Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “Ye just deck yaaahrself aaaht fancy like a proper lady—ye’ll need several ever-day gowns an’ an evenin’ gown wiv all da proper acoutremun’s: crocheted gloves an’ silk gloves, a lace parasol, a ladies’ fan, a satin reticule, boots an’ shoes, shiny bobbles, even feminine scent. An’ a silk nightgown as a high-born gul’ wud haf, fergive me fer bringin’ up the unmentionables but they must be mentioned. And while yer at i’ make yaaahrself a proper lab coat an’ a dress fer greetin’ me visitors.” He handed her a card. “Me optometrist. Get some ‘o those new glass lenses to replace the arful black glasses.”

  She stared at him. “Why did you change your mind Mr. Holmes? About me, that is?”

  “I didn’t, Miss Belle. I’ve only been known to change me mind once.” He straightened his posture and took out his pipe and lit it. He was suddenly out of character, extremely rare for him once he was in disguise.

  “I see.”

  “I doubt that, Miss Belle,” he replied, taking a long puff on his pipe. “Now run along before we embark upon the second instance.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  7

  “You know, of course, that we can only accept girls who are members of the peerage.” Miss de Beauvais eyed Sherlock’s stylish attire. “No matter how successful her connections.” The proprietress was a brunette with her hair arranged in an ornate fashion, so stiff that it conceivably was meant to serve as a military helmet in the event of war.

  A wise precaution in Sherlock’s estimation. He approved of a sensible woman. He also approved of any person without a high degree of emotion or sentiment, a criteria which the lady before him likewise met.

  “Naturally.” Sherlock glanced about the elaborate office, the style much in keeping with the large parlor he had observed upon entering Miss de Beauvais’ Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies. The wallpaper was of a green and gold triangular pattern with a border more orange than red. The ceiling was maroon and ivory while the carpet was maroon and green. Oil paintings of flowers of every variety decorated the walls, the colors so vivid that one expected to see bees flying from one picture to the next.

  Glancing at the décor, one certainly felt their sting. In contrast, the Queen Anne chairs were starkly lacking in color, cushioned in cream and brown, as if there were no point in making the attempt.

  “And what are the young lady’s connections?” she pressed. “Precisely?”

  Though Miss de Beauvais’ was situated in the stylish part of town at 76 Regent Street, somehow it seemed appropriate that the exclusive finishing school was likewise nearby to Piccadilly Circus. That Miss de Beauvais’ was also within walking distance of Café Royal, a favorite haunt of his and Watson’s, was mere coincidence—and most convenient as a location to compare notes.

  “My niece is the granddaughter of a distant land baron on her poor deceased mother’s side.” Sherlock mentally resolved to have Mycroft produce some piece of paper authenticated by someone of importance justified by national security issues. Mycroft had considerable clout, regardless of the Foreign Office’s interest.

  “I see. Perfectly suitable.” She nodded agreeably, but her expressed commitment lacked conviction. Miss de Beauvais’ lips were generally pursed, as if her primary motivation were containing her thoughts. Her face was elongated; there was nothing particularly unappealing—or appealing—about her features to which a make-up meant to look like the absence of make-up was applied. No doubt the fear of looking like a stage actress caused her to err on the colorless side, which she more than made up for in her choice of clothing and home décor. Glancing at her hands, Sherlock saw that her nails were short and buffed but unpainted. Miss de Beauvais had attended to every detail, even if her intent was neutrality, and perhaps not with the best results.

  It struck Sherlock that this woman might be his female equivalent in temperament, outlook, and emotional detachment. It was amusing to contemplate making love to such a woman, one’s twin as it were. Much like kissing a Venus flytrap.

  “An impoverished land baron, but a baron nonetheless. I am too busy making money to concern myself with such things.” Sherlock placed a heavy wad of bills on the desk between them. “All the cash holdings come from my branch of the family.”

  “Oh, I’m quite certain we will completely adore your lovely niece, Mr. . .” Her facial expression changed in an instant to a saintly sweetness, her good will towards him much improved, and he observed her eyeing with considerable sentimentality the wad of bills he had placed on her desk.

  “Carnegie,” Sherlock replied, tipping his silk top hat before removing it. “Lochlan Carnegie.”

  “Carnegie? By chance, are you a relation of Andrew Carnegie, the American tycoon, sir? I believe he has Scottish roots?” Her breathing became more rapid.

  Sherlock took care to neither answer nor refute her assumption. He pulled out his gold pocket watch and looked at it. He then straightened his white silk tie, smoothing his false beard and well-oiled walrus moustache, before replying. “My niece does some type of volunteer work, at an orphanage, I believe it is. Only a few hours a week. And we must be allowed to visit her—my associate, Hamish, and I. She is most dear to us—an orphan herself you know, with only her two sinfully rich bachelor uncles to look to.” He smiled his most winning smile, which by all accounts was not particularly winning. It was hoped that a belief in his massive wealth enhanced his charm. “Miss de Beauvais, is it?”

  “Oh, I am sorry, that is out of the question, Mr. Carnegie.” Her lips quivered but remained tightly held together. “Once the girls enter it is a closed-door policy. The girls are all required to stay here for the duration of their ten week term with little contact from the outside except that which we provide—under strict chaperonage, of course. It is a very intensive class and is completed just in time for the Christmas holiday—at which time they may return home for a few weeks. The final semester commences upon their return and ends in their coming out for the season as elegant, sophisticated young ladies, just in time for their presentation to Queen Victoria and all the accompanying balls and dinner parties.”

  “And by elegant and sophisticated, I presume you mean marriageable?” Sherlock asked, emphasizing the word as he leaned closer toward her. He could tell that she was attracted to either him or his money; he meant to discover which and to use that information to his advantage.

  “Naturally.” She nodded agreement. “This is my pledge to you.” The young female entrepreneur wore a gown of orange silk which somehow blended in this frighteningly busy room of green, maroon, and orange. One was of the impression that Miss de Beauvais could not enter a room unless she were a perfect compliment to the décor—and that she must control everyone and everything in her environment.

  Sherlock locked eyes across the desk with the business owner staring back at him whom he guessed had an unyielding will to rival his own. Two confirmed bachelors as it were.

  So much alike, they should have been a match. Except for the fact that he detested her, which was perhaps a commentary on why he disliked to be alone in his own company unless he was focused on a case.

  There was a significant difference in the expression of his and Miss de Beauvais’ similar characteristics, however: her existence was completely devoted to the superficial aspects of life—and to herself. His dealt with the harsh realities—and to the service of society.

  Sherlock asked himself, as he often had, if it would not be more profitable to be the criminal than to side with the law.

  Naturally. No one can beat me. Sherlock knew very well that he could succeed as a criminal. Far stupider people had.

  But it was never about the money for him: it was the occupation. And I love my country. He might not love his fellow man, but he would be on the side of right. Otherwise he could easily foresee the downfall of civilization.

  Sherlock took another wad of bills and placed it on the table. “Will I be allowed to visit my niece—or shall I take these substantially heavy piles of currency w
ith me and place her elsewhere?”

  “Such a fine establishment as this is very expensive to run,” she murmured, eyeing the bills caressingly while shaking her head.

  He opened his leather bag and placed both stacks of bills within. “Do pardon me, Miss de Beauvais, but this is too much money to place in my wallet. It simply won’t fit. In much the same way I fear my niece will not fit in here. Though I must say it was a pleasure to meet you.” He winked at her, rising and reaching for his hat.

  “We can make a slight exception in the case of your dear niece. Mirabella . . . Carnegie, is it? Surely your brief familial visits can be arranged so that they don’t disturb the other girls.” She cleared her throat. “And certainly charity work is to be commended.”

  Assessing the woman before him, Sherlock was convinced she had no notion of the jewel he was placing in her care—nor cared, outside of the benefit to herself. If a single hair from Miss Belle’s head is ‘disturbed’ as you put it, you shall regret the day we met, Miss de Beauvais.

  In point of fact, Miss Hudson was the key to his future, his ticket to solving the case. His ticket to . . . everything.

  Miss Mirabella Hudson had done the one thing anyone rarely did—she had surprised him. Sherlock had no notion of the girl’s usefulness when he hired her, but the fact was that he couldn’t possibly solve this without the hoyden. She might be rude and boisterous—but she was also essential. Miss Belle was a spitfire—and an intelligent one at that—a girl who was willing to work beside him and take all the risks he was willing to take.

  And this assignment was his first international case.

  My key to fame.

  Not that he cared about money or fame, but Sherlock cared desperately, frantically about work. I must have employment. To be without mental stimulation was anathema to him. He was a young detective, considered an eccentric, disliked by most, and though he could personally care less about whether or not anyone liked him, he knew very well that his reputation was fragile. MirabellaHe was on the brink of being termed brilliant—or insane.

  The laughing stock of London.

  Not succeeding could destroy my career. Above all, he must have an exceptional reputation to have occupation, particularly given his social standing. Because this was such a high profile assignment, it had the power to make him—or to ruin him.

  Sherlock nodded tersely, and returned the money to the table. “I’m gratified you can see fit to accommodate us, Miss de Beauvais.”

  “I see no reason why we cannot have a mutually profitable relationship,” she murmured with a smile.

  Without a doubt there was an element of danger inherent to the case—particularly to Miss Hudson. But his young ward knew of the danger and had chosen to proceed. Naturally Sherlock hoped she would emerge unscathed—outside the fact that he wished her no harm, he would have to find a new place to live and a new assistant were any harm to come to her. But most of all, he wished her to succeed.

  “I cannot think of one, Miss de Beauvais.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  8

  “Good morning, Officer.” Mirabella nodded to a policeman wandering the halls, his silver buttons catching the light which drifted through the floor-to-ceiling Gothic arched windows.

  Mirabella took a deep breath, working up all her nerve. She dreaded coming here. For her, it was the saddest place on earth: 18 Charing Cross Road.

  She glanced up at the sign “Lady Graham’s Orphan Asylum for the Female Children of Deceased Officers of the Police, est. 1865, 18 Charing Cross Road.”

  “Miss.” He tipped his hat to her. There was always a bobby in Lady Graham’s—visiting the child of a murdered partner or just paying his respects. With the building’s medieval stone arches, one expected to see a knight of old rather than a bobby, but both lent a false sense of protection.

  She turned to glance out the arched windows. Within view was the Bank of England, the home of Dr. Watson’s bank notes as it were, the Charing Cross Hotel, and across the street the telegram office utilized by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

  What a different world it was, only steps away. Having had a delightful childhood growing up on a farm outside Dumfries, it was difficult for her to imagine growing up at Lady Graham’s.

  Whatever her upbringing might have lacked, she never lacked for dreams. Having a strong bent for science and especially a love of chemistry, her dream had always been to go to university. A dream which seemed impossible as often as not, but whatever anyone took from her, she still had her greatest asset: herself.

  When one lost one’s belief in oneself one had lost everything.

  These walls were filled with those who had lost everything.

  Whenever Mirabella felt particularly sad, she offered up the thing she felt was missing in her own life to someone else. Her mother had taught her that. Once a week, whatever her personal disappointments, she taught science to young female orphans at Lady Graham’s.

  Bang! Crash! Entering the Great Hall, where dozens of children would meet for each meal, she wondered why it was always so noisy. Shouldn’t all these children meandering about aimlessly be somewhere? Doing something?

  Initially there had been a benefactress, Lady Graham, then city funds and donations had been added upon her death along with a trustee. As long as there was money involved, the children had value.

  At Lady Graham’s the children were fed and clothed—even minimally schooled, though no one was required to attend Mirabella’s science class. She had been volunteering for some six weeks, and certain questions began to occur to her.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Bickers.” She nodded to the headmistress, whose expression never wavered from a stern frown and who only engaged in conversation with reluctance.

  “Miss Hudson,” Miss Bickers nodded disapprovingly. “Yer class is a-waitin’.” The sturdy woman in her early thirties with angular features and stringy, brown greying hair tied in a bun glared at her. Miss Bickers wore a brown tailored suit consisting of a full skirt and a long jacket ornamented with a voluminous brown velvet bow at the bosom which would be less unexpected on a child’s frivolous outfit than on the gown of a hardened matron. But the fabric was of a fine quality.

  “That is a beautiful ring,” Mirabella exclaimed, not being one to hide her thoughts. On Miss Bickers’ finger she wore a sparkling ruby ring.

  Miss Bickers replied defensively, “It’s a family heirloom.”

  Certainly Mirabella would have thought a ring such as that to be an impossible purchase on a headmistress’ salary, but she hadn’t intended any insult, only to admire the ring.

  “It is stunning,” she murmured, attempting to change the subject. “I believe that you teach math class, Miss Bickers?”

  “Math and art. I am a painter.” Miss Bickers held her head high. “What’s it ‘ave to do wif’ you, miss?”

  “I am only interested in the girls’ education, beg pardon.” Mirabella curtseyed, bowing her head momentarily, wondering what on earth there was to take offense in with such an ordinary question. She glanced about the Great Hall, noticing that the walls were noticeably devoid of any art work—either by children or adults. She murmured, “I would love to see your paintings.”

  “They’se not fer public viewing.”

  The headmistress’ reaction only made Mirabella more determined, as most efforts to subdue her did. “Do you teach English as well, Miss Bickers?”

  “Nah. It ain’t me strong suit.”

  Well that is a shocking bit of news.

  “Officer McLaughlin volunteers,” Miss Bickers added.

  “Is he a good teacher?”

  “I reckon’ as not.” Miss Bickers shrugged indifferently, her stiff brown shift dress taking a few seconds to return to its original position once her shoulders reclined. Though tall and slim, the headmistress was well-fed and somewhat muscular. Her features were good and she might have been pretty had she worn her hair in a less severe manner and smiled on occasion, although that could be no
thing more than speculation as it had never been observed.

  “Miss Bickers, here is the receipt for my supplies,” she took it out of her bag. “And my hansom cab ride—I would prefer to walk, but it is a distance and I have a great deal to carry. You had said at the outset that, though my services are unpaid, the orphanage would reimburse me for my expenses?”

  “O’course,” replied Miss Bickers, pursing her lips and tapping her foot on the stone floor. “I don’t takes to extravagant spending, but we don’ deny the girls anythin’ either.”

  “And how does the girls’ education progress?” She had learned from the Great Detective to be direct in her questions. Falling back only tended to invite others to trample.

  “Well enough,” Miss Bickers looked at the younger woman over her glasses.

  “The children, can they all read and do their figures?” Mirabella asked.

  “Those what wants to can,” Miss Bickers sniffed with indifference.

  “What is the plan for their future?” Mirabella pressed on, mustering her courage. “That is to say, what are they being trained for? I only ask so I may be of any assistance I can.”

  “They’se gettin’ math, art, and reading, what more is there? We don’t have no call for French and music here.” Miss Bickers sneered, nonplussed. She smoothed her hair back, but there was no need as it appeared to be lacquered to her head. “I do teach ‘em watercolor, which is a fine sight better than the other orphanages. We’ve run a very tight ship ‘ere these five years, ‘an the Board ‘o Trustees is very pleased wif’ our work. We are always on budget.”

  “I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job, Miss Bickers,” reassured Mirabella. “My only concern is for the girls. I do wish that you would require more of the girls to take my science class. Don’t you agree that a very little math, art, and English is hardly sufficient for a governess position? By your own admission, some of the girls can’t even read and do basic arithmetic.”