“Well then . . . why . . .” She backed up until she was almost leaning against the mantle, placing her hand momentarily on the maroon wallpaper of questionable taste in rose and dark brown with inclinations towards purple in the triangular design.
“I shall ask the questions. It is transparent to me why you lost your last position. Be advised, my girl, if you are to be in my employ, you must never interrupt my train of thought. Why should genius be disrupted for drivel?”
Everything about him had the feel of power, prophecy, and unpredictability. Her current apprehension must have been how King Henry VIII’s select wives felt as they were sensing the end of their relationship with the king—and their heads.
All good things must come to an end.
“Yes, sir.” Drivel. Was he quite serious? She was not a world-class anything, but she was not stupid . . .
“Are you capable of comprehending what you read, miss? Do you write legibly and do you have good penmanship?”
“Certainly I can read and write, sir! I am even saving to go to university—and it is so difficult for girls to gain entry, you know—and I read everything I can get my hands on. I simply live at the university library. Science is my one true love. The best thing in the world would be to utilize scientific knowledge to invent something useful to society, and do you know—”
“Your dreams are not my concern.”
“Why, no, I suppose . . .” She swallowed.
“My wishes must become yours if you are to work for me.”
“Indeed they are, I—”
“I need all of the jars washed and the chemicals labeled in my laboratory. My index system along with the results of my experiments need to be kept up on a daily basis. I will not tolerate even the slightest error.”
“Naturally, you would not.” She narrowed her eyes on the man before her, so exceedingly stern in his expression, as if he didn’t believe anyone could measure up to his expectations.
I will prove him wrong. The great Sherlock Holmes will be wrong about this one thing.
“I have a decade-old collection of finger prints,” he glared at her, the furrow to his brow returning. “It could be utilized to identify criminals if anyone at Scotland Yard had the wit and quickness of movement God bestowed upon a desert tortoise—which they do not, I assure you. Good God! The first thesis describing fingerprint patterns was published in eighteen hundred twenty-three by Purkyne! How long must we live in the dark ages?”
“It is a t-travesty, sir,” she agreed. “I r-read Purkyne’s paper myself—I believe he was a Czech physiologist—and I have been intrigued with the idea for some time.”
“I don’t need intrigue!” His words were harsh but it seemed to her that his smoky grey eyes were softening. “I need someone to classify and label my collection according to the twelve basic fingerprint types and cross-reference all alphabetically. It is therefore necessary that you have an elementary understanding of science. Can you take shorthand, Mrs. Hudson’s niece?”
“No, but I assure you that I can name every instrument and every chemical in this laboratory,” she replied indignantly, tugging at her worn dress.
“You will see many things which are not for the weak of stomach.”
“The pursuit of knowledge trumps all other considerations. May I ask, Mr. Holmes,” she ventured, raising her chin. She stood stiffly by the fireplace gazing down at him comfortably situated in his armchair by the fire, “Why did you call me intelligent earlier if you didn’t even know if I could read and write?”
“May you ask? I’m sure I can’t stop you from chattering and questioning me incessantly though it has been the greatest longing of my heart for the past fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes I will never be able to reclaim.” He set his teacup on the mahogany marble table beside his armchair. “But once again, I shall answer you, young lady, my superior nature often getting the better of me. Because you knew the instrument which I waved at you is a platina spatula.”
“Well of course, I—”
He coughed with discomfort, placing his hand in front of his mouth in a gentlemanly fashion, his gentile manners in great contradiction to his stinging tongue. “Not a spatula. To Mrs. Hudson it would have been no different than a stew-cooking utensil.”
“Mr. Holmes, am I to understand that you have evaluated my intelligence over a spatula?”
“Frankly, I would be astonished if you understood anything, Mrs. Hudson’s niece.” He raised his eyebrows reprovingly. “But I am advised that you clearly have the wish to be in my employ.”
She looked up. “I do, sir.”
“Only an intelligent person would desire such a thing.”
CHAPTER FOUR
4
“It cannot be accomplished by a single individual, even a genius such as myself.”
“Perhaps you require the aid of a mere mortal, Holmes?” his flat-mate asked, looking up momentarily from his newspaper.
“I do,” Holmes nodded. The two men sat facing each other in front of the fire on an unseasonably cold fall day in Westminster, London, each enjoying their pipes.
“Count me in,” Watson murmured distractedly without the slightest hesitation.
“I must warn you, my good doctor, that the time may come when, in the interest of apprehending the criminal, it may be necessary to break the law.”
“Too many laws on the books, I should say.” The tall, slim man stretched out his left leg and rubbed it, the old war wounds acting up. Injuries aside, he was in the prime of life, looking to be in his early twenties but in actuality just having turned nine and twenty. All in all, he was a far different sight than the aimless convalescing soldier he had been when they had met some nine months prior.
“We might . . . I shudder to think it . . .” Holmes took a puff on his pipe “even end up incarcerated.”
“Hmm . . . not a pretty picture. I can’t say I enjoyed my last visit to the galleys.”
“Though I dare say being a prisoner of war is a far different experience than our civilized London jail systems.” Holmes raised his eyebrow at his friend as he surveyed him.
“You have a point, Holmes. But neither is to be recommended.” Dr. Watson picked up the Pall Mall Gazette and began skimming the front page. He murmured aloud as he read, “The Turks are strengthening their army—with the apparent hope of recapturing the lost lands of the Ottoman Empire. I have strong doubts Russia will come to the Balkans’ aid again if there is another war.”
“I must concur. And that brings me to the case. So are you in, Doctor?” Sherlock pressed.
“Hmmm?” Dr. Watson glanced over the top of the paper. “Without a doubt.”
“Excellent. There is no one I would rather have by my side.”
“Nor I.” Dr. Watson returned to his newspaper. “But let us waste no more time sitting about bantering.”
“I agree entirely, Doctor, there is evil afoot to apprehend.”
“What is the case Holmes?”
“There is an assassination attempt against the Princess of Montenegro, an exceptionally mysterious and beautiful young woman.”
“The blaggards! Who would wish to harm the princess of a tiny Slavic country?”
“As for the reason to wish her dead, Princess Elena Petrović-Njegoš has a bewitching power over men. She is tall with black hair and black eyes. She rarely speaks and yet she has a Madonna-like countenance which captivates.”
“Bewitching?” Dr. Watson chuckled. “Seriously, Holmes, you don’t expect me to believe—”
“A duel was fought over our enchantress following a ball in St. Petersburg where there was presumably a heated argument over which of her suitors was entitled to the next dance. She was swept away in the middle of the ball amidst the ruckus.”
“Doesn’t seem like the type of woman anyone would wish dead,” Dr. Watson considered, laying down the Gazette.
“Ah, but don’t you comprehend, Watson?” Sherlock leaned closer towards him.
“No.” Joh
n Watson shook his head, with the expression of one who speculated that a woman who held men captive in a spellbound state was precisely what one would wish. “Not in the least.”
“What do you suppose has happened with this great beauty now out of the schoolroom and set loose upon the male realm, Watson?” Sherlock sighed impatiently, taking a puff on his pipe. “You of all men are aware of the weaknesses of your gender.”
“Princess Elena has dazzled someone of note, I should think,” Dr. Watson remarked without hesitation. “Someone . . . of great power?”
“Precisely, Watson!” Sherlock slapped the arm of his chair. “Prince Victor Emmanuel III, the prince of Naples and the crown prince of Italy.” Sherlock cleared his throat, adding, “Called ‘Vittorio’ by his family and close friends.”
Watson gave a low whistle. “Impressive.”
“Many do not think Princess Elena is worthy of the House of Savoy,” Sherlock stated, tapping the arm of his chair. “She is . . . unusual. . .”
“You’ve already said that, Holmes. She casts a spell over men.”
“I am quite sure I never repeat myself,” Sherlock replied tersely. “Except for the slow of mind. May I continue, if you please?”
“By all means, Holmes.”
“Very well. As I said, Princess Elena is unusual amidst royalty. Her family is somewhat tribal. The so-called palace of Montenegro where she grew up along with her seven siblings is a plain white wooden residence. Furthermore, Princess Elena is an excellent huntress and can ride a horse like a master. When our Slavic royal was unknown and beautiful, however unconventional, she was of little importance. But Elena has caught in her small net a very large prize indeed.”
“Do we know who is trying to kill the young lady?” asked Dr. Watson.
“There are endless possibilities, I should think. Where there is wealth and power there are always high stakes,” considered Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at his friend. “It is highly probable that Prince Victor Emmanuel’s uncle Amadeo, who is next in line for the throne, is not toasting the union. And though it is most distasteful to consider, I would not expect the crown prince’s parents to be pleased, as their expectations must surely have been higher for the future Queen of Italy.”
“Surely you don’t think . . .” Watson exclaimed, his eyes widening.
“I cannot rule out any possibility at this point. It is the King of Montenegro who is paying to protect his daughter at this point. I have no other first hand knowledge of interest in her safety.”
“Such a beautiful girl. Thrown to the wolves.” Watson shook his head, an expression of disgust crossing his features.
“Frankly, outside of the star-crossed couple and King Nicholas, I can’t think of anyone who would be pleased with the match. The anarchist movement is strong in Italy, which, by definition despises the monarchy and everyone associated with it. There will be a racist element which does not wish the crown prince of Italy to marry someone of the Slavic nationality. Possibly the attack has its roots in someone associated with one of the competing princesses for Prince Victor Emmanuel III’s hand.”
“So you don’t know who instigated the attack on Princess Elena’s life, Holmes, is that what you are saying?” pressed John Watson, taking a puff on his pipe.
“I have narrowed it down to the groups I discussed,” muttered Sherlock with indignation.
“That makes it rather difficult,” Watson considered.
“Some might say impossible,” Sherlock murmured. “And we have no help from Scotland Yard on this one. The case is not considered in their jurisdiction.”
“And the Foreign Office?” Watson asked.
“Mycroft? He is offering what little assistance he can.” Sherlock exclaimed in a sudden fury, “Which is bloody short-sighted of the queen’s government!”
“Why is that, Holmes?”
“If we do not succeed and Princess Elena Petrović-Njegoš is murdered, there are forces at work, trouble brewing across the globe, which could potentially lead to war on a massive scale. Montenegro is a small Serbian country, but She has among her allies Mother Russia.”
“God save us if we fail!” Dr. Watson muttered. Sherlock could tell from his friend’s expression that the good doctor understood the importance immediately.
“Somehow we must protect her—and bring the culprits to justice.”
“Right you are, Holmes!” John Watson nodded vehemently, his expression determined. His lips suddenly formed a mischievous smile. “Where will Princess Elena be that we might keep an eye on her?”
“You, my good doctor, shall not get within a city block of the beauty.”
“How then shall I assist in protecting her?” Dr. Watson asked quite innocently.
“You and I will focus on discovering her assailants. Her protection will be left to her bodyguards.” Sherlock frowned. Something about the plan didn’t suit him. “Although I would very much like to have an inside man. But our very gender makes it difficult . . .”
“Whatever are you talking about, Holmes?”
“Princess Elena will be enrolled in an exclusive finishing school for young ladies of royalty and the peerage. Extremely difficult to gain entrance to . . . But, no! What a fool I have been!”
“What is it, Holmes?” Dr. Watson placed the newspaper on the pipe rack beside his chair.
“We shall require the aid of a female.” Sherlock was now resolved.
“You are the master of disguise,” Dr. Watson protested. “You have been a female on many occasions.”
“A pretty female.”
“That is a bit of a sticky wicket.” Dr. Watson tipped his hat to his friend.
“Your tea and tea cakes.” Mirabella Hudson entered with a full tea service, whereby Dr. Watson removed his brown wool bowler hat and placed it on top of the paper.
“Miss Mirabella,” he nodded. Holmes was forced to admit to himself that the good doctor looked particularly dashing, and it was obvious that Miss Hudson agreed with his assessment. But then, Watson was always one to garner the ladies’ approval.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, but you did say you wished your tea precisely at two o’clock, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella continued, setting the tea service before them and pouring their tea. “And though it’s truly not my job, I did promise when you hired me that I wouldn’t mention that to you. So I won’t.”
“I am savoring the silence.” Holmes glanced out the bay window looking onto the street, reassuring himself there was nothing outside of the ordinary mayhem one would expect to find in a den of iniquity which was the bustling London street below.
His armchair was situated so he could see Baker Street, and it was impossible not to hear Westminster clock chiming, the ringing of a bell on a carriage, the beating of feet on gravel (from the shouts, he could tell one of the Baker Street irregulars had given chase), cabbies crying (at each other. Crying at customers would utilize a different vocal tonality), and paper boys blasting out the news.
Sherlock glanced at his stash of opium on his desk, while recalling the location of the morphine and laudanum.
Not needed today. There is sufficient stimulation to occupy my mind.
“The laboratory is clean and all its contents labeled—and your index cards are updated and organized alphabetically, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella continued.
“I should hope so, as you appear to be leaving,” he murmured as he moved his glance to Miss Mirabella Hudson. It was unnecessary as he had memorized everything about her, but it was nonetheless a pleasant exercise. It also disturbed him slightly, the origin of which he had not yet been able to determine.
Which further disturbed him.
She wore no jewelry, and her chestnut brown hair was pulled neatly back and tied with a simple blue ribbon, her heart-shaped face exaggerated by large sensitive eyes framed by fluttery lashes. Her complexion was flushed with color and she had an energetic healthiness about her.
Miss Mirabella Hudson wore a simple sheath cotton dress in roy
al blue, faded from wash. The neckline was rounded and trimmed in white lace. A leather corset vest worn on the outside of her dress accentuated her hourglass figure.
I cannot like it. He had observed the leather corset to be a common style for middle-class working girls, but her apparel made her like a barmaid in his book, worn brown leather boots adding to the effect. The bottom line was that Miss Mirabella Hudson was far too shapely to be wearing . . . a leather . . . tied in such a manner . . . a vest . . . utterly lacking in decorum.
“Aunt Martha and I are off to Newgate to procure the materials to make Christmas decorations for your study. Now that I have thoroughly cleaned it, decorations will look very nice in here don’t you think? There is so much red and green already. Mostly blood and gangrene, but one works with what one has.”
“Does one?” asked Holmes, returning his pipe to his mouth as he studied her.
“Christmas is little more than three months away, you know, and we have grand plans.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows in such a manner as generally had the effect of quieting even Chief Constables of the Yard.
“Much as I love science, one needs something festive to offset all the chemicals and jars of dead things,” she continued gaily.
Ah, but no such effect on Miss Mirabella Hudson. He had yet to come upon the method which would quiet her.
She glanced at the skeleton head on the mantle, and though he generally took considerable pleasure in his comprehension of the unspoken thoughts of others, it frightened him that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was mentally placing a Santa Claus hat on the skull.
“Miss Belle, I am gravely disappointed in you,” Sherlock pronounced.
“I have no doubt of that,” she smiled, moving into the laboratory. “Well, I must finish up my chores so I can be off to Newgate.”
“Miss Hudson!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Return here immediately.”
She turned to glance at him but did not move away from the door. “Yes, sir?”
“I will not tolerate your impertinence. Return here at once.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 3
