“But Miss Belle is not generally in the company of any male persons except for me and you, my esteemed companion,” Sherlock continued his musing, as if he had not inflicted enough damage for a lifetime in the past few moments. “. . . both wholly ineligible due to the nature of our relationship and our respective ages. I must confess that even I am somewhat baffled, a state to which I am most unaccustomed.”
Even through her squinted eyes she could see that John glanced at her, both interest and skepticism written across his expression.
Does he guess? She couldn’t help feeling some relief that the idea did not appear to repulse him.
“I have to disagree with you there, Holmes.”
I was wrong, the idea does repulse him. She bit her lip. I should have known. Dr. John Watson is handsome and dashing, always flirting with the ladies, and I am a plain girl with brown hair and brown eyes—and definitely without a twenty-inch waist.
“On what point, doctor?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at his friend.
“I do not hold either of us to be too old for Miss Hudson. I am nine and twenty and you are not far behind me. We are young men only just established in our careers—or beginning to be so—Miss Mirabella is a young woman not much more than a girl, granted, but she is out of the schoolroom. The Queen herself took the throne at Miss Hudson’s age. I am certain some of Miss Hudson’s contemporaries are now married, and very likely to men of approximately ten years their senior.”
Does he mean—could he mean—the idea of being with her is not unappealing to him? Or is John only humoring Sherlock? Observing his smile and his eyes alighted upon her, Mirabella could feel herself coloring even as her head swam. She reached for the doorknob, strangely unable to place her hand on the protruding metal handle in the dismay of the moment.
Hers was a strange mix of elation and fear: it filled her heart with terror that Dr. John Watson might guess the truth. She would rather jump off the London bridge than he should discover her feelings.
“Y-y-you forget, Mr. Holmes, that I v-volunteer at Lady Graham’s Orphan Asylum for the Female Children of Deceased Officers of the Police,” she managed to utter, stumbling across the words as she spoke. She swallowed hard, determined to sound nonchalant. “I encounter many young men in my comings and goings, so I don’t know why you should think it would be Dr. Watson or yourself—if there were any truth in your supposition, which there is not.”
“I am well aware of every move you make, Miss Belle,” Sherlock stated quietly. Upon reflection, he added, “And are there a great deal of young men in that establishment? I would be most surprised to learn it.”
“Y-y-yes, of course. There is a young solicitor who is at Lady Graham’s at times, there is a gardener about the grounds, and a bookkeeper in the office.”
“The young solicitor you refer to,” considered Sherlock. “Would that be the same solicitor who is engaged to a Miss Bethany Allen?”
“Well, y-y-yes, I believe so.”
“Tsk. Tsk,” replied Sherlock. “I sincerely hope your affections are not engaged there, Miss Belle, because that shall lead to nothing but heartache. And Miss Bethany is your friend.”
“Well, of course, I didn’t mean, I only meant that I do encounter other young men—“
“Ah. And tell me about them.” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.
Yes, I will do that. Right after I am crowned the Queen of England and just before the second coming.
Dr. Watson watched attentively, strangely silent. She could usually count on the good doctor to come to her defense when Sherlock was drilling her, but she was noticeably alone. What could it mean? No doubt he had considered the idea of being her beau—and withdrawn in horror.
Praise God, I found the doorknob. Now if I am able to turn it with all the sweat on my hands, it will be a miracle. “You know, I think it is time for me to retire to my rooms. I should not have trespassed on your time this long. You have been fed, you have your evening tea and brandy, and your papers and your laboratory are in order.”
“Not at all,” remarked Dr. Watson. “Do tell us about your young man.”
Praise the heavens! He hadn’t guessed. She bit her lip in relief.
“There is no young man, I assure you, Dr. Watson.” She smiled shakily at John. Though she would happily barbecue Sherlock Holmes and throw him to the wolves at this moment she had no wish to be rude to dear John Watson. “And I would much prefer to hear about our assignment in Paris. You know I must pack my bags and prepare for the journey.”
“I shall tell you in the interest of peace,” agreed Sherlock, watching her. “You will have a task in Paris. And when it is time for you to know the specifics of your engagement, I will tell you. My brother Mycroft in the Foreign Office believes it has implications at the highest levels of government.”
“Mycroft?” demanded Dr. Watson. “Must be important.”
“I see,” murmured Mirabella, comprehending positively nothing at this moment in time.
“Good. So let us return to the former topic which I had not quite concluded,” Sherlock mused.
“I have concluded it,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes,” nodded Holmes in obvious dismissal of her wishes. His expression bore that intensity of curiosity which she had come to fear. “But I must be apprised of the emotional state of those in my employ. Utilizing my powers of both observation and deduction, I do see, Miss Belle, that you are not so very much in love. I will admit that I am relieved to know it.”
“Why do you say so, Holmes?” asked Watson, his curiosity now piqued as well.
“It is very unkind of you to discuss my feelings right in front of me as if your opinion were fact,” protested Mirabella. “I can be the only actual judge of my feelings.”
“Having observed your skills of deduction first hand, Miss Belle, I beg to differ,” replied Sherlock appearing to consider her words with interest.
“Of all the arrogant, rude—”
“Arrogant and rude? Perhaps. But wrong? No.”
“Sherlock Holmes!” she huffed indignantly, grabbing the doorknob tighter and managing to crack the door open, her back to him now.
“Oh, have I upset you, Miss Belle?” He asked innocently, his voice wafting through the room like the spread of the Black Plague. “Well then, let’s say ‘Good night’. Watson and I will simply discuss the matter in your absence if that is what you prefer.”
She slammed the door shut and turned to face him. “I would prefer that you minded your own business, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”
“I will tell you how I know, my dear Watson, that the charming Miss Hudson is not so very much in love,” murmured Sherlock, leaning towards his friend as if to whisper. “She is wearing the perfume, Jacinthe Blanche. I went down to Harrods’ perfume counter, which has an extensive collection, to verify the scent. Most revealing.”
Both Watson and Mirabella stared at him in an obvious state of disturbance.
“And?” ventured Watson after some moments, his expression one of some concern. “Is Jacinthe Blanche a perfume which is only worn by girls who are not so very much in love?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson!” Sherlock lit his pipe.
“I would certainly wish not to be. I was only repeating your words, Holmes.”
“Tell me this, Miss Belle. Are you, in fact, wearing Jacinthe Blanche?”
“I am,” she glared at him. And you should be wearing a straight jacket. She knew full well there was positively nothing Sherlock could deduce from the perfume she was wearing, however arrogant he might be.
“But don’t you see, Watson?” pressed Sherlock, turning to his friend.
“I do not,” sighed Watson, tapping his finger on the stand beside him.
“An expensive perfume purchased by a girl who won’t part with her funds for anything: everything must go to her savings for her college education. Quite illuminating.”
“Then why do you say she is not in love?” asked Wat
son.
“Tsk! Tsk! I did not say that she is not in love.” Strangely, his pronouncement gave her some comfort. “I said that she is not so very much in love. One must be accurate in one’s speech as well as in one’s observations.”
“Dr. Watson! How revolting that you encourage him!” Mirabella balanced herself against the door, somehow managing not to fall, though she could not quite will herself through it. Not until she had heard the entirety of her employer’s insanity.
“There is no complexity to the scent,” stated Sherlock, snapping his fingers in the air as if revealing one of the mysteries of the universe. “It smells of violets with no undertones. Miss Belle is a multifaceted young woman deserving of a complex fragrance—a mosaic, if you will. And she must surely be attracted to such a one. She has changed her shampoo and her perfume, that is all. The fact that she has selected a simple scent tells me that she is unsure of her course and is second guessing herself. My conclusion: her heart is not fully engaged.”
“There is a certain logic to that,” Dr. Watson agreed.
“Even madmen consider themselves to be brilliant,” she muttered under her breath.
“Hmmm,” Sherlock nodded, his eyes alighting on her. For the first time in their acquaintance, she perceived a strange longing in those dark, intense eyes which pierced everything they alighted on. With a sudden uncharacteristic sensuality, he added, “Miss Belle is a girl who would leave no stone unturned were she decided.”
She looked away, wanting so badly to be angry that Sherlock sometimes understood her better than she understood herself—wishing that she might turn that stone over and throw it at his head—and instead she felt . . . she felt . . . she didn’t know what she felt. Intimate and violated at the same time.
So she did what she always did when she felt uncomfortable and confused: she talked. “If I might interrupt your tirade, Mr. Holmes, only that I might pack the appropriate things so as to better serve you—what clothing will I need for Paris?”
“Very little,” replied Sherlock, closing his eyes as he relaxed further into his chair. “And what you will need would fit in a purse.”
She opened her mouth in shock, but in a mere instant in time the Great Detective had tuned her out completely, as was his inclination. His eyes were now fixated on the last embers of the fire, as if he were no longer aware that she was in the room.
Mirabella found that she wished Sherlock’s fiercely impassioned gaze was still absorbed with her.
She passed through the door, possibly closing it a bit more loudly than was entirely necessary.
CHAPTER SIX
Palace of Westminster
“It’s much more complicated than that, isn’t it?” asked Mycroft Holmes, mid-level official in the Foreign Office, who was repeatedly asked to assume a higher level position—and who repeatedly refused. Some said Mr. Mycroft Holmes, though only thirty-five years old, might have been the most rapidly promoted man in the history of the British government if he had not been so utterly disinterested in personal advancement.
“More complicated than a ring of spies in Paris determined to kill the Czar?” asked Spencer Cavendish. The War Secretary, the 8th Duke of Devonshire and the Marquis of Hartington laughed, but he was clearly not amused.
“My little department has long known that the anti-Czarist movement is strong in Paris,” considered Mycroft, who momentarily wondered that Cavendish was having this conversation with him rather than with the Foreign Secretary. “Stronger even than in Russia.”
“Naturally. No one dares breath a word against the Czar in Russia.” Cavendish frowned. “That would mean sudden death.”
“Not sudden,” Mycroft corrected the War Secretary without hesitation. “Death would come after torture.”
“At any rate,” Cavendish leaned back in his chair. “You did an excellent job, Holmes, of pin-pointing the Cirque d’Hiver as the location of a known nest of spies.”
“Indeed. The Winter Circus, situated in Paris.” Mycroft nodded distractedly. “We were getting very close to identifying the ring of spies when one of our most valuable operatives, Beckham, was found mauled to death by a tiger.”
“You don’t think it was an accident?”
“No.” Mycroft shook his head. “Proof that we were getting close, I should say.”
“The Queen is as mad as hornets over the dead agent, I can tell you,” Cavendish said.
“I don’t believe Beckham was too thrilled with the outcome either,” Mycroft added, untroubled at the news of the Queen of England being in a tether over the functioning of his department. He was considerably more distressed at the loss of a man. Her royal highness had been upset before, and would likely be again.
“And now, with everything in utter chaos, Prince George wanders into the web of spies, cavorting with a circus bare-backed rider,” Cavendish exclaimed, shutting his eyes momentarily.
“The Commander-in-Chief of the British Army,” Mycroft repeated, whistling under his breath. “In the middle of a spy ring.”
“Prince George is a good soldier—but a bit of a muffin where women are concerned.”
“As many have been before him.” Mycroft shrugged, himself indifferent to females outside of the amusement they offered, but aware of the weaknesses of his gender. “I should think the Queen could dissuade him from this course.”
“She is his cousin, Holmes, and reluctant to do so. I fear she has left the resolution to us.” Cavendish shook his head. “I’d say we have an emergency on our hands, Mr. Holmes.”
“I’d say we do, Cavendish. I don’t think it can be overstated: if we’re not careful, we could have another dead Czar on our hands—and an international altercation.” Mycroft frowned. “And though we might be friends with the Czar’s government in theory, I can’t think we’d want the Russians knowing British military secrets. If this bare-backed rider is a spy for the Russian Czar and Prince George is loose-lipped in a moment of weakness—”
“Damnation! Let’s hand over our secrets to a country with thirty million soldiers, shall we?” Cavendish swallowed hard. “I know you hate to leave the office, Holmes, but I fear you’re going to have to travel to Paris. There’s no one else we can trust to see that the thing is handled. Very delicate situation.”
“I fear it as well.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “But shouldn’t the job fall to the Foreign Secretary? I don’t wish to step on anyone’s toes. It is very disruptive to one’s digestion, you know.”
“I shall handle the Foreign Secretary,” Cavendish replied sternly. “There is too much at stake to let politics get in the way. The peace of the world is at stake!”
“If you insist,” Mycroft agreed reluctantly, sighing heavily. “But I won’t be going alone. Naturally I won’t be involved in any undercover work. Doesn’t suit me in the least. There is a little boutique hotel I like in Paris—the Hotel Pont Royal—excellent food. I’ll reside there while my operatives attend to the matter of the espionage—under my supervision, of course.”
Cavendish raised his eyebrows, well aware of the expense of such a fine establishment, but he offered no objection. “Certainly you must be comfortable, Holmes.”
“I wouldn’t think of being anything else.”
Cavendish cleared his throat. “Who are you going to take with you, Holmes, to unravel this mess, identify the spies and the persons responsible, and to disengage the Chief?”
“The best, Cavendish. Nothing less than the best.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Winter Circus
Paris, France
“By Jove! We’re at the circus!” Dr. John Watson whistled as he stood outside the Cirque d’Hiver at the juncture of rue Amelot and rue des Filles Calvaires.
“So, we’re at the crossroad between Amelot street and . . . the street of Calvary Girls?” Staring at the street signs, Mirabella attempted to make the translation in her mind, ‘rue’ being the French word for ‘street’, she knew.
“Although the translation is te
chnically accurate, the inference is significantly misleading,” Sherlock said. “I believe the reference is to the Congregation of Our Lady of Calvary.”
“Calvary being Golgotha, where Jesus was crucified,” Dr. Watson stated.
“That doesn’t bode well,” Sherlock muttered.
“The crucifixion was not gloomy or foreboding at all. It was an act of intense love,” Mirabella murmured.
Sherlock was never superstitious, or religious for that matter, but he was consistently serious and usually somber. His expression turned even darker than usual. “I do not see much evidence of love in this world. Only darkness and destruction.”
“And the fun begins,” Dr. Watson muttered.
From where Mirabella stood, she could see numerous horse drawn carriages, a stylish lady of quality walking her poodle alongside her lady’s maid, a milliner’s shop displaying every manner of color and feather in elaborately fashionable hats, French soldiers walking together, a horse-drawn subway bus with customers swaying back and forth atop the bus, and a man pulling a cart of vegetables while watching a young lady dressed in black mourning attire.
“Sherlock Holmes, I dare you to feel something,” Mirabella stated under her breath. “How can you not? Isn’t it sweet to see that older gentleman feeding the pigeons? Or the girl selling flowers? Each of them has a life, with people they love and care for. Every person is a magnificent universe unto himself. Look at that beautiful young woman in mourning, such a becoming sheer black veil she is wearing, doesn’t it touch your heart to see her longing for her love, Mr. Holmes?”
“She is a lady of the night selling her wares,” Sherlock stated. “It is a disguise.”
Mirabella gasped, placing her hand on her mouth. “You don’t mean it, Mr. Holmes!”
“I wish that I did not,” Sherlock replied. “Most morbid. But the costume is apparently stimulating to some men—clearly it is to the fellow pulling the vegetables. As for the older gentleman feeding the pigeons, he is homeless and has very little to eat, and yet he spends what little he has to feed his only friends.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 5