Sherlock shook his head in disagreement. “Look at Miss Van Horn, only now recovering from a terrible accident. She still has slashes and bruises, though she has done her best to cover them.” He added softly, “A tiger attack has saved her from suspicion.”
“With her injury, it is very unlikely that Miss Van Horn would have been able to kill another human being, particularly an athlete such as Miss Janvier,” Mycroft agreed, taking time away from pouring cream into his tea. It was a wonder there was any left in the creamer to pour. “The Russian spy would have put up a formidable fight.”
“And yet Mr. Afanasy had an alibi for the time of the murder,” considered Bertillon. “And we do not seriously consider Mr. Holmes or his assistant.”
“There is one other it might have been, is there not Prince George?” Sherlock asked. “Besides the four mentioned.”
“You’re a damn fool,” he muttered, and I’ll have you court-martialed when we go back to England.”
“Very unlikely,” remarked Mycroft, taking a sip of tea and appearing quite blissful.
Mirabella covered her mouth with her hand as the realization hit her. “Mr. Kazimir.”
Sherlock smiled, turning to admire the huge Cossack. “Yes, Prince George’s bodyguard – and a defender of the Czar. Kazimir had two reasons to want Miss Janvier dead and it was his duty to kill her on both counts: she was a threat to the Czar and she was a threat to Prince George.”
All eyes turned to look at the Cossack bodyguard, whose fierce expression did not waver.
“No!” Prince George exclaimed, jumping from his chair. “Kazimir wouldn’t! He is the most loyal guard I’ve ever had.”
“Precisely,” murmured Mycroft.
The Cossack appeared indifferent to the proceedings, not making the slightest move to jump out the window, Mirabella observed.
“It was the Russian—the man who loved her,” Prince George exclaimed. “Jealousy. A crime of passion.”
“And kill his own baby?”
“But he didn’t know. That was evident,” objected Bertillon.
“Yes, but Miss Janvier knew. And she would have told him to protect her own life,” surmised Mycroft, dipping another cookie in his tea.
“Kazimir told us himself that Miss Janvier was alive when Mr. Afanasy left the courtyard and that he himself lingered in the courtyard after Mr. Afanasy—after everyone had left, in fact.”
“You’re a damn liar!” sputtered Prince George. “What does the courtyard have to do with it? He wasn’t in her room. How did he do it?”
“I was fortunate to have been in contact with the Chinese Embassy not so very long ago when working on a case,” began Holmes, standing to move towards Kazimir. “While I was there I took advantage of the situation to learn some of the eastern martial arts, generally not shared with Westerners. I found much to be remarkable, but, being a bit of a whipster myself, one of the arts I found of particular interest.”
“And that would be?” asked Sir Edmund Henderson.
“The Chinese have a silk sash,” Sherlock began, turning again towards those seated, “which has weights sewn into it but appears to be a decorative piece of apparel when worn. It can be slung precisely like a whip.”
“I fail to see how that explains the closed window,” stated Lieutenant Dubuque.
“It is elementary, my dear fellow,” Sherlock said. “Miss Janvier leaned out the window. The silk sash was thrown and wrapped around her throat, strangling her. Silk does not leave a mark. But the coins do. When she fell backwards, the rope was retracted. Her flailing body grabbed the window, closing it shut from the inside. The door was already locked from the inside.”
“But why does that implicate my man?” demanded Prince George, “even if there were a grain of sense in that?”
“Your highness, there are only a handful of men in the world who could have executed that maneuver,” murmured Sherlock with obvious admiration.
“Don’t mean it was my man,” proclaimed Prince George, admirably coming to the defense of his companion despite the possibility that the Cossack may have killed his lady bird.
“I don’t know that even I could have done it. Miss Belle might have been able to do it if she could but apply herself, so unlikely. Miss Van Horn, though skilled, does not favor using the whip on animals and therefore does not practice much with it, she will tell you so herself. Her strengths are more in acrobatics and animal training. She is not motivated enough in using the whip to have learnt to that degree.”
“Still don’t prove it was my man!” exclaimed Prince George.
“In protecting the Russian borders, one of the borders of particular interest to the Czar is the Mongolian border. And who lives in Mongolia? The Chinese. Cossacks protecting the border have some contact with the Chinese.”
Sherlock moved to Kazimir and held out his hand. The warrior looked at Prince George, who nodded.
The Russian removed the red silk scarf from his waist, wrapped several times around his waist until it became evident it was some twenty-four feet long. Clank! As the bodyguard handed the silk scarf to Holmes the sound of metal rubbing together was heard.
Sherlock examined the silk scarf with gold coins attached until he found a spot where the gold coin was missing, holding the scarf up for all to see.
The Great Detective then pulled a gold coin out of his pocket, the coin which had been found at the scene of the murder.
It was a perfect match to the coins on the scarf.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
A Criminal Offence
“Brilliant work, Monsieur Holmes,” Dubuque smiled warmly, kissing both of Sherlock’s cheeks, despite Sherlock’s hesitancy. “How can I ever thank you for solving ze case, mon amie?”
“Well there is one thing I would very much like,” replied Sherlock with some degree of formality.
“Bon! Perhaps it can be arranged, non?”
Sherlock whispered into the lieutenant’s ear, who appeared startled at first and then smiled. He bowed to Sherlock before exiting, stating, “It is against the law, this. But I will do my best.”
“Well, the case is closed.” John Watson expressed intense relief as the chains were removed from his hands. He walked over to Sherlock and there was a bit of a stench from his proximity.
“KPOW!” Watson punched Sherlock in the jaw, adding softly. “All’s well that ends well.”
“Dr. Watson, how could you?” exclaimed Mirabella.
“I do apologize, Miss Mirabella,” Watson replied. “I shouldn’t have done that with ladies present.”
Sherlock rubbed his jaw. “I can see that your prison stay has not affected your strength, old boy.”
“I should say it has increased it, Holmes.”
“Very good. Glad to hear it.” Sherlock began moving his jaw back and forth, relieved to learn that it was not broken. “And would you like to join Mycroft and myself for drinks before dinner, Watson?”
“Indeed I would. If I might freshen up in the hotel room first?” Watson asked politely. “I’m in dire need of a bath and shave.”
“Of course, my fine fellow,” Sherlock replied, thinking that he might need a sherry sooner rather than later as the throbbing pain began to set in.
“Mr. Holmes, do you need a doctor?” Mirabella insisted.
“Nothing of the sort,” Watson replied. “I am a doctor.”
“You don’t seem to be in the business of healing today, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella murmured.
“To the contrary,” replied Watson. “I’m feeling better already.”
“Mr. Kazimir won’t be prosecuted?” Mirabella asked.
Mycroft laughed. “Not a chance. Diplomatic immunity, don’t you know.”
“He’ll probably receive the highest honor from the Czar,” muttered Sherlock.
“So Miss Janvier’s death will go unpunished,” Mirabella whispered, biting her lip.
“Miss Janvier’s greed and her inability to know right from wrong caught up with her,” s
tated Sherlock. “It was only a matter of time.”
“The Cossack, on the other hand, saw everything in black and white terms. He knew where his duty lay, and he responded courageously without regard for the consequences to his person.” Mycroft shrugged, adding under his breath, “Perhaps it was done for the best. She was a loose cannon.”
Mirabella stared at the two Holmes brothers. “How can you both be so laissez faire? You are defenders of the law.”
“I solved the case,” muttered Sherlock, taking his pipe out of his pocket and beginning to fill it with tobacco. “It is up to the law to take over now. The government. That is Sir Edmund Henderson’s position and I leave it to him. I assure you that my hands are tied.”
“Hmph! I see how it is!” exclaimed Mirabella, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “If there is a woman who has power over men, you will not come to her defense.”
“Not at all, Miss Belle!” chuckled Sherlock, lighting his pipe, a smile forming on his lips. “Such a thing is delightful.”
“We care very much that justice was done.” Mycroft frowned. “But making the Cossack accountable has nothing to do with justice. In this situation, justice will never be done.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked.
“The Russian monarchy is focused on suppressing the anti-czarist movement,” Mycroft replied. “They should, instead, be focused on providing a more democratic society—then there would be no need for an anti-czarist movement and no opening for such an unscrupulous person as Miss Joëlle Janvier. In attempting to squelch the people’s movement, they may create a more extreme government than would otherwise occur.”
“The pendulum is swinging, that is a fact. It cannot be stopped,” agreed Sherlock. “The establishment for which we work is fighting the anti-Czarist groups, but the Russian Czar would be better served to address his people. In the end, if the Russian government does not, there will eventually be an uprising by the people. This is inevitable. This is out of our hands.”
“What we do here is to apprehend individual criminals who are hurting others,” Dr. Watson added. “Can we fight the bigger tides of human history?”
Mirabella turned to look at Mycroft, her eyebrows knitted together. “Then why is Mr. Mycroft Holmes here, if this case has nothing to do with the British government?”
“This case is much bigger than a single criminal,” Mycroft nodded. “There has been a French Revolution, trouble is brewing in Russia, will there be an English revolution? As a result of the Industrial revolution, the move to the cities, and the child labor?”
She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “You wish to stop an English revolution, Mr. Holmes?”
“Don’t you, Miss Hudson?” Mycroft smiled at her.
“Indeed, some of the things we do may yet have far-reaching implications.” Sherlock sighed heavily.
“Why did I get in the cage with the tigers if not to make the world a better place?” Mirabella demanded, placing her hands on her hips.
Sherlock’s expression was suddenly thoughtful, even warm. “You did it for yourself, Miss Belle.”
“I most certainly did not!”
“Are you not a changed woman?” he asked, a sudden tenderness in his eyes, his pipe paused in mid-air.
“Yes, but—“
“And will you not take that change with you when you leave Paris?” Sherlock persisted.
“Well, of course. Naturally—“
“Well then,” the Great Detective shrugged, blowing another ring of smoke. “Most things work out for the best, don’t they, when you follow the path of right?”
“The world is progressing, Miss Hudson,” Mycroft added. “Anyone who believes in doom has the wrong of it.”
“Still, I think you miss the point,” she objected. “You are very happy that an innocent girl should go—”
“Innocent?” Dr. Watson raised his eyebrows, suddenly part of the conversation. “I think not.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Isandlwana
Closed the kind eyes
nevermore the clasp of the faithful hand.
But the clamour and wrath of men are still
where they sweetly rest
And the loved dust is one with the dust of the well-loved land
Earth has taken the wronged and the wronger both to her breast
Cetshwayo sleeps in Inkandhla
Rhodes on Matopo height
Escombe and Osborn alike in the dear Natalian soil
Do they dream?
And what dreams are theirs in the hush of the kindly night?
Never, since time began, has any come back to tell....
O brave, true, loving hearts, at rest from long strife and toil
Mandiza, Sineke, Mamonga, Kebeni, Magema
Hail and farewell!
--Alice Werner
“Myths and Legends of The Bantu”
Ashanti caressed the cheek of her beloved, Ekundayo, the warrior whose bride she was soon to be. She was a coveted princess of the king, but she knew in her heart that Ekundayo loved her rather than her place of prestige in the tribe.
She looked past the paint on Ekundayo’s face and into his eyes. She saw the ferocity which was mirrored in her own spirit and the pride and concern for his people which was so like her father, King Cetshwayo.
“Long live the Queen!” The red coats were lined up on the hillside in the intense African heat, shoulders touching, fighting for what they believed to be God and country. But how many countries did they need? And was not their God the God of all?
They were brave men, many of whom would die today, and they obeyed their orders. Whatever they were asked to do they did.
Twenty-five thousand Zulu warriors descended upon the central column, the main body of the three-pronged invasion force. The British rifles were aimed at them, but as the Zulu dropped, more came from behind.
The British could not re-load faster than the African warriors could descend. The black men in war paint did reach the redcoats and in every case it was one-on-one in the end: one man with a rifle and one man with a spear. There was no other scenario.
And in every case there was no more than one survivor and no prisoners taken.
Ashanti saw the bullet hit Ekundayo’s chest and she saw him fall back, replaced by another young body, as if he were only a painted black body to be replaced, of no meaning to anyone.
To no one except to her, his brothers and sisters, his parents, the children who would have been and the nation which was no more.
“Stop! Stop!” Her sisters grabbed her, holding her back as she sought to die alongside her love.
Each man who dropped, on either side, represented not one life, but all the lives intertwined with that one.
The odds were against the young Zulu warriors though they outnumbered the British ten to one: one in three of the Zulu would die. And most of them would simply be a place holder, having no contact with the enemy.
There would be no prisoners, only death. Within six months an entire generation of the feared Zulu would be almost obliterated.
And what did the winner take away from this battle? The knowledge that they had won, had obtained their revenge and nothing more. Very little territory would exchange hands.
King Cetshwayo, a friend and ally of the British, would go to his grave not understanding why.
As tears rolled down her cheeks, Ashanti looked to the sky and saw diamonds falling from the sky in her mind’s eye, like raindrops.
In the end, Ashanti reflected as she watched the blood flow over her beloved land, it was absurd to feel superior as a result of the technology and the weaponry belonging to the culture one is born into. To have been born into an advanced culture makes one fortunate and privileged, nothing more.
Her auntie, the Sangoma, had taught her that we are all human and the only characteristic which warrants any claim to superiority is one’s heart.
How do we deal with the poorest an
d most destitute among us? her Auntie had asked. The answer to this question defines us.
A single hyena watched the blood flowing on the ground from the hillside. He laughed, and then he turned around and returned to the forest.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
A Good Beginning
“Did you get your diamonds back, Ashanti?” Mirabella hugged her friend.
“I have not proof they were mine.” Ashanti shook her head while touching her ears, now devoid of jewelry.
“Where are the diamonds that were in your ears?” Mirabella asked, alarmed.
“Just these two they were enough to build habitat—like the tigers’ homes in their native India.”
“Not quite enough,” Sherlock stated, entering the tent. “The French Police may have confiscated the diamonds, but Mycroft persuaded them to use the proceeds to buy the land surrounding the circus.”
“How did he persuade them to do that?” asked Mirabella, suspicious.
“In exchange for keeping Harting’s terrorist tendencies out of the paper, naturally.”
“But you can’t guarantee that no one will find out,” argued Mirabella.
“True, we can only guarantee that we won’t be the originator of the information.” Sherlock’s expression was emotionless. “And Mycroft has certain persuasive methods.”
“That sounds like blackmail to me,” murmured Mirabella.
“In governmental circles it isn’t called that,” replied Sherlock matter-of-factly. “It’s called diplomacy.”
Mirabella thought of asking her friend to come with her again, but she had never seen such a glow in Ashanti’s expression. Ashanti had had a dream, and, for once it had come true.
Oh no! “But did you get anything in writing, Ashanti, when you handed over the diamonds?”
“Yes, I did.” nodded Ashanti, a smile forming on her lips.
“Miss Van Horn received a small lesson in how to deal with the European,” added Sherlock, now standing at the opening to the door of their tent.
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