“Nothing for you this season,” repeated Miss de Beauvais. “Perhaps never.”
“Never?” Alexandra, Bethany, and Jacqueline repeated in unison.
Mirabella doubted if all this was true, but the other girls seemed to take it as fact. And if so, it was a fact that Miss de Beauvais would not hesitate to play upon.
“Not a word to your parents,” Miss de Beauvais commanded.
“But the security must be increased,” Mirabella stated.
“Of course!” exclaimed Miss de Beauvais.
“We will need bodyguards in the same room with us henceforth—and even outside our bedrooms.”
“In the parlor?” Bethany asked, covering her mouth with her hand.
“How embarrassing,” Jacqueline added. “We will have to watch what it is we say.”
“It must be done,” Princess Elena stated solemnly.
“Every precaution will be taken,” Miss de Beauvais emphasized.
“Clearly we are safe if Miss Carnegie and Princess Elena are here!” considered Bethany. “They overcame two assassins! And they were taken completely unaware!”
And next time we might not be so lucky.
Bethany moved to hug Mirabella, “I’m so sorry if I was ever unkind to you, Miss Mirabella.”
“You have never been unkind, Miss Allen,” replied Mirabella, laughing in spite of the terror of the day. Perhaps terror brought people together. Certainly the facades were momentarily down.
“Do call me Bethany, I never cared a fig for society—but it pleases my father, and I so hate to disappoint him.”
“I care!” murmured Alexandra, still dazed.
“Moi, aussi!” stated Jacqueline.
“I wish to be married and to have a family, of course, but this is all so false,” Bethany continued. “I shall never again take my life for granted.”
“We must have a dead body in the parlor to be living the real life?” demanded Jacqueline, revealing that there was a brain in that pretty head after all.
“Better his than ours,” murmured Princess Elena. “He was a bad man.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
19
“I don’t like it,” John Watson exclaimed, pacing the floor. “Miss Hudson might have died, Holmes!”
“But she didn’t, Watson, she performed admirably, just as she was trained.” Sherlock replied quietly as he studied his hands, attempting to suppress the feelings of fear. He glared at her, anger rising in his chest. “Essentially without a weapon and even though she became separated from her revolver.”
“That will never happen again,” Mirabella stated with conviction, his fear mirrored in her eyes.
“I should hope not!” Sherlock reprimanded.
“Holmes, this is not the time!” Watson’s voice was elevated. “Miss Hudson might have died in your employ—serving you.”
“Miss Hudson, I have to ask . . . do you feel obligated to do this in order to remain in my employ?” Sherlock asked, his voice strangely quiet. “If so, let me disavow you of that notion.”
“But you said precisely that, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted. “That I had no employment without this case.”
“Yes, I know that I did, and it is very true that, without you, this case will be lost—and I may very likely lose my reputation, without which I cannot afford to employ you.”
As Sherlock watched her, something soft entered his heart which he could not like. She might have died. She might not be here in this room with him.
Bloody hell! His life’s work was with criminals and dangerous persons, and he could not afford to have feelings for others or his work was compromised. It was bad enough that he had started to feel the first pangs of happiness since Watson moved in, only nine months ago, something he had never expected to feel. He couldn’t recall when he had had a true friend before John Watson.
“You must enter into it willingly, Miss Belle, or the danger is too great,” Sherlock emphasized. “Do answer my question, girl: Do you wish to be on the case? Do you come to it of your own accord?” He studied her, her full lashes so open to the world, her eyes so curious—and innocent.
She was young and naïve, of course, and she talked too much, but there was a joy and excitement to her character which was contagious. And, of course, she was efficient, and intelligent, which made her of great use to him.
An excellent employee.
“I presume this is to ease a guilty conscience,” she teased.
“I have none,” Sherlock conveyed with conviction.
“There, at least, is the truth,” Watson muttered.
She nodded, in apparent agreement. “I was so terrified of the finishing school, you know, and then so miserable being there, however . . .”
Studying her soft chestnut curls, he started to wonder if he could bear it if something were to happen to her.
“Yes?” Sherlock persisted.
“I do not think I can stay away. I think I must be on the case.”
She is of the same cut, just as I suspected. Sherlock nodded with understanding, a slight smile forming on his lips. Just as Watson needed the stimulation to forget the war as badly as he himself needed the occupation—he knew not why.
And didn’t care.
“The dead man, who was he?” she whispered, her eyes troubled.
“We haven’t been able to conclusively identify him. Perhaps a Serbian anarchist, someone who hated the monarchy.”
“Do you think it is finished, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, struggling with the words.
“I do not,” replied Sherlock simply.
She wrung her hands in her lap. He watched her, aware for the first time that she had undergone a terrible change—at his bidding.
“Is it your first murder, Miss Belle?”
“Of course it is, Mr. Holmes, don’t be daft!” She couldn’t help laughing despite her melancholy mood. She added somberly, “Although I can’t be certain it was I who killed him.”
“Do you wish you had never been on the case, Miss Belle?” he asked.
She shook her head. “If I had not, Princess Elena might now be dead.”
“You’re quite certain, Miss Hudson?” Looking at the lovely young woman before him, dressed in a pink linen and cream lace, he noted that she seemed to have become a woman overnight. She, too, had her hopes and dreams, and he would hate to see them cut short.
“Yes,” she replied softly.
“Holmes,” Dr. Watson admonished. “I still say this is too dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella replied turning to face the doctor.
“Indeed it is,” he murmured, smiling at her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
20
Who will I kill next?
Blood was dripping from her gleaming six-inch blade as she looked about for who to kill, whose life to end, a person she did not know.
How had lives changed because of the murder she had committed? How had the lives of innocents been altered? Who would be hurt in the next generation because of her?
She looked about at the dark faces with features so different from her own.
I don’t know anything about the man I killed. His wounds, the torturous existence that made him into who he was.
Did I kill him or did Princess Elena?
It didn’t matter, if she stayed with Sherlock Holmes, there would be another.
Sherlock. His face passed before her and he reached out to take the dripping knife from her hand.
No! No! Don’t do it! She knew what he intended to do.
He turned it on himself, ready to kill himself.
She grabbed the knife back from him.
Her skin was so white and her eyes so black. Now she and Sherlock were in the morgue, staring at the mutilated body of Princess Elena.
And what of Elena’s children and the lives that would now be changed because she had died, perhaps entire countries affected?
Tears rolled down Mirabella’s eyes as she stared at the white-
blue body of her friend, so pure and brave, her long black hair disheveled all about her.
Mirabella looked up at Sherlock, tears running down her cheek.
“We are the arm of justice,” he murmured. “We have failed.”
Thank God, that in this life, someone cared to protect the innocent.
She sat up in her bed as she awoke from her dream, both shivering and sweating.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
21
“Good day, Miss Carnegie.” A handsome gentleman with gorgeous turquoise eyes and streaked blonde hair, impeccably dressed, tipped his hat to Mirabella.
“Oh my,” whispered Bethany under her breath, the other young ladies turning at once to look approvingly at Mirabella, each with a package in hand. They all carried parcels to make it appear they were out performing errands rather than walking for exercise, as Miss de Beauvais had explained was less to be admired.
Miss de Beauvais attended to every detail with an admirable devotion, even in these life-threatening times.
“And who are your lovely friends?” Dr. Watson asked. His sideburns reached a point just below his ears, and his hair was parted at the side.
“Princess Elena, Miss Bethany Allen, and Lady Jacqueline, this is . . . Hamish.” A few days after the attack on Princess Elena, the young ladies took their walk as usual, utilizing a different appointed time and a different path as Mirabella suggested. Only Alexandra stayed in her room, the other four walking with a large, armed bodyguard in the front and at the back of their party. Two new bodyguards, as it were, those from the day prior having been replaced.
“Is it Monsieur Hamish?” Jacqueline asked, looking exquisite in a red and white striped linen day dress, her brown hair curled atop her head. She looked as if she had not lost a wink of sleep the night after the attack.
“Just Hamish,” Watson replied, bowing and tipping his hat to Jacqueline. “But, you, Mademoiselle, may call me whatever you wish.”
Giggling ensued, and Mirabella rolled her eyes. Why is it ladies became positively ridiculous whenever a man was about? Glancing at the dreamy John Watson, she was forced to be more understanding.
“At your service. May I walk with you ladies?” Dr. Watson asked, taking Mirabella’s arm to the obvious envy of the others.
Princess Elena simply nodded, her eyes still on her bodyguards and their surroundings. The royal wore a large-brimmed hat in an effort to hide her identity, but her height was difficult to conceal. Naturally all of the ladies wore gloves and carried parasols, providing further concealment. Mirabella wondered if it might have been better to leave the bodyguards at Miss de Beauvais’ as the guards’ presence proclaimed their identity.
“And how do you know Hamish, Miss Carnegie?” Bethany asked, twirling her blue silk parasol, suspicion apparent in her matching cornflower blue eyes.
“I am a family friend,” Dr. Watson replied.
“It is good to have ze friends,” Jacqueline replied demurely, her admiration apparent.
Mirabella was delighted that John Watson required his right hand to hold a cane and his left arm was in hers, leaving no arm free for the beautiful Lady Jacqueline.
“Hamish is a doctor and a military man by trade,” Mirabella added, insuring that the ladies knew he would be unacceptable to their parents as a potential match.
Dr. Watson raised his eyebrow at her, understanding her ploy.
Oh, my goodness! The finishing school is having an effect on me. I now have a ploy! Mirabella didn’t know if she liked the change in herself or not. Had she become a schemer?
And scheming over a man, no less!
Yes, I am now one of them.
Regardless of her moral decline, in point of fact, all were delighted to have the company and protection of the handsome young doctor, who kept pace despite walking with a slight limp and a cane. Mirabella observed that John’s pistol was strapped to his shirt inside his jacket. He might walk with a stiff leg, but he had an athletic build and she had seen him run under the threat of danger: John Watson was still definitely in his prime.
“Hello Miss Mirabella.” A well dressed young man in front of the telegram office utilized by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson nodded to Mirabella, causing Bethany and Jacqueline to study their popular companion with some amount of surprise.
To be popular among the ladies was good, but to be popular among the gentlemen was far more important.
“Do you know all the handsome men in London, Miss Mirabella?” Bethany asked with a giggle.
I am forever going there to send telegrams on Sherlock Holmes’ behalf. “I am about town with my charity work, so naturally I will meet people,” Mirabella replied, holding Dr. Watson’s arm more tightly. “Only acquaintances, I assure you. Outside of Hamish, of course.”
Jacqueline put her gloved hand on her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Thus far the only people we have seen are ze men, not ze ladies.”
“Mademoiselle,” Mirabella paused her walking long enough to curtsy to Jacqueline, joining in their mirth.
It did feel lovely to be one of them, she had to admit. She was therefore reluctant to point out that the men she knew would not be considered marriageable by the girls’ parents—nor by they themselves, if the truth be told.
The party walked along Chancery Lane, heading south on Kingsway. From the road they could see “The Old Curiosity Shop” as immortalized in Dickens’ novel. They had the happy intention of reaching the Strand when a strange person emerged suddenly from behind a large oak tree at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Mirabella immediately clutched her reticule, fingering her number thirty-two Marlin Pocket Revolver from within her hand purse, the ivory handle smooth, attached as it was to the silver embellishments on the barrel of the gun.
“Allo! Allo! Lawd above! Can yew spare a tuppins to an old woman?” A bent over woman came out of the shadows, waddling towards them and leaning on a cane. The old lady smiled, revealing missing teeth throughout her mouth.
“Yes, of course,” Princess Elena spoke for the first time, reaching for her reticule. Mirabella had observed that Princess Elena could not part with her money fast enough for the poor.
“No, Princess Elena,” Mirabella whispered. “You must not let people approach you. This is a weakness for you.”
“Allo! Allo! Kind lady, let me tell yaaahr fortune.” The old woman reached for Elena’s hand, but Mirabella dropped John Watson’s arm and moved between them.
“But the poor . . .” Princess Elena protested, reaching for the old woman’s hand.
“And she looks so hungry,” murmured Bethany. “So thin.”
“Lor’ love a duck! I am ‘ungry,” the woman stated.
“She has no teeth, what good would food do her?” Mirabella took the arm of the old woman, leading her aside forcefully and almost knocking her over. “No, we do not know her, I will attend.”
“And who is the handsome gent? He looks to have a bit ‘o blunt,” the old lady asked as Mirabella shoved her to the side.
Gasp! Bethany stared aghast at Mirabella. John Watson stayed behind with the ladies while Mirabella spoke to the old woman. The good doctor was completely in his element now and could no doubt charm the beauties for hours, Mirabella reflected with annoyance.
She glanced in John’s direction, sighing, before looking into the bloodshot eyes of the old woman, the smell of her clothes making her stomach do a half-turn.
“Hello, Miss Belle,” Sherlock said with a smile.
“You need to shave,” she muttered.
“No time. We’re working day and night trying to find the group responsible for your attack, Miss Belle.”
“What have you discovered, Mr. Holmes? The dead man, who was he?” she asked anxiously without further ado, pretending to look in her reticule for change.
“We only know that he appears to have been from one of the Balkan states. We haven’t been able to identify him as Serbian, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t either,” Sherlock stated. “These telegrams back and fort
h are not as fast as we would wish. We’re still trying to discover if he was an anarchist who hated the monarchy.”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured, looking up. “An Italian anarchist who hates the Italian monarchy would make sense—but Serbian? Princess Elena has Serbian blood in her.”
“It is the same principle, Miss Belle,” he replied. “These two groups one might lump together. An Italian anarchist despises the monarchy, but most of all the Italian monarchy. He believes the monarchy to be harming his own people, an enemy of the people, if you will. The same for a Serbian anarchist: he hates the Serbian monarchy.”
“Don’t you remember that the first attackers spoke Italian? Could they be working together?” she asked.
“Doubtful. Anarchists have a dislike of organizations and hierarchy. By definition, they cannot work within a group—even a group which hates groups. There is always a great deal of internal fighting among those with extreme views—which means that the individuals within often work alone though they might share ideologies with others.
Her head was throbbing. She didn’t really care who was responsible as much as she cared about the answer to another question.
“Do you think there will be another attack, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, glancing to the gated pathway shaded by the large oak from which he had emerged. She knew that Lincoln’s Inn Fields had been here since the twelfth century and that it was once a popular location for duelists. Somehow the violence enacted in the location did not fit the tranquility of the setting.
It was a reminder to her not to become complacent.
“I do,” replied Sherlock. “Whatever their motive, now they may wish revenge in addition to their original motive.”
“Oh, my! This is terrible.” She shivered in her fashionable leather boots, seeing the face of her attacker holding a glistening knife in her mind’s eye again.
“The Italian police have increased their efforts, naturally. They have caught the other man as well. He was wounded.” Sherlock turned his back to the girls, pretending to put Mirabella’s coin in his pocket in a fumbling manner. He glanced sideways to look into her eyes. Somberly he added, “Someone shot him.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 16
