Evangeline.

  I love Rajah. God bless Rajah. And God bless Ashanti, who had trained him.

  All the tigers now lined up, she commanded them to roll over, which they did.

  I am in command again.

  As could happen at any time with wild animals, in an instant she lost everything she had gained. Mirabella took another step back and tripped over the bowling pin, falling with her back against the bars. This was all the invitation that Evangeline needed. The huge beast roared a terrifying blast of sound and sprang forward, fangs exposed and claws extended. Mirabella could see or hear nothing but the charging death.

  Evangeline’s charge was ended prematurely by a snap, loud as a gunshot, and the tiger halted in mid-lunge, confused. Mirabella looked towards the door and to her astonishment saw Sherlock pulling back his arm for another strike with Stanislav’s bullwhip. In her moment of terror, she had not seen Sherlock enter the cage.

  The tigress growled at the detective, her blazing yellow eyes burning into the human, but Sherlock’s sea gray eyes blazed back with a like fury. They locked stares for a moment, both apex predators, before Sherlock cracked the whip once again, this time an inch from Evangeline’s nose. The report was like a gunshot.

  “Back you devils! Back, damn you!” he roared in a voice that would have done a lion proud. He snapped the whip at Shikar, who had little stomach for this sort of interaction. The young tiger joined Rajah who had already returned to the other enclosure.

  Evangeline, however, was made of sterner stuff. She charged Sherlock. As she got close, Mirabella made full contact with the whip, resulting in a splash of blood on the tiger’s head. Evangeline yowled.

  “We tried to warn you, Tigress,” Sherlock said.

  The pain of the bullwhip is considerable whether one is man or beast, and Evangeline, for all her fury, quickly decided that the benefits did not outweigh the cost. She returned to her two comrades in the other cell and Mirabella leapt to the lever, closing the second gate.

  “Miss Belle! Are you all right?” Sherlock’s face, normally a dry mask of logic, was contorted in a sudden terror.

  She ran to him and threw her arms around the Great Detective, something she had never done before, tears streaming down her face.

  “Praise the heavens you came when you did, Sherlock!”

  “There, there, Miss Belle.” Sherlock said, his own composure returned while he tapped her back mechanically. “You were performing admirably without me, I assure you. I expect you would have saved yourself in all eventuality.”

  “No, I would have died!” she sobbed, holding onto his lapel.

  “As would I,” he said softly. “You saved me as well.”

  She felt his body stiffen, as if he were completely uncomfortable. Facing man eaters was nothing to Sherlock Holmes, but holding a woman in his arms made him uneasy. “That was a bit of an adventure, wasn’t it? It’s all right now, brave girl.”

  “S-someone set a trap for me! They locked the cage…” She looked up at him. “How did you have a key?”

  “Naturally I had a duplicate made from yours.”

  “But I swore I wouldn’t let anyone copy it!”

  “That is precisely why I did it without your knowing.”

  She wailed, “Oh, what if you hadn’t had a key, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Calm down, Miss Belle!” Sherlock commanded, and she felt her hysteria abating with the strength of his command. He grabbed her by the arms and looked down into her eyes. “Did you see who did this, Miss Belle?”

  “No,” Mirabella shook her head. “It was a woman from the sound of the laugh. . . And there was something else. I saw a wisp of scarlet chiffon.”

  “Like Veronika’s outfit,” Sherlock considered. “Could your attacker have been Miss Vishnevsky? What was her height?”

  “I’d say . . . about Ashanti’s height,” she sobbed. “Veronika is closer to Joëlle’s height.”

  “Which might make for an excellent disguise—if one were attempting to implicate someone else,” Sherlock considered, his steel-grey eyes full of fury. “The two women are remarkably simila
r in appearance. And could the attacker have been either Miss Janvier or Miss Vishnevsky?”

  “The woman was taller.”

  “Perhaps heels or elevated shoes were worn?”

  “I couldn’t say. My attentions were elsewhere as I was fighting for my life.”

  “Do you think it could have been Ashanti?” Sherlock asked.

  “No,” Mirabella shook her head, still crying.

  “Because she is your friend?” he asked softly.

  “No, because she is the tigers’ friend. She would never do anything that might result in the death of one of her tigers. She never forgave Joëlle—not for killing Beckham, but for killing Goro.”

  “Ah, excellent reasoning, Miss Belle. Even so, I always confirm my suspicions and intend to search three ladies’ wardrobes within the hour.”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Take off your cape, Miss Belle,” he commanded. He smelled the cape to her surprise. “The scent is on it.” He frowned. “And once again you don’t have a pistol.”

  “I didn’t imagine . . . I was only practicing and the tigers’ cages were closed . . .”

  But his anger did not seem to be directed at her, but elsewhere. “I believe I know who made the attempt, Miss Belle, and I guarantee that I will hunt her down and kill her myself, as need be. Her reign is, as of this moment, officially over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  First Kiss

  “I saw you in the show today, Miss Mirabella. You were marvelous.”

  “Was I?” Mirabella cracked her whip in the center of the arena without turning towards John Watson. She had changed into the form fitting white training suit which she wore while fencing and practicing jiu-jitsu.

  “And I saw you as well leaving Miss Janvier’s room quite late, Dr. Watson.” She had not recounted her attempted murder to Dr. Watson, as she and Sherlock had agreed it was best that John not treat Miss Janvier any differently. Sherlock was closed-lipped about the entire episode and adamantly opposed to discussing it further. She had never seen him in such a dark mood.