Dr. Watson straightened his fashionable silk tie and set his hat on the table between them, brushing his hand through his blonde-streaked hair. “It might reduce the escalating turmoil, Holmes, if you were to explain to Miss Mirabella that the finishing school is not for the purpose of finishing her but of finishing someone else.”
“It might.” Sherlock returned to playing his violin in a most annoying manner as they spoke. “However, I do not know why I must explain everything to Miss Belle as if I were working for her before it behooves her to behave in a professional capacity, or failing professionalism, like a lady. Perhaps there would be a benefit in her attendance at the finishing school after all.”
“What is the purpose of the finishing school if not to finish me?” repeated Mirabella, suddenly interested.
“We don’t know,” offered Watson. “A government plot, anarchists, criminals. To be quite honest, we don’t yet know.”
“Please please Mr. Holmes, send someone else.” It was clear that this particular role was wholly unsuited to her abilities. Doomed to failure. “Not me! I’ll pay you back for the clothes! I never wanted them anyway!”
“There aren’t enough dirty jars in all of London for you to pay me back, Miss Hudson. And if there were, you might have enough money to enter university, oh . . . you’re seventeen years of age now . . . when you are thirty-five years old.”
“Egad!” She gulped hard, taking the handkerchief Dr. Watson handed her to dab her eyes. She was utterly shocked at the idea of being so ancient. “Even older than you, Mr. Holmes!”
“Yes, a regular fossil,” he frowned, popping a blueberry in his mouth as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It is unlikely you shall live that long.”
“Tell her, Holmes. I’ve had quite enough of this,” admonished Dr. Watson, leaning forward in his leather chair as he turned towards her. “There is a certain danger, Miss Mirabella.”
“Well, naturally, Dr. Watson. It is a case of some type—there must be a criminal element,” exclaimed Mirabella. “Of course there is a danger! That doesn’t frighten me in the least. But a finishing school? The very idea is utterly terrifying!”
“But don’t you see, Miss Belle?” Sherlock began.
“Don’t I see what?”
She thought she saw something approaching a smile on his lips as set down his violin—finally! Praise the heavens!—picking up his teacup and taking a sip of tea. “The finishing school is not the important part of the assignment. It is something to be endured. The case requires a particular type of girl, whom I believe you to be. This is precisely why I have chosen you for this position.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I tested you on the first day of our meeting—did you not observe it?”
“I observed that you almost blinded me with your spatula!”
“My platina spatula.”
“Very well, I . . .”
“I was testing your reflexes and your strength. Frankly, I was astonished.”
“Holmes is rarely astonished,” remarked Dr. Watson, stirring a lump of sugar into his cup of tea.
“I don’t see how blinding me with your spatula should astonish you,” shrugged Mirabella, returning from the window framed by sheer white curtains to sit beside them in the wicker chair.
“Don’t slouch,” Sherlock commanded. “And it taught me something of your fighting potential.”
“I don’t know how to fight! Granted, I had a regular tussle with my brothers, but not a real—”
“You will learn to fight by the time we are finished with you. I’m something of a boxer myself, you know. The raw material is there—that’s all we need.”
“Sherlock Holmes!” she exclaimed, suddenly indignant as she jumped from her chair to a standing position. “You purposely tripped me! I knew it!”
“Of course I did. I do everything with purpose.” He sniffed defensively. “I’m not wandering about willy nilly not having any idea what I am doing.”
“For shame, Mr. Holmes!” She passed her finger back and forth. “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself for attacking an unsuspecting woman?”
“Naturally I don’t. I meant no harm to your person: it was a scientific experiment only.”
Dr. Watson broke into laughter, unable to contain himself any longer. “And what was the purpose of this experiment?”
“I wanted to see how Miss Hudson regarded her surroundings—and if she could fall. I wanted to observe her instinct for survival.”
“Mr. Holmes, if I had any instinct for survival whatsoever, I would have run screaming from this place long ago.” A picture of the Great Detective’s bedroom came immediately to mind, the walls of which were lined with pictures of celebrated criminals. She avoided the room as much as possible, which was macabre to say the least, but it was necessary to dust on occasion.
It must be a very strange person indeed who would consider pictures of one’s enemies on one’s bedroom walls to be conducive to a good night’s sleep. Dr. Watson’s bedroom, on the other hand . . . she blushed, realizing she should not be thinking about such things.
Sherlock glanced up at her without comment, and it disconcerted her that she knew the meaning of his expression: their discussion would not be of a much longer duration. As all of Scotland Yard knew as well, once a conversation was no longer of interest to Sherlock Holmes, he disengaged himself without apology or aplomb and regardless of whom it might offend.
She made one last attempt at reasoning with the unreasonable. “But that is neither here nor there. What is to the point is that survival in the midst of a mad scientist waving a spatula about is a far different thing from fighting criminals!”
“Watson and I will teach you every manner of self-defense, Miss Belle.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Then—and only then—shall you enter Miss de Beauvais’ Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies.”
CHAPTER TEN
10
“Now I am completely baffled!” Mirabella pursued the conversation anew in a final attempt to gain more information about the proposed mission. It was beginning to look as if her secondary plan, that of jumping from the London Tower had more merit under the present circumstances.
“Sit down, Miss Hudson!” commanded Holmes. “If you should ever cease chattering for even three seconds—I am quite certain I would explain it all to you. Why is it that the less you know about a subject, the more you speak about it?”
“Oh, I’m so very sorry. Please do forgive my thoughtlessness in interrupting your plans for my torture.” She swallowed hard, moving past the brass accoutrements on the fireplace mantle to sit in the basket chair situated next to Dr. Watson. “I always talk when I am frightened out of my mind. Yes, please do tell me everything.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows disapprovingly at her. “You understand that this is in the strictest confidence—and can go no further than this. You cannot even tell Mrs. Hudson.”
“Not even Aunt Martha?” Mirabella covered her mouth in dismay.
“Absolutely not. Do you wish to put her life in danger?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then you will promise me that everything I say to you is in the strictest confidence—upon threat of dismissal.”
“I promise,” she gulped, running her hands along the pink velvet ribbon in her hair as she sat back, attempting to disappear into her chair.
“There is a young lady—a princess of a small Slavic country.”
“A Slavic princess?” she asked, suddenly mesmerized. She could not help herself, the romance of it all swept her away. She sighed. “Like an Arabian princess?”
“A Serbian princess, to be precise.” Holmes sighed heavily as he placed his teacup on the table. “Pray, may I continue Miss Belle?”
She nodded, wrapping her hands around her cheeks. “Of which country?”
“Montenegro.” Holmes closed his eyes momentarily, as if he were listening to music. He often did this even as he
was speaking, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair or picking up his violin and going through the motions of the notes. At this time he picked up his violin.
“Oh,” she sighed. “The Black Mountains . . .”
Sherlock opened his eyes and momentarily separated the violin from his chin. “Princess Elena has caught the eye of Prince Victor Emmanuel III of Italy.”
“The crown prince. Oh, my,” she sighed. “Like a fairytale.”
“Some do not consider it so,” Watson mused with raised eyebrows, his expression foreboding.
Sherlock nodded indifferently, continuing with his piece in his mind. “Princess Elena Petrović-Njegoš of Montenegro is not favored—many do not think she is worthy of the House of Savoy. But the Prince of Naples was smitten—he saw her at a ball in St. Petersburg.”
“He saw her?” Mirabella repeated disbelieving, her eyes moving from Holmes to Watson. “All this because he saw her? She can be no more than a stranger to him.”
“Prince Victor Emmanuel had only just introduced himself to her when a fight ensued over Elena and she was swept away from the ball under guard,” Watson explained, nodding his chin towards her.
“A fight? In a formal ball?” Mirabella asked, disbelieving.
“Princess Elena’s popularity on the dance floor and the lack of openings on her dance card inspired a heated argument which led to a duel between Prince Arsen of Serbia and Baron Carl Gustav von Mannerheim of Finland,” Dr. Watson explained matter-of-factly as if it were an every day occurrence.
“I understand that the Baron was wounded in the duel,” Sherlock added.
“I never heard of such a thing in civilized society!” Mirabella exclaimed.
“The Princess of Montenegro must be quite beautiful to have inspired such emotions,” Dr. Watson murmured.
Sherlock shrugged, placing the violin beside his chair. “They say there is a Madonna-like quality to her countenance: serene and contained. She is tall, slim, with very dark hair and eyes.”
“And she is somewhat tribal,” added Watson, watching the proceedings with obvious interest.
“Tribal?” Mirabella repeated in a disbelieving manner. “Do you mean she paints her face and performs voodoo?”
“Unlikely,” Holmes reflected, turning his calabash pipe round in his hands in a circular motion, deep in thought. “But this is not information we are privy to. What we do know is that Princess Elena is an excellent huntress—hence she knows how to use weapons—and can ride a horse like a master.”
“So, what is the problem?” Mirabella asked, fast losing interest. “Why must she enter a finishing school? Wouldn’t it be safer to hide her somewhere until her marriage to Prince Victor Emmanuel?”
“In the first place, the marriage is not settled,” Sherlock replied with more criticism in his expression towards her than Mirabella felt was necessary. “The two have never spoken outside of the brief introduction at the St. Petersburg ball. And, in the second place, Princess Elena requires a finishing school.”
“Why? It sounds as if she doesn’t require any assistance in procuring admirers. In fact, her primary problem is that she has too many,” Mirabella persisted, feeling a sense of inadequacy as she murmured the words. “She appears to be all that is elegance.”
“The princess of Montenegro does not speak,” Sherlock muttered with indifference, as if he were growing bored with the conversation.
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes? Of course she speaks.” Mirabella rolled her eyes.
“Not in social situations.” Holmes cleared his throat. “She becomes positively tongue-tied: she does not engage in polite conversation. Unlike you, Miss Belle, who never stops talking, she cannot find her tongue. Would that you could lose yours and she would find it.”
“Princess Elena is not the only individual with difficulty making polite conversation,” murmured Mirabella.
“Fortunately my continued survival does not depend upon it.”
That remains to be seen. “But if the princess is so inept in society, how is it that a duel was fought over her attentions?” she asked incredulously.
“Even I can answer that,” smiled Watson with an expression of first-hand knowledge which she could not like, his turquoise eyes particularly entrancing. “The very beautiful can manage a lack of speech more than the very ugly. The plain girl must compensate with personality—not so with beauty.”
“She merely stands about and smiles—or dances—which is mistaken for solemnity and fashionable boredom,” added Holmes.
“Still—I don’t think she needs our help,” shrugged Mirabella, wrapping her arms around her waist.
“Ah, well, fortunately for our pocketbooks and my reputation, Miss Hudson, what you think and what the royal family of Montenegro thinks are two different things. The king strongly desires this alliance with Italy—it would be an excellent connection for their little country.”
“But what does she desire? The princess I mean.”
“That is not your concern. She is not paying you—the royal family is.”
“And that is not all,” added Dr. Watson, moving to lean against the walnut fireplace mantel, facing her, his large muscular frame never more apparent. “Princess Elena is not the first royal daughter in need of training in the ways of society. It should be a straightforward matter to simply place her in a finishing school. But there is a threat on her life.”
“How deplorable! It can’t be true!” Mirabella exclaimed, momentarily covering her mouth with her hand in dismay. “Why would anyone wish her dead? Just because she cannot make good conversation—“
“Miss Belle, think,” demanded Sherlock, his brow suddenly knitted into a frown.
“Well, because . . . you said . . . some do not wish the union, I suppose. And yet—”
“Correct.” Sherlock pronounced, his expression not favorable but slightly less agitated.
“But why should anyone possibly care if the princess of Montenegro marries the crown prince of Italy? Does Prince Victor Emmanuel’s family oppose the match?”
“It is a logical deduction.” Sherlock nodded approvingly. “We would not expect King Umberto I and Princess Margherita of Savoy, the Queen consort of Italy, to favor the match, but we have no way of knowing since we are in the employ of Montenegro and not on a first name basis with the royal family of Italy.”
“And, even if they did not favor the match, would they stoop to murdering their son’s intended?” asked Watson. “It does not seem likely.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Sherlock shrugged. He added, “Another interesting fact is that Princess Elena’s mother, Queen consort Milena Vukotić, does not favor the match, in opposition to her husband.”
“Why is that?” Mirabella asked, her countenance falling in heartfelt sympathy for the princess. “Oh, my. This is far worse than Romeo and Juliet! Everything is stacked against them—and this is making less and less sense.”
“If you would only think, Miss Hudson, and apply what you know, the mystery unfolding before us would not be so confusing,” Sherlock countered. “Lives depend upon your utilizing your brain, Miss Hudson. Perhaps your own life.”
“I give up.” Mirabella sighed heavily. “Why does the queen of Montenegro not favor the match?”
“Elena would necessarily have to become Catholic to marry Prince Victor Emmanuel,” Sherlock replied mechanically, tapping his forefinger on his cheek. “Italy is a Catholic country.”
“And you believe the queen objects to her religion?” Mirabella asked.
“I can see no other reason,” Sherlock considered. “Queen Milena has married off other daughters to international royals without any obvious objections.”
“For a small Slavic country, the king and queen of Montenegro have done very well in their daughters’ alliances,” Dr. Watson mused. “One daughter will wed a Battenberg prince, another the cousin of Alexander I. Anastasija will marry the duke of Leuchtenberg.
“What religion is Princess El
ena?” Mirabella asked.
“Serbian Orthodox,” Sherlock replied.
“It is a Christian religion,” Mirabella mused.
“Historically, the Catholics do not consider the Protestants to be Christian and vice-versa. There is often disagreement among the various sects. That they all follow Christ appears to be less important than who is superior to whom.” Sherlock smiled.
“To some, religious belief is important in marriage,” Mirabella replied indignantly, placing her hands on her hips. “Apparently their religion is of greater concern to the queen consort than to the king. And Queen Milena’s wishes are of no moment, which tells me how women are viewed and how the daughter was raised.”
“Unless it is the daughter’s wishes which are the motivating factor,” Dr. Watson mused. “Perhaps King Nicholas respects his daughter that much.”
“I seriously doubt if that is the case,” Mirabella pronounced.
“Miss Hudson, we may speculate, but we do not draw conclusions until we have the facts at hand,” he admonished a bit more severely than was the norm, even for him. “Otherwise, we are engaging in nothing but malicious gossip. Moreover, lives are at stake. Perhaps the lives of entire countries. We must be utterly devoted to the facts and nothing more.”
“At any rate, I fail to see what I can do,” murmured Mirabella.
“I am so pleased that we finally come to how you might be of assistance, Miss Belle,” remarked Sherlock cordially. “Do I dare to hope that is an interest of yours? To be perfectly honest, my dear girl, I had fully anticipated having to beg my employee to do that which is useful to me. And, yet, in a record time of only forty-five minutes, you have alluded to the subject. Granted it is a mere hint on your part, but it fills my heart with anticipation.”
“You might have told me at any time, Mr. Holmes, I am sure,” muttered Mirabella. Rolling her eyes, she caught sight of the stacks of papers on Sherlock’s desk, held in place with a microscope. No matter how fast she dusted and organized, he was always just ahead of her in creating disaster. She shuddered to think about the mess which would be waiting for her upon her return from the finishing school.
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 9
