Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “That’s precisely what your job is, my good man.”

  Watson kept his eyes glued to the lovely spectacle, muttering under his breath, “Don’t toy with me, Holmes.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Her name is Miss Joëlle Janvier—though naturally that is not her real name—and your assignment here is to wine and dine that young lady.”

  Watson turned abruptly to stare at him. “You can’t be serious, Holmes.”

  “Have you ever known me to be anything else?” Sherlock scrutinized his companion, feeling like a teacher witnessing his pupil’s first success. “And how did you deduce your primary role in this case, Watson?”

  “Deduce?” Watson chuckled. “It was wishful thinking only. And still I don’t believe you for a moment.”

  “Believe me, it is true.” Sherlock felt a grave disappointment in the knowledge that Watson’s astuteness was attributable to a longing born of infatuation rather than a deduction derived from reason. “It is essential to the case that you should be at your most amorous with Miss Janvier and convince her of your unrivaled love and devotion.”

  “You astonish me, Holmes.”

  “Do I? Beyond a doubt I astonish most of the people most of the time, so I suppose that is not surprising. Although I might have thought you would be accustomed to it by now, my dear fellow.”

  Watson returned his eyes to the beauty and let out a low whistle.

  “Steady, boy. I told you it was an occupation perfectly suited to your abilities,” Sherlock said.

  “But not my pocketbook. The girl must have dozens of suitors—no doubt with pockets to let. Of what possible interest could she have in a poor doctor?”

  “You wouldn’t be poor if you wouldn’t fritter away your money, my good man. At any rate, the money is the least of your worries, Watson.”

  “Money is always my greatest worry,” Watson muttered.

  “You shall have a carte blanche, my dear fellow. In fact, the more you spend the better.”

  The young doctor had the look of child who had just opened the toy of his heart’s desire. “You want me to romance a beautiful girl with a pocket full of blunt?”

  “Didn’t I just say so?” Sherlock looked at Watson in some dismay. His generally capable companion was remarkably slow-witted this evening. “Really, Watson, don’t force me to say everything twice. Do let us move on.”

  “As much as I love the idea—and it is a definite step up from our last undertaking traversing the London sewers—of what possible benefit would my romancing a circus beauty be?”

  The audience burst into clapping.

  “Just play your part, Watson, as painful as it is for you. It shall all become clear shortly.”

  “If it’s all above board, why don’t you romance her yourself, Holmes? It’s your case.”

  Holmes raised his right eyebrow at his companion. Watson was uncommonly dull-witted this evening. Proof that a strong interest in women diminished a man’s intellectual powers.

  In an instant Sherlock Holmes felt something he never expected to feel: a slight longing to take pleasure in all this nonsense. Of late he had wondered what it would be like to experience the joy he saw in Miss Belle’s expression, her joy of both discovery and of every day, simple life.

  Sherlock frowned. I must have work. Ever since Miss de Beauvais’ Christmas Ball he had been agitated and angry. Nothing will interfere with my work. I must pursue my life’s ambition.

  “Right,” Watson murmured. “I only thought because you’re a genius and all, that if you applied yourself to the task at hand, surely—”

  “I would have no idea how to romance a woman. And particularly a . . . a . . . circus performer,” Sherlock interjected. “What would I discuss with her? Faraday’s research on refrigeration? No, Watson, that is entirely out of my skill set and completely within yours.”

  “It isn’t that difficult, Holmes. Instead of being underhanded, devious, unkind, and cryptic, flatter the girl. Be nice.”

  Holmes began to grow concerned. “Do you have a fever, Watson?”

  “Right,” Watson murmured. “Foolish of me, old chap. You have the right of it, it could never work.”

  “Just so.”

  Perhaps having vacuous sisters and growing up with a much older brother who was the pride of the family and who had dressed him in girls’ clothing had formed Sherlock into the person he was, having a distaste for the feminine. For that, he was not sorry. He was a man who revered logic and method above all else and who had no time for the mundane, dramatic, and ridiculous. From his observation, women were inclined to make the smallest, most insignificant incidents into the greatest importance (such as the selection of chinaware and lace) and to overlook those things of true importance (such as the twenty-seven brands of tobacco sold in London, the time it took a body to decay, and the solving of crime). Certainly Sherlock felt warmth and respect for his own mother, but it was a fact that he was a man’s man while his brother Mycroft was the apple of his mother’s eye. In truth, outside of Mycroft, who in his eccentricity was not a kindred spirit in every way, Sherlock had no true friends.

  Until Dr. John Watson that is. Sherlock found that he liked having a friend.

  “But what purpose could my romancing that gorgeous girl have?” Watson demanded. “As much as I love the idea, I refuse to do it unless you tell me what this is about, Holmes. Why are we here?”

  “We are here, my good fellow, to determine if that lovely lady is a danger to our beloved England.”

  “Of what possible harm could a little gal jumping from horse to horse in pink sequined tights be?”

  “Cavorting with the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army?” It was Sherlock’s turn to laugh heartily. “All the harm in the world, I should say! It doesn’t take an espionage genius to tell us that.”

  Watson almost choked on his beer, lunging forward. “That girl is seeing Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge?”

  “Indeed. I just said so didn’t I?”

  “And you want me to go after Prince George’s girl?”

  “Why do you keep making me repeat myself, Watson? Most tedious.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy, Holmes.”

  “But don’t you see, Watson? You’re destined to court the stunning bare-backed rider. No one better.”

  Even from their private box overlooking the ring, the noise was deafening each time the crowd clapped and roared, but the box did allow for some privacy.

  At this moment the tightrope act was in progress so the crowd was subdued except for the occasional cough or sigh.

  “Of course I see, damn it!” retorted Watson under his breath, running his hand through his hair. “I see that Prince George is courting Miss Janvier and I don’t have a bat’s chance in hell with her—and that it might be dangerous for me if I did!”

  “Come, come, Watson, Prince George is indeed Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, with obvious ties to the Foreign Office, but I doubt very much that he’ll call you out.”

  Drum roll! Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! The tightrope walker had reached the center of the tightrope some hundred feet in the air.

  “I am most comforted,” Watson muttered.

  “Prince George is married after all—on paper anyway. Scandal, don’t you know.” Holmes took a sip of his beer.

  “Everyone knows the Duke of Cambridge has a preference for the ladies. Doesn’t strike me as the type who is afraid of scandal—may derive a great deal of pleasure from it, in fact.”

  “No doubt he does.”

  The next act was now underway, none other than the high wire acrobatic act. The female acrobat in a shiny sparkling orange outfit did a triple somersault in the air before her partner in cobalt blue tights caught her from another swing. Next they swung precariously back and forth.

  Sherlock hoped that the fact that the female tightrope walker was having an affair with the clown in the wings watching her did not make her partner less inclined to catch her.

 
Possibly I am jumping to conclusions. The performer dressed as a clown could be a brother rather than a lover, but the man definitely had an attachment to the lady tightrope walker. He seemed at great pains to avoid others observing his interest, so it seemed more likely he was a lover.

  “Ha! Ha!” laughed Watson abruptly, throwing back his head. “I don’t know why I’m so worried about a duel.”

  “Neither am I,” agreed Holmes before reflecting for a moment.

  “Damnation! If my life is of so little interest to you, I assure you it is of some interest to me!”

  “See here, Watson, I am painfully aware that you have a demented love of humor—and I might add that it is not your strong suit—but this is no time for jokes.”

  “Jokes?” Watson demanded. “Do you believe me to be jesting, Holmes, when I say that I fear for my life if I pursue this girl?”

  “Mycroft believes this mission to have implications of the utmost importance,” Sherlock stated. “World-wide implications.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Mycroft is behind all this, didn’t you guess? Even you might have been able to guess it if not deduce it.”

  “You said earlier that your brother was involved with the case. But what the deuce does Mycroft have to say to a beautiful girl in sequined tights?” repeated Watson, but his tone was somewhat calmer. “Hmmm . . . he works for the British government, doesn’t he? In the Foreign Office?”

  “Works for the British government? Mycroft is the British government. To say that they work for him would be more to the point.”

  “Ha! Ha!” Watson smiled but his expression was disbelieving. “If Mycroft ran the government, more people would hear of him.”

  “My dear brother doesn’t care about power and yet he wields it with a word or a nod.”

  Watson stared at Sherlock, stunned. “I thought Mycroft was merely a mid-level official.”

  “Very true. With no ambition whatsoever. He’s far too lazy.”

  “What the devil are you talking about Holmes? Make sense, man!”

  “Quiet, Watson! Keep your voice down.”

  “I would be positively shocked if anyone could hear us over the din,” Watson muttered, glaring at him. “Besides, my days are numbered, why should I care? Prince George’s girl, indeed!”

  “Let us return to the subject at hand, Watson.” Sherlock could see that there was going to be no peace until he explained the whole. “If I am conveying the truth to you, and I could do nothing else, then it must be your pursuit to make sense of it. Only consider: everyone at the highest levels of government consults with Mycroft—even the Prime Minister and the Queen.” Sherlock chuckled to himself. “He hates to be bothered. And yet—if there is a secret in the government—Mycroft knows about it.”

  “How does Mycroft come into such knowledge?” demanded Watson, apprehensive.

  “Mycroft is quite unable to avoid taking in everything around him.” Quite exhausting, really. At times one would wish to think of nothing. “He has a mind which observes and analyzes, remembers it all, catalogues and re-arranges it, and makes conclusions—which turn out to be accurate.”

  “No doubt he sees things which other people miss,” shrugged Watson. “But how did that propel him to the limelight in the world’s most powerful government—”

  “He solved a few puzzles, came to some correct conclusions, identified problem areas and questionable people—not least of which was a spy in the government—and voila, word gets around. And then because of this, of course, people confide in him.” Sherlock shrugged, setting down his beer. His eyes scanned the floor for Miss Hudson. Ah, there she was, on the sideline, some twenty feet from the clown. He smiled. “Taking into account that Mycroft is in the unusual position amongst government officials of knowing right from wrong, has no ambition, and would therefore never utilize the information for personal gain, he becomes everyone’s confidante.”

  “And Mycroft is interested in a bare-back rider in pink sequined tights?” asked Watson.

  “On a personal level, no.” Sherlock stared at him, abashed, unable to hide his amusement.

  “Blasted, Holmes! Of course not on a personal level.” Watson pulled on the vest of his three-piece suit, immaculate as usual. That the retired army doctor found the funds to always be dressed to the nines led Sherlock to conclude that his friend must be hocked to the hilt. It was time to invest some of Watson’s funds for the doctor’s own good—in order to maintain his lifestyle, if nothing else.

  Sherlock drew near to his associate. “Possibly the lady is a spy attempting to find the troops’ movements, weapons, headquarters. Everything that an enemy of the crown wishes to know, Prince George does know.”

  Gasp! The crowd all seemed to sway to the side, even as the male tight-rope walker almost missed catching his partner for the second jump. She gave him a look of complete anger, which seemed to please him.

  Yes, they have been involved as well.

  “Ah, but surely Miss Joëlle Janvier has been thoroughly investigated. What is known about her?” Watson asked with a sudden show of interest.

  Now we’re making progress. Why did it take so long for others to get to the work? The case. That was the place of true bliss.

  “Hmm . . . Quite a lot is known about her and almost nothing.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Holmes?” Watson asked, but his interest was only partially engaged as yet, of that Sherlock was certain.

  “She is of Russian descent. Countless duels have been fought over her. A young Italian opera singer with a promising future at La Scala committed suicide when she refused to see him again; apparently his wages were not commensurate with his talent. A high-ranking employee of the Bank of England became obsessed with the idea that if he were to fulfill our lovely horse rider’s unorthodox desires that she might fulfill his. But life doesn’t always go as planned: now our former bank employee is enjoying all the sensual delights a prison cell has to offer.”

  “And the stolen funds?” asked Watson, unable to conceal the interest in his expression. Excellent.

  “None of the money has been recovered. What might you conclude from this Watson?”

  “That the young lady has a power over men, that she is fond of money, and that her moral compass does not point north.”

  “That is putting it very politely, Watson. Most gentlemanly of you.”

  “Of course,” Watson smiled, nodding to his friend. “How would you describe her then, Holmes?”

  “I would call her an enchantress, a seducer, an adulteress and a very dangerous woman.” Sherlock tapped his fingers on his knee. “And I can’t help but wonder if she had anything to do with Beckham’s death. She had an iron-clad alibi, however, she was with a man, naturally—“

  “An adulteress?” Watson inquired, his interest apparent. Clearly the idea that she might be a murderess as well was of relative unimportance. “And you don’t fear for my safety, Holmes? Under the influence of this Jezebel?”

  “Not in the least,” Sherlock murmured with a smile. “I do not, my good man. She may yet meet her match.”

  “What’s this? You think me to be immune to the charms of women?”

  “Quite the opposite,” replied Sherlock without hesitation. “But as I love the game, so do you. You would not forego the pleasure of the game for any woman.”

  “Holmes! Really!” Watson protested. “Most unfair of you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I take it that you wish me to determine the barebacked beauty’s motives.”

  “Precisely. Is she simply after a rich benefactor, is it all a game of power for her—or does she have another goal in mind?”

  “And how do you propose that I come by this information?” Watson asked pointedly. “Aside from the fact that I am a cold, heartless charlatan immune to the pain a female can so expertly inflict upon the honorable.”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. If a young, handsome man with more wealth comes along and is able to sway her at
tentions from Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge, then clearly she’s a mere fortune hunter. If, on the other hand, a man of your extraordinary charm and good looks is unable to sway Miss Janvier’s attention from an elderly duke with grandchildren, the young lady is a possible threat who requires further investigation.” Sherlock moved forward, emphasizing under his breath, “So give it your best effort, Watson.”

  A slow smile illuminated Watson’s face as he watched the shapely beauty gracefully glide from horse to horse as both the acrobats and the horse riders converged upon the ring.

  Now I’ve got him! Sherlock nodded his approval. Let the games begin!

  Watson sighed. “I would love to apply myself to the task at hand . . . but she can’t possibly prefer me to a prince.”

  Sherlock took out a wad of bills and placed it in the good doctor’s hand. “You’ve developed a great deal of appeal all in the span of a few minutes, Watson.”

  “I suppose I should buy myself some ravishing accoutrement and give myself a title,” considered Watson, thumbing through the wad of bills appreciatively before putting them in his pocket.

  “Your attire is second to none,” Holmes shrugged. “And the title of Doctor suits you fine and is actually more to our purpose. We wish to know which is the greater draw for her: riches or power.”

  “And Prince George? How will he be removed long enough for me to make my bid for the fair maiden’s favor?”

  “Ah,” chuckled Holmes. “Mycroft has that well in hand this evening. Is it necessary to remind you, my good man, that Mycroft works in the foreign office? The way has been paved for you to meet the young lady in her dressing room after the show.”

  Watson glanced to see the ravishing Miss Joëlle Janvier bowing and posing for the crowd.

  A wicked smile crossed the good doctor’s expression as he glanced towards the dressing rooms, raising his glass in a toast. “To God and Country.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Out of the Schoolroom and Into the Ring

  “Oh, and bye the bye, Watson, in your spare time, when you are not romancing Miss Janvier, I would like you to look in on Miss Veronika Vishnevsky, one of the Baghdad Dancing Girls and a young lady who was being investigated by Beckham as well. Miss Vishnevsky is also Russian and a member of the anti-Czarist movement.”