Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “I understand,” she nodded somberly even as she paced the room, as if the idea of pampering herself was painful to her.

  “And you may keep all the apparel as well.” He glanced up at her.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t!” She turned abruptly to face him. Suddenly her face lit up like the night sky, as if he had promised her the moon.

  “The gowns are yours to keep. There will be other cases. I will not be able to pay to outfit you again in this type of finery, naturally. The success of a case depends on believability, and someone could die if we fail. And that someone could be you, young lady.” He had the ridiculous compulsion to impress upon her the need to be cautious.

  “But if I were to leave your employ . . .”

  “I know what you are thinking, Miss Hudson,” he replied sternly. “That you will sell these garments and attend university. Outside of the jewelry, you wouldn’t get much.”

  “I won’t be selling the jewelry!” she gasped. “That would be thievery!”

  Just as I thought. The jewels belonged to someone else.

  “No one else would want those clothes, I assure you, certainly not for the price it cost you to acquire them. A wealthy young lady would never wear hand-me-downs—and a servant girl has no need for such clothing.” He moved to the window looking out over Baker Street and pretended to be interested in the organ grinder below, relieved to have his back to her. “There might be a blind young woman who would not mind wearing this outfit—but it would be cruel to thrust your apparel on her.” He turned to face her again. “At any rate, I am forbidding you to sell it—or any of your gowns.”

  “So . . . you have no objection if the ladies at Miss de Beauvais’ make Christmas gifts for the girls in the orphanage?” she pressed, this appearing to be even more important to her than the hope of increasing her savings account.

  “You have not yet met the debutantes, Miss Belle.” He turned to face her. “What makes you think that you can convince them to do so?”

  “I’m sure they are quite nice.” She smiled wistfully. “They are all rich and have everything they need. Why shouldn’t they be?”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he muttered, moving his pipe to his lips as he returned to his wing-backed armchair, his eyebrows raised. “Have you travelled in high society before, Miss Belle?”

  “Naturally I have not.” She shook her head. “But even if they all disliked me—that would put even more time at my disposal!” Her expression was suddenly quite determined. “If I don’t persuade them, I will make the gifts myself. I cannot bear to be idle for ten weeks!”

  “Don’t expect to have any freedom where you are going, Miss Hudson. Miss de Beauvais made it very clear that you will be under lock and key,” he warned, taking a puff on his pipe. There were some things better left unsaid to Miss Hudson. She was the type to take a mile if given an inch.

  “I thought you said you had already obtained permission for me to leave as needed, Mr. Holmes?” she asked coquettishly.

  “Miss de Beauvais gave it quite reluctantly,” he muttered. “And it was for a few hours a week only—which we will need for your fencing practice. Your skills are still not where I would like.” He added somberly, “I would not push that one as you do me, young lady.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she is a barracuda,” he replied simply.

  “She can’t be worse than Miss Bickers,” Mirabella murmured.

  Interesting. Sherlock considered Miss Belle’s fallen expression.

  “Miss de Beauvais could hardly object to a young lady showing charity to those less fortunate, could she?” Mirabella asked, her eyes returning to their natural glow.

  “Clearly you haven’t met her.” Sherlock sighed heavily before adding, “What a terrible thing it would be to deny charity to those in need.”

  “Indeed it would!” Miss Belle exclaimed, placing her hands on her waist.

  Studying her foot tapping the wooden floorboards incessantly, he longed for some peace and quiet that he might complete his scientific reading and experimentation for the afternoon. He glanced at the latest issues of Hue and Cry and The London Police Gazette on the mahogany table beside him. He could see no harm in Miss Belle volunteering at an orphanage.

  Wait. It is Miss Mirabella Hudson we are talking about. If there is a way to turn a harmless activity into a dangerous threat, she will find it. Miss Belle was nothing if not an accident waiting to happen.

  “Do I have your word that you will not jeopardize our mission, Miss Hudson? Above all else, you must play your part.”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes. What could be more fitting than a wealthy young lady looking for charitable outlets?”

  “Then I will leave it to your better judgment, Miss Belle.”

  There was no doubt in his mind that he would regret those words for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  13

  “You’re not very good with a needle, are you, Miss Carnegie?” Alexandra giggled, leaning over her own expertly executed embroidery to observe Mirabella’s failed attempt, having much in common with the appearance of chicken seed scattered in a barnyard. “I would think a country girl such as yourself would at least be able to sew.”

  “I have no accomplishments at all, Lady Alexandra, is that what you wish to hear?” Mirabella replied to the Duke and Duchess of Glazebury’s daughter, surprised at how the title failed to impress her after only two weeks in Miss de Beauvais’.

  But even less impressed than she was with Lady Alexandra was the rest of the group with her, Mirabella knew. It had not taken long to peg her as the country bumpkin. She either didn’t curtsy low enough or high enough, her skin was lightly tanned (Heaven forbid! Only the lower classes were out in the elements working), her nails were shorter than those of the other girls, and her hands rougher.

  Working with chemicals in a laboratory did nothing to soften the skin. Apparently sulfuric acid was not the best skin softener.

  My first scientific discovery! That should be an entry for her upcoming autobiography, “The Annals of an Insignificant Nobody”, subtitled, “Unaccomplished at Everything and Disagreeable to All.”

  As if her appearance weren’t evidence enough of her lack of breeding, Mirabella was actually nice to the staff (a grievous faux pas!), more outspoken, and a bit more boisterous than the others.

  Mirabella was such a sore thumb amongst these high class ladies that she was perfectly miserable.

  There was nothing in this luxurious existence to console her. Even the private toilette room—with a toilet and even a bathtub with hot running water!—did not compensate her for being perfectly abhorred.

  Hmmm. Mirabella reconsidered. A hot bath in the evening—drawn by someone else, no less!—was a bit of heaven on earth, if the truth be told.

  Her mother would never believe the depravity she had sunk to. She didn’t believe it herself.

  Dejection and desolation could make one do odd things—even bathe. To be sure, Martha Hudson’s lodgings at 221 Baker Street had on the premises a large copper tub which the landlady placed in her kitchen every Sunday morning before church. Aunt Martha then heated the hot water which allowed for a bath for herself each week.

  But Mirabella was too shy for that—even with her aunt in attendance—and preferred using her wash basin in the privacy of her own room, a decided luxury compared to the cracked clay bowl she and her older sisters had shared in Dorchester. At home on the farm, Mirabella’s father and the children bathed in the kitchen once a week with her mother in attendance.

  Her mother and the older girls never did so. Modesty forbade it.

  My worst fears are being realized. Living under the influence of Sherlock Holmes was obviously turning her into a disreputable young lady. Aunt Martha had said that Sherlock Holmes—who had communicated in every way possible that he was not shy nor modest!—often frequented the Turkish baths, a public bathing house.

  And here she was, Mirabella Hudson, in a fini
shing school for the idle wealthy, bathing in a bathtub! What next? Would her soul be cast into the depths of Hades?

  “I don’t know why we are helping you make Christmas gifts for the orphanage—when your own offering is not very good,” Alexandra added.

  “That would be an excellent reason for us to assist,” murmured Princess Elena.

  “Because Princess Elena commanded that it should be so, that is why,” giggled Bethany, a petite, blue-eyed blonde. Bethany might be a merchant’s daughter—clearly with connections—but she definitely had winning ways and knew how to present herself.

  “Otherwise, you would not have the time of day for me, Lady Alexandra,” whispered Mirabella, almost under her breath. But not quite.

  “I didn’t realize that I do,” Lady Alexandra murmured. There was a reason Lady Alexandra was in this finishing school before being set loose upon society. Miss de Beauvais admonished the Duke of Glazebury’s daughter often, telling her to ‘hold her tongue’ if she wished to be a lady and to attract a young man. That, of course, was like the hurricane telling the wind to be still.

  Princess Elena looked up momentarily from her sewing, a vision in white lace, but said nothing—which was perhaps worse than saying something.

  “And because it saves us from ze ennui,” stated Jacqueline, the daughter of an English earl and a French Mama. Jacqueline was above average height, even more buxom than Mirabella, but otherwise very thin—almost skinny. All in all Jacqueline was quite the show-stopper, though Mirabella didn’t think the protected French miss had more than a slight inkling of her inevitable appeal to the masculine gender.

  “It is quite unfashionable to be anything but bored,” murmured Mirabella. This she had quickly learned in dealing with the upper class.

  “We must be the most fashionable girls in all of London then,” remarked Bethany, her attention focused on her sewing.

  “I am never bored,” stated Mirabella. “I don’t see how anyone could be with so much to learn.”

  All four of the young ladies looked at her with something approaching dismay.

  Mirabella knew that her ultimate goal was to become a scientist. She had no reason to feel inferior to these ladies, with the exception that she had thus far failed at her job: that of presenting herself as a well-bred lady and being accepted by her companions as such.

  To find that she had once again failed at the task given to her was quite depressing, even though she had told Sherlock how it would be and had pleaded with him to send a more competent person!

  If it weren’t for Princess Elena’s acceptance—who was the only princess in the group—Mirabella doubted if anyone would have the time of day for her. In all fairness, Bethany was kinder than the rest. The merchant’s daughter could not bear to be uncharitable to even the most irredeemable of unsophisticates.

  “Oh, my,” Bethany sighed, her concern evident. “You are a sweet girl, Miss Carnegie.”

  It is hopeless. This is the worst assignment ever to be given to an unrefined, ugly duckling.

  “Although this charity project is not as ridiculous as that finger-printing thing-a-majig Miss Carnegie wasted our time showing us.” Alexandra smiled condescendingly, her golden brown eyes studying Mirabella’s handkerchief with unveiled disdain even as she feigned laughter. “You are so amusing, Miss Carnegie.”

  That finger-printing thing-a-majig is on the cutting age of science and is the future of criminology.

  “I will not apologize for the fact that science fascinates me,” Mirabella replied with a shrug, her eyes glued to her needlework. “If it weren’t for science, we would not have indoor plumbing, would you like that Lady Alexandra? We would not have steamships to bring your dresses from your Parisian modiste. Nor cameras to take photographs of you in them.”

  “Humph! Mirabella Carnegie, must you always have the last word?” Lady Alexandra demanded. “It is unladylike. Furthermore, I assure you that I would have the most fashionable dresses with or without steamships!”

  “But you could not flush a lavatory without science.”

  “Hee hee hee hee!” Bethany giggled uncontrollably.

  “Mademoiselle Carnegie!” exclaimed Jacqueline, but she was also giggling. “Vous êtes tellement naughty! You should not say such things!”

  “And chemistry is most useful,” Mirabella insisted. “Surely that very beautiful rouge that Lady Jacqueline is wearing was concocted by a chemist.”

  “Moi? Wear paint on my face?” Jacqueline protested. “I would never do so!”

  “Pardon me. I forgot that we are never to admit that we paint our faces—although we all do,” Mirabella murmured.

  “You see, Miss Carnegie! Always the last word!” Lady Alexandra interjected.

  At least I provide fodder for the slaughter. No doubt the minute my back is turned the gossip runs rampant. At least Lady Alexandra was nasty to her face.

  “Oh, my, have you seen Hugh Fortescue from Devon? So handsome,” exclaimed Bethany, distracting Mirabella from her thoughts.

  “Hugh is only a viscount!” replied Alexandra. “He wouldn’t do at all!”

  “Viscount Ebrington is in line to inherit an earldom,” Bethany countered.

  Alexandra rolled her eyes.

  “Which shall put Fortescue in the House of Lords,” murmured Jacqueline. “I think he is divine. My papa says he is quite the sportsman in the hunt.”

  “Do not become too attached to Hugh,” stated Princess Elena quietly, almost in a whisper.

  “Oh?” all of the ladies present with the exception of Mirabella turned to the princess with interest.

  “He favors his cousin, Emily,” Elena replied succinctly, as was her custom.

  “What do you think of the viscount, Miss Carnegie?” Alexandra asked.

  “I couldn’t say.” Mirabella looked up from her embroidery to smile sweetly. But not too sweetly. She knew that she often went so far as to entertain the horrible transgression of expressing too much emotion—even delight, on occasion. Worst of all, gossip did not interest her on any level, but particularly about the marriageable young men in high society.

  I have already heard enough on that subject to last a lifetime.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  14

  “I see you are properly attired, Miss Belle.” It was Sunday, but there was no rest for Mirabella. Her lessons continued.

  Mirabella felt anything but proper or attired in the wire mask, padded buckskin plastron across her chest, and the buckskin gauntlet, but she had an idea that she was going to need the protection before she left this room. Sherlock Holmes never did anything short of pushing her to her limit.

  And usually beyond.

  Speaking of the devil, Holmes was similarly dressed except that he wore no mask over his Corinthian features. No doubt the moment she was given a sword he would wear a veritable barricade. The Great Detective might be exceedingly brave, but she had learned that Sherlock Holmes was a man who took his personal protection seriously.

  And he was a man who consistently underestimated her abilities—and her aim.

  “Miss Mirabella.” Holding his mask, Dr. Watson bowed to her, ever respectful and kind.

  She could not manage to suppress a giggle.

  “What is it, Miss Mirabella?” he asked, returning to an upright position. A strand of blonde hair remained across his forehead, and his blue-turquoise eyes were sparkling despite his unwavering gentlemanly demeanor. “Is something amiss?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you wearing a three-piece suit underneath your fencing garb, Dr. Watson?” she giggled. “I have rarely seen you waver from your formal attire, night or day. I must admit I find it difficult to picture you in anything else.”

  “You would have it so, Miss Mirabella,” he chuckled. “A plaid tweed of a most high quality wool blend.”

  “Do not lie to me, Dr. Watson!” She smiled, wishing for all the world to straighten the lock of hair on
his forehead. He was the dearest, not to mention the handsomest man imaginable. She had sorely missed having someone in her midst who was kind to her.

  “I do wish you would call me John, Miss Mirabella,” he murmured softly, his aqua blue eyes transfixed upon her.

  She felt herself blush, smiling up at him. “I should like to call you by your first name, Dr. Watson.”

  “Then why don’t you?” He smiled broadly.

  “Hmmm . . .” She studied him. “It just doesn’t fit you. John is simply too plain for you. What is your middle name?”

  “Hamish,” he replied.

  “I can’t call you that!” she protested.

  “I should hope not!” Dr. Watson laughed.

  “Hamish means ‘James’ in Scottish Gaelic.” She considered. “I should like to call you James. It fits you so much better than John, don’t you think?”

  “Uh-hmmm.” Sherlock cleared his throat, and Mirabella spun around to see that her employer was standing not three feet from her! She had been so absorbed in her conversation with the charming Dr. Watson that she hadn’t even known Sherlock was there!

  Much like a plague which had not yet expressed itself in symptoms. The difference being that ordinarily everyone was aware of the Great Detective’s presence from a ten-kilometer distance.

  “If we have all been properly introduced and amply amused, do let us get down to business,” Sherlock continued, his expression unusually harsh, adding, “Miss Hudson’s life could well depend upon it.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” John’s soft gaze which had been like bathing in a turquoise waterfall turned suddenly serious and unrevealing.

  “And besides, you are neither ‘James’ nor ‘John,’ you are simply Watson!” corrected Sherlock absolutely.

  Sigh. Time for work. Although she doubted she would be in any danger whatsoever, Mirabella resolved to do her best, as this was the part of the case which interested her the most. Especially now that she had met all the debutantes.