Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  They had begun a course in rudimentary fencing, and even she was surprised at how quickly she was comprehending the art—particularly in light of the continuous barrage of insults from her ever-impatient employer.

  “Keep your eye on your opponent at all times, Miss Belle!”

  “A strong strike, Miss Hudson; however, it was accomplished by swinging almost your entire body to the point of impact.”

  “Faster! Faster! Never hesitate or you are dead!”

  “I am not your employer today—I am your enemy!”

  Today and every day.

  “Lunge, Miss Belle! You must develop your strength!”

  Finally she could endure it no more. “I’ll show you just how strong a country girl is, Mr. Holmes, growing up with three obnoxious brothers.”

  Between the girls at the school who tolerated her at best, and treated her like the dirt underneath their feet at their worst moments, and a demanding employer who never once praised her for her efforts, she had just about had all she could endure!

  “I am terrified, I am sure.” She could picture Sherlock yawning from behind his mask as he easily deflected her onslaught.

  “There is some truth in what you say, however. Rather than spending your time corseting yourself and breaking your ribs—you were out slopping the hogs. It bodes well for your strength—but not your waistline.”

  “If I were you, Mr. Holmes, I would not insult a lady with a sword who is only just learning to control it!” She saw her opening and took it, lunging forward.

  “Very true, Holmes,” Dr. Watson exclaimed from the sidelines. “Sometimes the most dangerous fighters are the beginners—those who are utterly lacking in control.”

  “A very good effort, but not good enough,” Sherlock pronounced, evading her sword and returning his own. “At this time I am more interested in inflaming her than in controlling her.”

  “You may live to regret that decision, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella replied, thrusting her sword towards him.

  “Touché, Miss Belle,” Sherlock replied in the instant he was struck by her sword. “And now, you shall take your turn with Dr. Watson.”

  ***

  “You have excellent hand-to-eye coordination, Miss Mirabella,” Watson remarked, beginning to breathe more rapidly.

  “And excellent stamina,” added Holmes, hovering nearby as he kept pace with them from a distance of about two meters. “She is not even winded.”

  “I shall not be able to show my face having lost to a novice—and a woman.” Dr. Watson smiled even as sweat began formulating on his face, visible through the mesh of his fencing mask.

  “I did not say that you are losing—merely that she has surpassed your stamina, Watson.”

  “I am accustomed to being run all over London,” replied Dr. Watson. “And yet, possibly you work Miss Mirabella even harder than you work me, Holmes.”

  “Well, let’s be certain of that, Watson. Miss Hudson, let us take a short break for a glass of lemonade, then you will fight the both of us.”

  “At once? I know I have done well for a beginner, but both . . ?”

  “Have you? Did I say that? At any rate it is a scenario you may come against.”

  “Yes, but I am not likely to have a sword with me,” she argued as she took off her mask and shook her damp hair. She was excessively tired and uncomfortable, but she would never admit it.

  “That is where you are wrong, Miss Belle.” Sherlock returned to the sidelines to retrieve a cane of sorts: long, sleek, and white.

  “Ever since an unfortunate incident with a large Russian gentleman, Holmes has kept one of these nearby whenever he is on a case,” Watson confided in her.

  Handing her an elaborate ladies’ white walking stick, Holmes added softly, it seemed with almost tenderness in his eyes, “You don’t think that we would send you to the wolves ill-prepared, do you, Miss Belle?”

  “You already did. I’ve been there two weeks,” she murmured.

  “Ah, but you weren’t ready then. A weapon in the hand of someone who doesn’t know how to use it is more dangerous than no weapon at all.”

  She studied the polished white walking stick before pulling at the handle, guessing his intent. To be sure a beautifully sharp blade some sixteen inches in length emerged.

  But there was more to come.

  “You shall have an arsenal of weapons at your disposal. This will fit nicely in your reticule,” Sherlock added. As she sat drinking her lemonade, he held up a six-inch metal cylinder, approximately the size of a cigar, with a small brass sphere on one end and an even tinier one on the opposing end.

  Crack! Suddenly he snapped his arm straight down to his left side. Even as she jumped, some of her lemonade splashing on her suit, eight inches became eighteen.

  “This is a little invention of my own,” Holmes continued.

  “What is it, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, awestruck and confused at the same time, as she set down her glass and reached for the peculiar object.

  “I call it the telescoping truncheon. You may call it life or death.”

  “Oh, I see,” she murmured, even as she studied the object. “The sections of steel friction-lock together.”

  “Very good, Miss Hudson.”

  “But what is its purpose?” she asked, returning her gaze to him.

  “To increase one’s strength, I should say,” considered Dr. Watson. “Similar to the concept of the police baton or the eastern nunchakus—capable of killing a man.”

  “Precisely.” Sherlock nodded. “The ball on the end is a force-multiplier. Having a weapon to multiply the force of a strike will do much for ensuring success in a confrontation, particularly for a woman of questionable strength.”

  “It is a question you might not wish to have answered, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted.

  “In addition, the small snap-out guard enables one to deflect and possibly even trap a blade,” Sherlock added, illustrating the point.

  She studied the weapon, entranced, immediately seeing the implement’s advantages if dealing with a stronger opponent. “Whatever inspired you to produce this object?”

  “On a recent visit to Japan, I was fortunate enough to train in a truncheon martial art called Jutte-do, the rudiments of which I shall be teaching you over the coming week.”

  He handed her the instrument and she instantly felt completely out of her element. But she would not allow him to observe her lack of confidence; she watched him intently while inwardly awaiting his directions with trepidation.

  “Step back, Watson.” He returned his unrelenting gaze to her. “Raise your striking hand to the height of your shoulder and snap your arm down as hard as you can.”

  She did as she was directed.

  “Ouch! Oh! My leg!” The sting was almost unbearable.

  Dr. Watson rushed forward to examine her, but Holmes held up his hand. Watson looked at her, and only when she nodded, biting her lip, did he retreat.

  “Now, try again, Miss Hudson, and this time strike your opponent not yourself. It is the other person you wish to hurt.”

  “That conviction is impressed upon my heart with every word you utter, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Very good. It is a lesson I apparently should not have skipped, presuming it to be intuitive. Let us waste no more time.”

  He moved the dressmaker’s model some six feet in front of her. “Let me show you. Again.” He swung his arm slowly, the brass tip of the weapon pointing almost back toward his shoulder from his back bent wrist. He snapped his wrist forward and a deep line appeared in the figurine’s padding. “A whip-like wrist motion will deliver a greater speed to force ratio, thus inflicting greater damage at the penultimate zone of attack.”

  “But who shall receive the damage?” murmured Mirabella. “That is the question.”

  “Let me give you the answer. Try this a few times slowly in the air, and then teach our friend here a lesson he shall never forget.”

  She tried again, this time hitting the target
rather than herself, but without much impact.

  “Now pretend the mannequin is me,” Sherlock advised.

  “With pleasure.”

  Rotating her wrist a few times slowly, she accustomed herself to the motion. She then stepped up to the substitute form and struck it as hard as she could with the whipping motion Sherlock had shown her. To her astonishment the blow penetrated the life-size doll to a depth of several inches. She turned to look at Holmes in amazement, in the process observing a proud smile cross Dr. Watson’s handsome features.

  “Much better. Full extension, and you did not strike yourself in the leg.” Holmes pointed to the manikin. “Strike a man in the temple thusly, and you have given the undertaker a new customer. Strike him with the other end in the same way in the outer mid-thigh and he will drop yowling in pain and possibly vomit.”

  “Precisely where I struck myself?” she asked.

  Holmes raised his eyebrows at her. “Missing a meal will not hurt you. Or losing one.”

  “Oh, you! Why, I . . .”

  “You are stronger than the average young English miss,” Watson remarked with admiration. He offered her a glass of water and his arm. “She needs to rest, Holmes. She’s been at this for two hours—and she’s been injured.”

  Once they were all seated and Dr. Watson was assured she had not suffered a permanent injury—while Holmes acted utterly bored with the proceedings—conversation was renewed.

  “I must confess I don’t understand the purpose of such an instrument,” she complained. “Wouldn’t a pistol be more effective? And I already know how to shoot a pistol.”

  “You shall have one. However, a pistol is not allowed in every venue. Here, for example. I won’t allow it.”

  “Because I might shoot you?” she asked coyly.

  “Let us say for the purposes of speculation, Miss Hudson, that you are a lady—let us use our imaginations here—and your opponent expects nothing from you. You take out what looks like a cigar and wrest his gun from him. Or, let’s say you are taken captive. The gun will be taken from you immediately—this weapon hidden somewhere might not be noticed.”

  “Supposing she has nothing,” murmured Watson, a concerned expression on perfect features.

  It is so dear how kindness makes a handsome man even more handsome.

  Glancing at Sherlock, she was struck by his determination. His jaw so tight and his eyes so intense that she feared his heart might pound out of his chest.

  Why was the Great Detective so invested in her? This was a complete turn-around in their relationship. Sherlock Holmes had practically ignored her for most of the time she had worked for him, making her feel invisible, in fact indicating that he wished she were invisible! And now she was the statue of his creation and he Pygmalion!

  I don’t know which is worse! If the only two options available to her were being ignored or being the focus of Sherlock Holmes’ attention, it was a definite toss up.

  Mirabella giggled as she recalled the story of Pygmalion. There was no doubt in her mind that Sherlock Holmes would not fall in love with this creation!

  “Do you find this amusing, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock demanded, the veins in his neck protruding slightly.

  “Perhaps a little,” she murmured.

  “You shall not find it as amusing if you end up in the morgue as a result of your inattention, I assure you.” His expression was one of utter conviction, so much so that she took a step back and gasped.

  “She is giving her all, Holmes,” Dr. Watson cajoled. “There is no reason to become angry simply because Miss Mirabella finds some enjoyment in the process. I know military men who would find your regimen insupportable.”

  “Then they should find themselves in the morgue as well.” Holmes turned towards her in one swift movement, even as she was patting her face with her handkerchief.

  “Let us begin again,” Dr. Watson advised, ever the voice of reason. “Supposing Miss Hudson has no weapon. What then?”

  “Yes, what would I do?” Mirabella asked, genuinely interested.

  Holmes eyes were riveted on her. “When I am through with you, my girl, you will be able to defeat an opponent with nothing but your enemy’s strength.”

  Her hand paused in mid-air. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes? That is quite impossible!”

  “What he means,” Dr. Watson interjected, “is that your enemy’s strength is your asset.”

  “Precisely! Now you have it!” Sherlock punched his fist into the air, the unruly dark curls on his head flying everywhere as he did so.

  “But that makes no sense.” She looked down as she moved closer to her chair, her gaze taking in the worn wooden floors.

  “There are certain situations in which it will be necessary for you to defeat the enemy—but to make it look as if you had no hand in it at all,” Sherlock replied.

  “But how would I?” She was utterly and thoroughly confused.

  “Perhaps you are at the opera and would find it detrimental to your social standing to engage in fisticuffs.” Sherlock shrugged, as if the answer were obvious, as he always did. “Hence, Jiu-Jitsu.”

  “You’re going to teach judo to Miss Mirabella?” Watson asked incredulously.

  “Of course. It has been five weeks since we began her instruction. Three more weeks should be enough time for her learn fencing, Jiu-Jitsu, and the rudiments of Chinese boxing. The deportment we shall leave to Miss de Beauvais: that I have less confidence about. I do not envy the poor woman.”

  “Eight weeks total to become both a master warrior and a lady of distinction who fools everyone about my true station in life.” Mirabella sunk into her chair. “Why not finish a day early and invent a time machine?”

  “When the case is completed. Let us not attempt too much at one time,” considered Sherlock.

  “Learn self-defense, teach the princess how to speak and win the heart of her prince, and stop the criminal element from killing her,” commanded Sherlock.

  “That is enough for a young lady just out of the schoolroom on her first trip to London.” John Watson chuckled, holding his fist to his mouth.

  She sighed heavily. “I still call it the epitome of underachievement.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  15

  “You are a wretchedly lazy girl, but with my genius we should be able to make something of you,” mused Sherlock.

  “I don’t like it,” remarked Watson with so much emphasis that both turned to stare at him. “An endeavor in which a young woman must be trained in the lethal arts to survive is possibly the height of irresponsibility.”

  “Fortune favors the bold,” she muttered. “I would be seriously concerned if Mr. Holmes weren’t asking me to risk my life in his employ.”

  “It would be disturbingly lenient of him,” Watson muttered.

  Sherlock considered her words before staring pointedly at her. “I assure you, Miss Hudson, I wish no harm to come to you and am taking every precaution to protect you. Please do pay attention!”

  “He must have a soft spot for you, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson winked, chuckling. “I’ve rarely seen him show a care about anyone.”

  “To the contrary, I have no ‘soft spot’ for anyone, Watson,” Sherlock replied with a raised eyebrow.

  “Hmmm, let’s see, someone comes to mind, who was it?” Watson brushed his moustache, pretending to recollect. “No, not her . . . Oh, now I recall. There was a Miss Irene Adler. Do you recall her, Holmes?”

  “Miss Irene Adler?” Mirabella asked, suddenly very interested indeed. “Is it true, Dr. Watson? Who is she?”

  “Only a world class deceiver and manipulator.” Watson chuckled.

  “Are you quite serious, Dr. Watson?” Mirabella asked, utterly astonished. What on earth would Sherlock see in such a person?

  “Yes it is very true, Miss Mirabella. The great Sherlock Holmes was found chained to a . . .” Dr. Watson cleared his throat in obvious embarrassment. “It was in a hotel. Let’s just say that our good fr
iend was in a most compromising position.”

  “Gasp!” Mirabella covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Let us return to the facts at hand and dismiss idle gossip, if it would not trouble the two of you greatly.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it can be classified as gossip: it’s in the police record.” Watson’s expression was serene.

  “And who was the inspector? LeStrade,” noted Holmes. “I shall say no more on that subject.”

  “Toby was on the case—and he is very good,” Watson considered, rubbing his chin.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll give you that. But even Toby—the only one on LeStrade’s team with an ounce of sense—did not solve the case.”

  “Who is Toby?” asked Mirabella, her curiosity escalating. “He must be very shrewd.”

  “Remarkable talent for tracking,” Watson agreed appreciatively.

  “Is Mr. Toby as clever as the great Sherlock Holmes?” Mirabella asked, taking every opportunity to tease Sherlock, a pleasure as rare as seeing a comet in the sky and ultimately as satisfying as one’s birthday dinner.

  “Cleverer,” nodded Watson without hesitation. “And much more handsome.”

  Sherlock shrugged, disinterested. “Toby is a handsome fellow, I’ll grant you that.”

  “Oh. I should like to meet Toby,” murmured Mirabella.

  “I forbid it. He has no personal ethics whatsoever,” pronounced Sherlock.

  “Are you serious, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked, truly curious now.

  “Quite,” replied Sherlock. “All you need is a steak bone and Toby’s morals go out the door.”

  Utterly perplexed, she turned to Dr. Watson.

  “Toby is a hound,” John said.

  “A hound. Do you mean Toby is a dog?”

  “Best of the breed.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Back to the matter at hand: Miss Belle has expressed a strong interest in detective work. Perhaps I should not have paid her the compliment of taking her at her word? Like police work, there is an inherent danger which must be fully understood.”