She shook her head, even as her eyes scanned the park and adjoining square. She had never been calm since the attack. There were so many bushes and so much vegetation that it would be an easy thing to conceal oneself. “I never thought when I took a domestic job cleaning laboratory jars I might be required to murder someone.”
Sherlock studied her, as if he were reading her mind.
She had really come to hate that.
“Are you afraid to murder someone else, Miss Belle, should the situation arise?”
“Naturally I would not wish to do so!” She bit her lip, hoping to keep a tear from falling down her cheek. Since that didn’t work she feigned laughter and looked away. “But I would to save myself or another innocent.”
Everyone turned to look at her laughing. Sherlock patted her on the back as an old woman might regard her benefactor.
“Excellent job, Miss Belle, it had to be done.” He eyed her with approval, an expression she rarely beheld from the great Sherlock Holmes.
Ordinarily she would jump through hoops for that expression on Sherlock’s chiseled, dark face. Somehow murdering someone to earn it was . . . well . . . disturbing.
“Otherwise, I have every reason to think that Princess Elena would now be dead—perhaps after being tortured,” Sherlock added.
“I know,” she nodded. “It was very clear these people meant to harm the princess!”
“When they entered the parlor of a ladies’ finishing school with a gun, there was not a lot of room for interpretation,” Sherlock stated somberly.
“A gun and a knife,” she murmured.
“All Princess Elena wants to do is to marry her love,” Mirabella felt her indignation rising, turning quickly into an anger she found difficult to control. And which frightened her at the same time. “Why on earth would someone wish to kill that dear, generous girl?”
“That is the mystery to be solved, is it not, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked.
“I hope you solve it quickly, before they kill her—and me!”
“It is all in your capable hands, Miss Belle,” he murmured. “Never wait for someone else to save your skin.”
“Me? What can I do?”
“You are with Princess Elena all day. How are you spending your time? What have you learned?”
“I am simply baffled, Sherlock! It has gone round and round in my head. The men were speaking Serbian,” she exclaimed, keeping her voice as low as possible. “If it were the Italian anarchists, it would make more sense to me. They hate the monarchy—and everything associated with it. But in addition, they may hate the color of the princess’ skin, her race, her language, and her religion as well.”
“And what is her religion, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked, although she knew he knew the answer and was only testing her. “Do you recall?”
“She is Serbian Orthodox, it is a Christian religion.” Mirabella glanced at the Serbian beauty, the only one of the party who was not entranced by Dr. John Watson.
“Some Catholics may not think so,” he smiled, his eyes suddenly soft.
“How lovely. We have yet one more faction who doesn’t wish Elena and Vittorio to wed. Compared to these two, Romeo and Juliet look like an arranged marriage sanctioned by the Montagues and the Capulets.”
“And what else have you learned, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I know what has been bothering me all along: Princess Elena said the men spoke Serbian—but with a Turkish accent.”
“Great scott, Miss Belle, why didn’t you say so! Don’t you know the Serbs and the Turks are enemies?” Sherlock exclaimed, all eyes turning towards them. He immediately lowered his voice, turning towards her.
“I have been so distraught over killing a man that I rather forgot.”
“The Balkan states have been under Ottoman—which is to say, Turkish—rule. Now we have something to go on!”
“What? I don’t see that we have anything to go on,” she protested. “And, even if we did, I don’t see how all this academic investigation is going to stop them from killing us.”
“Please focus, Miss Belle. Tell me what you know about the Ottoman Empire.”
She sighed heavily. “Montenegro is one of the Balkan states, until quite recently part of the Ottoman Empire.”
“Very good, Miss Belle. Most assuredly, Montenegro borders Serbia, Turkey, and Bosnia. To the east is Roumania and Bulgaria, to the south is Greece,” murmured Sherlock, stroking his chin as an old woman might do in negotiating a good price for the day-old turnips in her bag.
“And they were all on the same side in the recent war with the Ottoman Empire,” she added.
“Indeed.” Sherlock nodded. “Serbia, Montenegro, Romania, and Bulgaria declared their independence from the Ottoman Empire in the Russo-Turkish War of eighteen hundred seventy-eight.”
“So the Ottoman Empire lost a great deal of territory,” she murmured, adding, “My head is spinning. There are so many groups who wish Princess Elena ill that I don’t know where we are headed. But this seems rather unimportant. The war is over. The Ottomans have already lost. How is killing Princess Elena going to help them?”
“If the assassins were Turkish, I think there is only one interpretation one can put on that,” Sherlock mused.
“Yesterday in the parlor there were no bodyguards and no private detectives in there to help us!” She felt herself becoming angry. “How do you interpret that, Mr. Holmes? I will tell you: We had to save ourselves!”
“You did, and I must say I am far more impressed than I ever expected to be,” Sherlock murmured.
She glared at him.
“Do you wish to leave my employ, Miss Belle?” he asked softly.
Never. I am having the time of my life. “Not truly,” she replied. “But I don’t wish to die, either!”
“They will have to kill me first,” he murmured.
“Where were you when they attacked, Mr. Holmes?” she demanded. She hated to be so blunt, but the question needed to be asked.
Whether or not Sherlock Holmes would answer was an entirely different matter altogether.
“We had a man guarding the front door, there were two body guards inside the building. Henceforth, there is a body guard inside the room with you at all times.”
“I just wish we knew more and that someone, anyone—Scotland Yard, the Italian police, Slavic bodyguards—would capture these men!”
“Never fear! We are on the case.” His eyes were alight with excitement. Rather like a madman.
“We don’t even know who is responsible! How are we going to find them?”
“We will find them, Miss Belle.”
“I am much reassured,” she muttered.
“Take care, Miss Belle,” he stated.
“I will. Thank you Mr. Holmes.” She looked inside her purse. “Oh, and I need another knife.” I lost mine in the chest of an assassin.
“THANK YOU, DEARY,” he exclaimed, patting the tuppins in his pocket.
Mirabella returned to the group, and they continued their walk.
“You certainly spoke with that old lady for a long time,” Bethany observed.
“She is definitely the type I try to avoid,” muttered Mirabella.
“Oh, and what type is that?” asked Dr. Watson.
“Very needy. Demanding. Talkative. The type who believes to know everything but does nothing to help one.” Mirabella frowned.
“It is better to humor that type,” Dr. Watson agreed.
“And escape at the earliest possible moment,” Mirabella added.
“It was a good deed you did,” Princess Elena stated. “We should not judge those less fortunate who mean no harm.”
“That fortune teller means a great deal of harm, I assure you,” Mirabela muttered under her breath.
“G’day, miss,” a young door man in front of the Charing Cross Hotel nodded to Mirabella after they resumed their walk.
“It seems you have quite a lot of suitors, Miss Car
negie,” Dr. Watson interjected with a smile, and it was apparent from their expressions that he was voicing the thoughts of the young ladies.
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” Although I begin to think nothing is what it seems.
Mirabella smiled, enjoying John’s dancing eyes. Definitely the best part of my day.
“Aha! Here we are, the Bank of England, where I shall take my leave. But wait, a carriage. Let me hail it for you and return you to Miss de Beauvais’.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
22
“Was it love at first sight for you and Prince Victor Emmanuel?” Mirabella asked that evening when they were situated in the parlor after dinner. All had exhausted talking of the dreadful events which occurred earlier in the week, with Alexandra the only one among them who appeared to appreciate the danger they had been in. And something had changed: Mirabella was now one of them. They didn’t all roll their eyes every time she asked a question.
Princess Elena glanced at the bodyguard now stationed inside the parlor at the door.
“Yes,” nodded Elena, leaning forward to whisper to the girls. “For both of us.”
“Why are you here, Princess Elena?” Mirabella asked.
“Here? In the parlor? Where should I be?”
“What is the point in being here, in a finishing school? To entice your prince to like you? He already is deliriously smitten, that is quite obvious. To inspire other people to like you? It is beyond your control: people will like you or they won’t, and often as not it has more to do with them than with you.”
“For shame, Miss Carnegie!” Bethany covered her mouth with her hands, but her eyes sparkled. The evening was when the ladies let their hair down, so to speak. They might be fully dressed and corseted in their daywear—Mirabella was the only one of the girls who wore a wrapper—but the evening allowed them spontaneity of speech. Even with the bodyguard present, they managed to keep their voices subdued.
Miss de Beauvais spent much of the daylight hours with the girls, drilling them mercilessly on deportment, manners, and proper conversation—dinner was exceedingly disagreeable—but the headmistress kept to her rooms in the evening.
“I am here to learn to be charming,” Elena answered without the slightest tonality in her voice, patting her pistol inside her reticule. “So I will be acceptable to Prince Vittorio.”
“Why aren’t you with Prince Victor Emmanuel rather than here, finding out if he likes you—and more importantly, if you like him?”
Princess Elena raised her chin. “I wish to learn to be a lady first. Once I have learned to eat and drink, to dance, and to giggle—then we shall find if we are suited.”
My goodness, two sentences. Prince Vittorio is obviously a topic of great usefulness in developing language skills.
“Once you have erected the social façade, then you shall strip it away to reveal what was there to begin with, is that it, your highness?” demanded Mirabella, returning to be seated at the couch. Jacqueline and Alexandra peered out the window.
“Yes,” replied Princess Elena.
“The façade is needed to attract, naturellement,” agreed Jacqueline.
CLIP-CLOP! CLIP-CLOP! CREAK!
“I don’t see anyone out there,” muttered Lady Alexandra, the cuirasse bustle of her maroon silk gown in full view as she gazed at a particularly ornate carriage driving by, her golden brown hair gleaming in the candlelight.
“Of course you see someone. The gas lights are on and this is Regent Street; there is always activity in this most fashionable part of London,” argued Bethany, sitting up momentarily.
“I mean no one suspicious,” exclaimed Alexandra defiantly, placing her hands on her hips, but her gaze remained glued to the window as she moved to sit down beside it.
Bethany was seated near the piano on a beige velvet fainting couch, looking quite lovely in a lavender silk gown, offsetting her platinum blonde hair and blue eyes. Bethany was short and bouncy. Her features were not exceptional, but she was so full of joy that she was instantly made beautiful. Mirabella thought Bethany might well be the one to make the catch of the season.
There had to be one.
“Princess Elena,” pressed Mirabella, ignoring Alexandra. “Only but consider. It seems to me that your quiet demeanor has been working for you quite effectively and what is more important is to find out how you and your prince feel about each other. I certainly know how to talk, and people don’t like me as often as not.”
“Maybe she’s afraid her prince won’t like her if he learns she cannot sparkle at social events,” suggested Alexandra coyly, turning momentarily from her post with the best view of the outside.
“She will simply shoot him then,” considered Bethany, shaking her blonde curls as she studied her needlework.
“I would not, Miss Bethany!” Elena giggled for the first time in their presence, quickly mastering that lesson. “However, the prince would have to make a gift of a fine stallion for my trouble.”
All the girls laughed, though Mirabella could see the princess was serious on this point.
Mirabella glanced at the bodyguard. He was so quiet that the girls quite forgot he was there. Was she mistaken, or did he look . . . Italian?
She hoped he would be there if danger were to arise.
“Princess Elena she is quite stunning and can sparkle without ze speech,” added Jacqueline, looking up from her work, the candlelight a glow on her pale skin and dark eyes.
“And she is genuine,” added Bethany, glaring at Alexandra. “Quite rare.”
“If Prince Victor Emmanuel should not like you, then what will you do, Princess Elena?” demanded Alexandra.
“Return home and look for a true prince,” replied Princess Elena, nonplussed.
“A warrior prince,” suggested Mirabella, seated next to Elena on the couch opposite the fireplace, as she loved to watch the flickering lights and feel the warmth on her skin. Somehow these evenings with strangers in the gaudiest of surroundings she had come to find very relaxing.
Elena nodded, her expression once again serious. “Like my father. He was a warrior before he was king.”
“A true warrior king,” Mirabella murmured.
“I fear we will never finish the gifts for these orphan girls we don’t even know,” Alexandra admonished, returning to her seat.
“Je ne sais pas pour quoi you complain, Alexandra, when I am making ze truly gift difficile: la dress de velours bleu,” Jacqueline remarked.
“I wish to play the piano!” exclaimed Bethany, throwing her embroidery dowMirabellaMirabellan. “Much more fun than sewing! Shall I play now and allow you to practice your dancing?”
“Fifteen minutes more, and then we shall play to our heart’s content,” proclaimed Mirabella.
All the girls groaned.
“Doing some form of charity works makes one much more appealing to prospective suitors,” advised Mirabella.
“My mother says that piano, dance, needlework, and French is all that is needed to catch a husband,” pronounced Alexandra. “If one has the right pedigree.”
“Or plenty of money,” added Bethany, raising her chin and smiling sweetly.
“I suppose you have a considerable amount of money, Miss Allen,” Alexandra retorted.
“I am very rich, Alexi,” Bethany replied, giggling. “Much richer than you, I expect.”
“Then we shall be friends forever,” Princess Elena replied without hesitation.
All the girls burst into giggles and laughter.
Jacqueline smiled to herself, not looking up from her sewing.
“I do not hold to excelling at nothing and doing only that which is required,” suggested Mirabella. “And having marriage as the only goal.”
“One is either married or one isn’t,” replied Alexandra. “I don’t see what else should matter.”
“Lady Alexandra . . . what interests you? What do you enjoy doing?” asked Mirabella.
“I’m sure I never thought abo
ut it.” Alexandra seated herself next to the bay window where she liked to keep watch, but generally during the daylight hours only. The disturbance had brought out her worst side, she was obviously frightened.
“I expect Alexi would enjoy being married to the catch of the season!” smiled Bethany, her ill humor not lasting very long.
“Doubtful,” murmured Mirabella.
“Have you lost your mind?” demanded Alexandra, looking away from the window momentarily.
“If you never enjoy anything now, what makes you think you would then?” asked Mirabella.
“Spoken like an old maid,” chuckled Alexandra, smiling for the first time in days.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
23
“I’m sure there are other important goals in life besides marriage,” remarked Mirabella, even as one of the maids brought in the evening tea service. “Such as . . . discovery, that moment when the mind explodes with enlightenment and understanding.” Mirabella hugged herself though she sat on the satin wing-backed day couch next to Lady Jacqueline and Princess Elena.
“Or adventure. Running like the wind on a horse,” Princess Elena mused. “Or sword fighting.”
“I love so much the sewing,” Jacqueline murmured with a sigh. “I wish it did not disturb my mama.”
“Why should sewing disturb your mama, Lady Jacqueline?” Bethany asked as she played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata softly, seemingly more focused on the music than the conversation.
“Because it is a servant’s job, of course,” Alexandra replied. She was seated on the chair beside the window, facing the other three huddled together doing their needlework on the parlor couch.
“We do nothing but embroidery all day, is that not sewing?” Princess Elena asked without looking up, covered from head to toe in white lace.
“Jacqueline is speaking of making entire gowns!” Alexandra exclaimed. “The clothing one wears must be made by a modiste naturally. A French modiste.”
“I am Français,” replied Jacqueline.
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 17
