Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “It is difficult system to understand,” Ashanti admitted, “But I am learning. The more I learn, the more I wish to spend rest of my life with tigers.”

  “And Mr. Afanasy . . . are you quite safe with him?” asked Mirabella.

  Sherlock tipped his hat and exited from the doorway.

  “Stanislav?” Ashanti laughed. “He is quite harmless. I will teach him how to handle the tigers in time.”

  “Stanislav? Harmless?” repeated Mirabella in disbelief, thinking of the huge man who had shown so much passion and anger.

  “At least he tells truth,” stated Ashanti. “Stanislav never lies. I always know what he is thinking.”

  “Well, yes,” agreed Mirabella reluctantly.

  “And he is fearless, brave. Nothing frighten him. Not even tigers,” she smiled shyly. “It is a good beginning.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The World is my Oyster

  Au Rocher de Cancale, Paris

  “I’m so thankful to be able to eat in public again. It appears that you are no longer mortified at being seen with me!” sighed Mirabella, taking a hard-won bite of oysters on the half-shell while sitting outside at the sidewalk café of Au Rocher de Cancale. She glared at the oysters: she had thought it would be quite an elegant thing to order, but it was a very odd taste, almost as odd as caviar, and much more difficult to transfer to her mouth. She wasn’t certain that she liked either.

  It’s not always true that the more expensive it is, the better it is.

  But she very much did like having had a hot bath and being able to dress as a woman in public, wearing her best day suit, a form-fitting pink linen day suit, the long fitted jacket hitting her at the hips with a skirt which was looped and draped over a lace ecru underskirt to create a bustle along the hip line. Her satin slippers were much the worse for wear, but no one was likely to see them.

  “We were never mortified to be seen with you, Miss Belle.” Sherlock glanced approvingly at her chestnut brown hair arranged atop her head in curls. A wicked smiled formed on his lips. “Only to be obligated to listen to your tongue lashings.”

  “You shall hear a great deal over the next few weeks, I assure you, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted.

  “No doubt we shall.” But his grey eyes were laughing instead of turning to daggers. Certainly he would not have tolerated these remarks from her even a month prior.

  She studied Sherlock’s appearance, which was always interesting, but today was particularly notable in a navy corduroy jacket, a lavender and white striped silk sash around his neck, and a handsome conductor’s hat ornamented with silver embellishments atop his head.

  “What is the hat you are wearing, Mr. Holmes?” she asked. “It is most elegant—and decidedly unusual. It has an almost military look to it.”

  “I am most disappointed you do not recall it, Miss Belle.”

  “It is the good Lieutenant Dubuque’s headgear if I am not mistaken,” murmured Mycroft. “And a bit of a tight fit, I should say.”

  “Indeed it is,” nodded Sherlock. “On both accounts.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings among all this admiration, but it is illegal to bestow one’s uniform as a gift,” mentioned Dr. Watson, familiar with rules of the military. “Dubuque could be dismissed from the police force for giving you his hat.”

  “Au contraire, my good doctor,” stated Sherlock, patting his lips with his handkerchief. “The good Lieutenant—now Capitaine—would merely say I had stolen it, if questioned, which I highly doubt he will be. His reputation is greatly advanced with our recent success. He even has a new office.”

  “I for one am very glad to have the case closed,” muttered Dr. Watson.

  “Ah, but it was the best of times, my good man,” countered Sherlock.

  “It was,” murmured Watson. “And the worst.”

  “Speaking of which, Mr. Holmes, you never told me who it was who tried to kill me—in the tigers’ cage that is.”

  “Ah, I suppose I didn’t.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “Do you know who it was?” Mirabella pressed.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Was it Miss Janvier?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? I was no threat to her!”

  “Ha! ha!” Sherlock laughed. “You underestimate yourself, Miss Belle. Of course you were a threat. Miss Janvier guessed that you were working undercover—I suspect she learned of your questioning Miss Veronika—or else she didn’t like the attentions bestowed upon you by Watson. I expect the former because the latter would have put Watson in danger as well.”

  “There is something else that still confuses me about the case,“ considered Mirabella while struggling with the oyster and her fork. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, Miss Belle?” stated Sherlock. “What is there to perplex you?”

  “The strawberries,” Mirabella said. “Why would someone give Miss Janvier a truth serum?”

  “Are you quite serious, Miss Belle?” Sherlock laughed. “The truth serum was administered by someone who wanted to know what Miss Van Horn knew—which was considerable. She knew a great deal about the Czar and about the revolutionaries. And who would want to know what she knew? Many people, I expect.”

  “In particular, someone who was involved in arms sales,” Mycroft added.

  Mirabella sighed heavily. “So the administrator of this drug wasn’t at all interested in killing Miss Janvier!” Mirabella exclaimed. “He was interested in keeping her alive.”

  “Indeed,” Sherlock said. “And at that . . . he failed miserably.”

  “Well then . . . the other perplexing thing was . . . of course Harting was a double agent—he would have to be. So why would he run? He had nothing to hide. It makes complete sense that as an agent working for the Czar he would be spying on the revolutionaries as one of them from within the ranks. And a person successful in that capacity would naturally rise to a higher position in an espionage organization.”

  “Yes, it is entirely logical that he would be a double agent in the course of his loyalty to the Czar. And in pretending the part, he might be sent to jail,” laughed Sherlock. “And that is precisely why it would be so damning. Have you learned nothing about the human race, Miss Hudson?”

  “But it isn’t true that he was working for the terrorist side,” she objected.

  “Yes, but he was a convicted terrorist. The truth has very little to do with it,” stated Mycroft. “You have a great deal to learn about politics, Miss Hudson. The opposing side will take the facts and twist them until they don’t resemble the truth at all—and this is precisely what is believed.”

  “You know how gullible the general public is. They believe what they wish to believe,” added Dr. Watson.

  “Imagine if such a thing were said about the Prime Minister, that he was a convicted terrorist,” mused Sherlock. “And what if it were true?”

  “The gossip alone, true but at the same time devoid of all truth, would destroy his career,” agreed Mycroft.

  “Speaking of gossip,” Mirabella considered, “I have often wondered about this. I thought there was no talking at the Diogenes Club which you founded, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Most assuredly,” nodded Mycroft somberly.

  “How could that be conducive to gossip?” she wondered. “How can a social club have no talking?”

  “And who would wish to join such a club?” asked Watson, polishing off the last of his pommes frites and taking a swig of beer. “I’m surprised that you ever have any new members.”

  “People frequent the library to read because the information is readily available as it is not in their own homes,” Mycroft replied, unmoved. “There are more academics in London than one might think.”

  Ahem. Sherlock wiped his mouth with his handkerchief before muttering, “In point of fact, there’s a surprisingly large roster at the Diogenes Club.”

  “You are certainly full of questions today, Miss Hudson,” Mycrof
t remarked.

  “Today and every day,” Sherlock said.

  “I can certainly understand wishing to go to a place to read in complete silence,” considered Mirabella, taking a sip of warm coffee. “But I’ve heard people have been kicked out for coughing at the Diogenes Club!”

  Sherlock coughed. He muttered, “Perhaps that is just an excuse to get rid of the undesirables.”

  “I would truly like to meet the couple who parented you two,” considered Watson, adding in low tones. “Persons or aliens as they may be.”

  “Nothing of it, quite an ordinary parentage I assure you, my dear Watson,” replied Sherlock. “Country Squires in Sussex. Our mother is a sparkling society matron. She loves nothing more than a grand party. Her greatest sadness is that she is not a blueblood.”

  “She wishes to be of aristocratic birth?” Mirabella asked.

  “It is too late for that, I’m afraid,” Sherlock muttered. “She might have wished to marry someone who was.”

  “That is to say, a member of the peerage. Our dear mother is . . .” Mycroft bowed his head as if in prayer, “. . . a mere gentleman’s daughter.”

  “And, heaven forbid, a working farmer’s wife,” Sherlock added, amusement making his grey eyes appear silver.

  “No, although I do believe our great-great-great grandfather on our father’s side was a baron.” Mycroft laughed, waving his hand in dismissal. “Sadly, one must be at least an earl to be considered a member of the peerage.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mirabella murmured, “Baronets and Knights are not peers, and thus do not sit in the House of Lords.”

  “At any rate, I do not think that esteemed branch of the family would recognize us at this point,” Sherlock added.

  “Mother would have settled for marrying an earl,” Mycroft conceded. “But a Duke? That would have thrilled her beyond measure. And she might have accomplished it. She was beautiful and very well connected, related to the Vernets of Paris, a family of enormously prestigious painters. Her grandmother Violet was a sister of Horace Vernet, who was born in the Louvre in hiding during the French Revolution.”

  “And your father?” Mirabella asked. “He is a country squire. Very impressive!” Being a curate’s daughter, she was sufficiently impressed. The country squire was the most important man in any country parish. The country squire owned a good portion of the land, had at least one tenant, and lived in the largest house, the manor house.

  “But being the country squire, no doubt your father is the lord of the manor and the local magistrate?”

  “He is,” Sherlock nodded. “The local Justice of the Peace. And the manor will pass to Mycroft, the eldest son. But it isn’t the largest house in Sussex, which belongs to the 7th Duke of Devonshire.”

  “Why isn’t the Duke of Devonshire the local magistrate of Sussex then?” Mirabella asked.

  “Because the JP will be the most important local man—outside of anyone who is in the House of Lords, which is a conflict of interest,” Dr. Watson said. “Lords are generally not permitted to be magistrates.”

  “It explains a great deal,” Mirabella murmured, deep in thought. “Sherlock and Mycroft must have grown up seeing their father presiding over every manner of civil and legal case. They must have learned the criminal justice system and the law from an early age.”

  “Oh, we did,” Mycroft laughed. “Even when court was held in the local pub we were often permitted to be present. It was the stuff of a great childhood: drunkenness, profane swearing, highway robbery, and rioting.”

  Sherlock sighed happily, closing his eyes momentarily. He added, “Smuggling, assault, and burglary. Pure bliss.”

  “Why did your mother not marry a man of title if it was so important to her?” Mirabella asked, studying the two brothers with more than a little confusion.

  “Because our father was positively smitten,” Mycroft replied. “She had the good sense to know that life with a man who truly loved her gave her the greatest chance at happiness.” He added somberly. “Though she still laments to this day that I shall never inherit a title.”

  “I see.” Watson nodded as if understanding had dawned. “So Mycroft takes after the mother and Sherlock the father.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock agreed, glancing at his brother.

  “Although I am the smarter of the two,” Mycroft forwarded with a smile.

  “And the laziest,” Sherlock added.

  “Mycroft smarter than you, Holmes? Truly?” Watson laughed, turning suddenly to Mycroft. “No offence, your imminence.”

  “Oh, yes indeed,” Sherlock replied, suddenly solemn. “But that still puts me in the top ten most intelligent people in the world, so I don’t fret much over it.”

  “So . . . you don’t have siblings? Sherlock must not have had much exposure to girls, hence his low opinion of the female sex,” Mirabella murmured slyly.

  “I would say it was all the dresses Mycroft paraded me in when I was yet too young to fight back against my much older brother,” retorted Sherlock. “It gave me a complete distaste for the feminine. Although I did learn how to use make-up for the purposes of disguise.” He frowned, his gaze suddenly fixed on Mirabella. “An art about which you have much to learn.”

  “There is only Honora between me and Sherlock,” Mycroft explained. “She is almost exclusively concerned with appearances, and frankly, not the brightest bulb on the tree. The younger twins, Annabel and Rutherford, were much younger, about your age, Miss Hudson. We didn’t have much to do with them, with Shirley a full ten years older and myself seventeen.”

  “As for the social mother that I supposedly take after, I must be off, business awaits,” Mycroft stated as he rose from his chair, motioning to his entourage standing outside the Au Rocher de Cancale.

  As Mycroft sauntered away, Dr. Watson chuckled to himself while attacking his repast of mushroom omelet, sausages, pommes frites, champagne, and orange scones with the ardor of one who had been without decent food for some time. “Probably has another luncheon to attend.”

  “Where he will no doubt gain valuable information,” added Sherlock.

  Sigh. Mirabella watched the stately and debonair elder Holmes brother turn the corner. He was so pleasant and easy to be with. She glanced at John Watson. She was so happy that he was out of jail—and safe.

  And happy to be out from under his spell as well.

  That was a match that never could have been. As lovely a person as John was—and the best of friends—she made a resolution then and there that no man would be the recipient of her love unless he were able to be true to her alone. A man who needed more than one woman was not for her. And no doubt she was not the woman for him either—or she would have been enough.

  “I saw your article about the case in The Gazette, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella murmured.

  “As promised, I wrote nothing about you in the article, Miss Mirabella, and never will.”

  “You more than made up for your restraint in your exaggerations of me, Watson,” Sherlock stated, but there was amusement in his expression.

  “It had to be done, old chap,” John replied. “Surprisingly, it was a cathartic experience. I may even end up writing about the Afghan war.”

  “First hand accounts are fascinating to the reading public, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella agreed.

  “The interesting point about this case to me, upon reflection, was that Miss Van Horn understood Joëlle’s weaknesses. Perhaps better than anyone,” murmured Dr. Watson, his sea green eyes glistening even more than usual as they all lounged about on the Parisian sidewalk café with their champagne brunch.

  “Very good, Watson,” Sherlock nodded. “I believe that Miss Van Horn would have found a way to kill Miss Janvier had she persisted in her actions against the tigers. And it would have been a more vicious attack—perhaps by the tigers themselves.”

  “But only after Ashanti had given Miss Janvier every opportunity to right the wrong.” Mirabella shuddered. “And Mrs. Beauclerk? Do you r
eally believe that her death was innocent?”

  “Ah, the mistress who jilted the former mistress,” Sherlock murmured. “I have seen the autopsy, and I believe Mrs. Beauclerk to have died of natural causes. In addition, none of the chocolates in her room were missing.”

  “Mrs. Beauclerk never ate any of the chocolates?” Mirabella asked.

  “A most fortunate happenchance, as this was what convinced me of Miss Fairbrother’s innocence despite all the similar scenarios,” Sherlock replied. “And the fact that I don’t believe any of the numerous substances in Miss Janvier’s stomach were intended to kill her.”

  Sherlock took a small wrapped package out of his suit pocket. “But enough of this, I have a gift for you, Miss Belle.”

  “Why? . . . What is this for?” she asked suspiciously, looking up from her endeavor.

  “You did an excellent job, Miss Belle, and showed great courage. I was very impressed with your devotion to the case. I think . . .”

  “Oh, go ahead, Holmes, ask her!” commanded Dr. Watson, popping a mushroom into his mouth.

  “I believe you are now, officially, to be an operative on our cases. If you would wish to be?” Sherlock asked, showing far more shyness than he was inclined to show.

  “Are you quite serious, Mr. Holmes?” she exclaimed, letting her fork drop. “Oh, I would love that above all else! You’d let me work on the cases?”

  “As needed,” Sherlock said. “Of course, you would still need to keep my laboratory in order and cook our meals.”

  “Of course!” she agreed, so thrilled that her status had risen and that there would be more cases.

  “It is a very dangerous work, Miss Belle, you must be fully aware of this.”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Holmes, I believe I have deduced that by now! If I were so stupid that I did not know this, you would not wish to hire me, I am sure.”

  “Are you certain you are prepared to risk your life every day, Miss Mirabella?” Watson admonished. “I advise you not to agree to it.”