“Correct. Speak up when you address me, Miss Hudson. Now let us try again.”
She stepped forward on the opposite foot, her eyes glued to the post ahead.
Crash! She successfully wrapped the whip around the jar, but it once again plunged to the ground and shattered.
It was the Great Detective’s turn to sigh heavily.
“When we return to Baker Street you are to pack your bags, Miss Hudson.” Sherlock turned on his heel and began to depart the courtyard.
“Pack my bags?” She dropped the whip where she stood and stared at his back, the reality far worse than her worst fears. As much as she wished to run and never return, she knew that her heart would break were she to do so. “But why? I said I was sorry, Mr. Holmes . . .”
“As am I.” He turned his head only slightly, his body still intent upon departure.
“Then why . . . why must I pack my bags?” she asked in a whisper, barely managing to add, “Where am I going?”
“The more appropriate question is ‘where are we going?’”
“Very well,” she gulped. “Where are we going?” In her anguish, her mind began playing terrible tricks on her. She pictured herself being escorted to Millbank Prison where Sherlock would promptly leave once she was behind bars.
“Paris.” He raised his left eyebrow at her, his dark hair curling around his strong features. “I am taking you to Paris, Miss Belle.”
“What?!? Do you mean . . . I am not . . . do I still have a position?” she asked, looking up at him through wet lashes.
“That is yet to be determined. In the meantime, there must nonetheless be consequences for bad—no, inexcusable—behavior. There will be punishment for your insubordination.”
Paris. Sherlock might have many faults—and he did—but he never lied to her. He meant precisely what he said. She was going to Paris.
“You certainly know how to punish a girl, Mr. Holmes!” she managed to exclaim, astonished, clutching her hands to her chest.
“You don’t know the half of it, my dear,” he smiled, his raven hair waving around his face as he returned to her side and picked up the fallen whip. Throwing the bullwhip forward, he perfectly wrapped it around the last remaining jar, pulling the glass jar towards him entirely in tact.
CHAPTER THREE
London from a Hansom Cab
“You won’t be sorry, Mr. Holmes, I will double my efforts,” Mirabella promised as she attempted to remove the mud from her boots before stepping up into the Hansom cab.
“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock commanded before seating himself beside her in the cab. He brushed his coal black curls now wet with perspiration away from his face. “I already am sorry. But it can’t be helped.”
She sighed. Proof that her lovely memory of dancing with Sherlock was nothing but strange imaginings.
If it weren’t for Dr. John Watson who was always kind, always willing to offer encouragement, to laugh and to see the humor in it all—well she didn’t think she could have borne it. Just as no one could be more infuriating than Sherlock Holmes, no one could be dearer or more charming than John Watson.
And thank goodness for her Aunt Martha. Mirabella knew well that one needed some human interaction. Though a man of principle and discipline and honest to a fault, Sherlock was definitely not human.
“This is important, Miss Hudson. Please pay attention. It could mean life or death for you.” Sherlock turned towards her, his expression pained. “In addition to your purported abilities in science, I admit that you do keep my laboratory well enough. Your jar washing skills are excellent.“ He paused momentarily before a frown washed over his face, as if something were weighing heavily on him. He muttered under his breath, “I wish we had left it at that. Far less treacherous.”
“Left it at what, Mr. Holmes?”
“Much to my astonishment, your family wishes for you to continue under my tutelage despite the inherent dangers.”
“What does my family have to say to it, Mr. Holmes? I am earning my own income. And if I am to be risking my life, the question should be put to me, not to them, don’t you think?”
“Ah, yes, well in the absence of a husband to ask . . . ”
Ask the husband? Of all the infuriating . . . ! She bit her lip, coming dangerously close to making it bleed before realization struck.
This was not the Sherlock Holmes she knew. Was he attempting to dissuade her from going to Paris by using the tactic of enraging her? She fingered her whip.
Well, it wouldn’t work!
At least not twice. Not on this girl.
His expression was pained as he added softly, “Mrs. Hudson informs your family that she has never seen you happier.”
“She is generally seeing me when I am not with you, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured under her breath, as they turned onto Northumberland Street, near Charing Cross Station. In her vision was the Northumberland Arms, a public house and restaurant. She knew from Sherlock and John Watson’s conversation that it was always crowded and the ales were good. Naturally she must rely on their assessment as such an establishment would not be appropriate for a respectable girl.
“True, it is difficult to always be in the company of one’s superiors. Even so, it is terrifying to consider the state of your being if that which I see before me constitutes happiness for you.”
I am deliriously happy. She fingered the whip beside her. I have a weapon and you are unarmed, Mr. Holmes.
They approached another pub: the Museum Tavern. She knew that Sherlock had lived around the corner when he first arrived in London. And yet Montague Street is still standing.
“You’re still angry about the whip, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes I am, Miss Hudson,” he replied without the slightest pause. “And yet, the incident provided me with some relief. It illustrates that you are in possession of the anger, initiative, and reaction time which you will need to survive in my employ.”
“Oh.” Her mouth snapped shut. That was not what she had expected to hear. She was, for once, speechless.
Almost. “Did you . . . Mr. Holmes . . . did you incite me to anger . . . on purpose?”
“My dear girl, when will you ever learn? Nothing is an accident where I am concerned.”
Ask the husband? She repeated the words in her mind. She knew very well that Sherlock Holmes was forward thinking in such matters and believed that women should learn to both think for themselves and to protect themselves. He might come to the aid of helpless women on a daily basis, but he respected those few who displayed independence. Heavens, he kept a picture of Irene Adler in a prominent location and looked at it daily! Mirabella had never met the female deity who held a unique and exclusive place in Sherlock’s esteem—a place Mirabella would have thought impossible to attain—but from all accounts Miss Adler was a woman who most certainly had determined her own destiny.
And Sherlock had said more than once that he had a high regard for her father, Henry Hudson, a curate and a man of God, who had even educated his girls at home and taught his children that the husband is to love and cherish his wife, not to possess her—unlike the dictates of many behind the pulpit.
The Great Detective turned abruptly towards her, his grey eyes suddenly smoky, as if he were pleading with her. “Miss Belle, this is important! This is not a game. You must tell me, do you wish to continue working on my cases? Or do you wish to remain our cook and housekeeper?”
“Of course I wish to work on the cases! How can you not know that, Mr. Holmes?” She laughed. “For such a brilliant man, sometimes you say the most ludicrous things! I am an open book. If there is anything you wish to know you have only to ask.”
“There are things which are better left unsaid, Miss Belle.” He looked away.
That would be a first for Sherlock Holmes!
“I must be assured that you understand the type of work we do. And the inherent dangers,” he stated, adding softly, “And that you enter into them willingly.”
; “I do.” Mirabella received the very clear impression that her proximity was uncomfortable for Sherlock. She who revered him so much and who was never so alive or inspired as when she was in his company. “Do give me some credit, Mr. Holmes. I did help to solve the case of the Sword Princess, after all.”
She determined not to let Sherlock pull her in with these moments of emotion—unfathomable and unreadable but emotion nonetheless—which tugged at her heartstrings. She knew very well that she was like a fly to be lured in—and then to be swatted when it got too close to his lifeblood. His cases. His work.
They passed the Diogenes Club, Sherlock’s brother Mycroft’s club. They were approaching Piccadilly Circus when she saw the Eros statue followed by the Criterion Bar, where Dr. John Watson had first learned of an eccentric scientist needing a roommate.
John Watson had his own demons as a result of his time spent as a military doctor in Afghanistan. Was that why he took so many risks with Sherlock? Throwing himself into Sherlock’s cases seemed to keep John’s memories at bay—until the night came. Mirabella knew from Sherlock that John often paced the floors at night, the young doctor’s bedroom being on the third floor above Sherlock’s room.
Mirabella glanced at Sherlock. Everyone was tortured in some way. It seemed to be the human condition.
“For the time being you still have a position, Miss Hudson, but you must promise to take my instruction more seriously. Why should I waste my genius and my valuable time on a thankless girl which might otherwise be spent undermining crime and saving lives?”
“Oh, I am grateful, Mr. Holmes, believe me.” Especially when you are asleep.
“As you should be. But I assure you that you will be punished for your insubordination. And your tendency to lie, which I abhor above all things.”
“Lie?” she replied indignantly, turning to stare at him. “I do not even know how to lie.”
“You just did.” He consulted his pocket watch. “Not two minutes and fifty-seven seconds ago.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, genuinely dismayed.
The carriage turned onto Paddington Street where she saw James Taylor & Co., shoemaker to Sherlock Holmes. As if to commemorate the occasion, he tapped his foot in annoyance. “I refer to the Case of the Sword Princess, which you claim to have solved.”
“I did not say that I solved the case, I merely said that I helped to solve the case,” she replied.
“It is nonetheless an incorrect statement.”
“Of course,” she murmured, understanding dawning. “You were not the star of that discourse, therefore it must be untrue.”
“You are becoming more like LeStrade every day, Miss Belle.” He stifled a laugh, an expression of uncharacteristic amusement crossing his features. “Being abducted by the villains does not constitute solving the case.”
“I managed to save myself and four little girls!” she replied indignantly, crossing her arms in front of her waist.
“And would you still be alive today if Watson were not such a crack shot?”
“Probably not.”
“And would Watson have been there to fire the shot if I had not deduced where you were and led him to the location?”
“No.”
“So who solved the case?”
“You did, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am a wretched, evil girl.” She added in a whisper, “And I owe you my life.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Belle. Many people do.”
She sighed heavily. “You seem to forget, Mr. Holmes, that I saved Princess Elena from a terrible fate.”
“I forget nothing about you, Miss Belle.” He stared intently at her before looking away. “Most notably, I recollect that you allowed your revolver to be separated from you, unlike the princess of Montenegro who had the forethought to have hers within her grasp.”
Will we ever put that behind us? If Jesus forgave my sin, I should think that would be good enough for Sherlock Holmes. She added in her own defense, “We did work together.”
“Miss Hudson,” he turned to face her, his expression severe. “I will admit that you have had every success on your side thus far—despite your inattention, incompetence, and carelessness.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Holmes,” she demurred.
“I am, Miss Hudson. You have been astonishingly lucky.” She saw his hand clenching his ivory cane and feared it might split in two.
Where was the man who had held her in his arms at Miss de Beauvais’ Christmas Ball, smiling down at her, congratulating her? Treating her as an associate.
Almost treating her as an equal, if that could be imagined. Sherlock Holmes didn’t treat anyone as an equal! He had even called her the world’s first lady detective! High, high praise coming from one so intelligent—and one who considered himself so far above others.
She would never forget the look of admiration in his eyes. Almost gentle, if Sherlock Holmes could ever be called that.
It had been a moment of heaven. She stole a glance at the harsh profile of the man sitting beside her.
That moment was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Wish Come True
The Winter Circus
“It appears you have a visitor, nyet?” The beautiful woman scantily clad in scarlet chiffon harem pants, her face covered with a veil, opened the door to the tiger’s cage. In this outfit she both blended in with the other circus performers—and was unidentifiable.
“Are you insane? What are you doing?” Beckham exclaimed in horror.
“Getting rid of evidence, naturally.” With the door placed between herself and the tiger, she effectively gave Beckham nowhere to escape, the tiger now in between him and the gate she held onto. In point of fact, the predator was fixated on the trapped man, with little to no interest in the gate or the woman behind it. The scent she had rubbed on Beckham’s clothing was proving to be effective.
“M-me? I don’t know anything!”
“Soon you will not.” She smiled. “Shishka!” she murmured as the tiger inched towards him.
He reached in his jacket for his gun, only to find that it was now gone. “Where is my pistol? . . . how did. . .?” His speech was erratic as the terror of his situation struck him.
“You really should check for gun when you put your clothes back on, da?” She advised.
“You’ll never be able to cover your tracks, Mademoiselle!” he exclaimed, frantically looking about him for some form of weapon, the only thing available being a long wooden pole leaning against the wall, which he snatched up.
“Oh, I think I will, dahling,” she purred. “I already have, in fact.”
“The British government will find you—and you’ll hang! But it’s not too late. Throw me my gun.”
The woman laughed a taunting laugh even as the tiger advanced upon him, the animal’s curiosity now intense.
Beckham kept his eyes glued on the striped carnivore, even though the circus beauty was his only hope at this point. The pole was a temporary barrier at best. “Help me! I promise I won’t say a word!”
There. That was better. She resented his lack of attention on her. This was the part of the game she like the best, when her victim understood her power.
“Nyet, Mr. Beckham, you should not have spied on me. How you think you can outsmart me?” she asked, almost singing the words.
“This is inhuman! I implore you, don’t do this! Shoot me if you must, but this is too cruel by far!”
“Death is occupational hazard in our business, but how wonderful when can be dealt in such creative way, da?”
“How can you? You’re not a woman, you’re a monster!” he exclaimed, covering his body with the pole as he jutted it into the jaws of the tiger. He was doing fairly well at keeping the tiger at bay—for the time being.
But if the tiger decided to win, win he would.
“Sheltered life you have led,” she replied tersely. “In Russia, no shortage of cruelty. Czar provides example daily.” Her ow
n beloved father had killed himself after he lost his land under the Emancipation of the Serfs, his family starving—and her mother too weak to do anything about it.
She, on the other hand, had the power to control life.
Every life. Man, woman or beast, it didn’t matter. She always initiated the first—and last—strike.
The tiger was positively mesmerized by the scent she had placed on Beckham’s clothing. She made a mental note to experiment further with the method. And yet, it was not enough: circus animals were uncertain, having learned to obey man. Some of the wildness had been trained out of them.
This is boring. The tiger was not ready to attack. But she had anticipated this, as she always thought of everything, she congratulated herself. She was so much smarter than everyone gave her credit for—so much smarter than the men she flattered. She shrugged. So much smarter than everyone, in fact. Everyone thought she was nothing more than a beautiful performer.
But Beckham had figured it out. Anger rose up in her for his audacity to think he could trap her.
The same anger she had felt when she had found her father dead.
A small bucket sat in a corner, the contents of which she had obtained from a local butcher. Beckham’s back was now to her as he had inched closer to the cage door while keeping the tigers at bay. Apparently he expected to find a way to overpower her. Foolish, foolish man. As they all were.
Lining up carefully through the bars, she splashed the entire contents of the bucket over him.
“What is this?” he cried out, “My God! Blood!”
“Do svidanija, Mr. Beckham. Good-bye.”
It annoyed her that a drop of blood had splattered on her outfit. Now she would have to change. How inconvenient. As she left the caged area with the now empty bucket to be cleaned out, she locked the outside door, dropping the key into her cleavage.
“AEEEEE!” She heard the screams of the man as the tiger attacked him, the scent of the blood irresistible. The tigers were kept hungry to improve their performance. A man would have no chance against a determined tiger, particularly with no weapon. Funny how the sound was barely noticeable amidst the noise of the circus all about them.
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 3