“Tiger Girl?”
“Da. You be on stage with me. Performing. Girl before is . . . um . . . sick.”
“Oh, no, no. Mr. Afanasy. I wouldn’t be good at that at all.” I would rather die. Oh, wait. That’s precisely what would happen.
“You not want job, girly?” He looked at her suspiciously. “Why you here if you not want work in circus?”
Oh, no. He is testing me. Any real circus performer would jump at the opportunity to be trained by the head tiger trainer.
She glanced at her lovely red heeled shoes, covered in dirt, which would have to be washed, as did her red satin outfit—what there was of it—now drenched in the perspiration of her fear.
“Of course I want the job! I simply don’t wish to ruin your show. I thought I would have more time to learn. I haven’t had any training at all. I actually know very little about tigers.” I am rambling. Terror does that to me.
“I teach you.” He motioned to the bullwhip. “You know whip. You look pretty in red. You brave. That all I need.”
“GRRRRROWL!!!!” the Bengal who had circled her earlier replied.
What was that part about being brave? In that you are utterly mistaken!
“You crack whip around tiger. Don’t have to hit animal, but must crack whip.” He illustrated his point.
Mirabella cursed the day Sherlock had taught her to use the whip.
“Luck was with us this evening, Mr. Afanasy! What if the whip makes the very large man-eater with the long, sharp fangs angry?” Mirabella pleaded, wrapping her arms around her waist as she attempted to back up. The smell of the raw meat, the animals, and the dirt made her slightly queasy, though she was not ordinarily one to have a weak stomach. “I truly, truly don’t wish to make him angry!”
“You had bad night, but will feel better in morning. Cannot be afraid! Tigers know you afraid.” Mr. Afanasy twirled his long, black moustache with one hand while he easily maneuvered the tigers with the whip in the other.
“Why should I be afraid of an animal with fifteen times my strength who could kill me in playfulness if it loved me but which, instead, gives every indication of loathing me?” She glanced at the cage.
“What you saying, girly?” he narrowed his eyes at her. He was tall, dark—and ominous. His defined muscles were easily revealed by a skin-tight black sequined suit, a match to his long black hair falling loosely to his shoulders. The hair closest to his face was pulled back and braided. He was actually quite a handsome man. Large. Very large. “My English not so goot.”
“I am saying what a wonderful opportunity.” She swallowed hard. She had no intention of complying with Mr. Afanasy’s wishes, but she had to maintain her cover until she had time to think. She couldn’t jeopardize the mission and risk the lives of others—of entire countries, to hear Sherlock speak of it.
“The big cats they must know who is master.” He closed the lock on the last cage.
Between me and the tigers, I think we all know who is the master.
“Mr. Afanasy, doesn’t it seem odd that the Siberian was so agitated tonight—and still is? Do you think . . . maybe . . . he was drugged?”
Stanislav shrugged. “Tigers they not like light and noise—not predict—sometimes too much for them.”
“But, shouldn’t we try to find out why—”
“Girl must work. This much better than Russia. Easy. Time to feed tigers. No more talk. I show you.”
Suddenly his attention turned elsewhere as the most beautiful woman Mirabella had ever beheld entered the tented area for the animal cages, just outside the main multi-sided marble structure. The visitor walked on the ground as if she were gliding, and as if dirt would never dare touch her slippers as they had coated Mirabella’s.
Her long, lustrous black hair fell past her shoulders. Their glamorous guest with violet-blue eyes had a figure that could make a man melt. And which did, from the look of things.
She was petite, as was the style, Mirabella reflected with envy. Naturally the visitor was not as tall as Mirabella—and yet was every bit the athlete. She had a tiny waist and was cushioned in all the right places. Her outfit was beige so as to make her appear almost nude, with sequins, and she wore a sheer lilac jacket which added to her allure. She walked with the confidence of one who knew her power over men.
She would have to be an idiot not to know that. And if there had been any doubt the raven-haired beauty would have known it by the fact that the dark, muscled man, threatening only a moment ago, was now a puddle on the floor.
“Joëlle,” he bowed, his wide grin somehow strange on so masculine a face. “Beautiful performance.”
“Stanislav,” she nodded, but there was condescension in her smile, as if she thought him much beneath her.
“Are you . . . what do you do in the circus, Miss?” Mirabella asked of the beauty, attempting to be polite.
“What I should do?” The beauty turned momentarily to stare haughtily at her. “I am ze circus. ”
“Joëlle is bare-backed rider,” Stanislav explained.
“Circus is nothink without me.” She lowered her eyelids. “You may call me Miss Janvier.”
“And are you a trapeze artist too, Miss Janvier?” Mirabella swallowed hard. “You must have very good balance to ride the horses.”
“Who is zis?”
“Her name is—“
“Does not matter. What she doing here?” Joëlle demanded.
“New Tiger Girl. New assistant until Ashanti get well from tiger attack . . .”
“T-t-tiger attack?” Mirabella stuttered, feeling the room spin around her as she backed into the tent, the canvas rough on her skin. Mirabella’s eyes opened wide, but she could not find words.
“We have supper together, Joëlle?” Stanislav asked hopefully, his attention focused on the violet-eyed beauty as Mirabella did her best not to swallow her tongue. She reached for a pole or a chair but instead found the side of the canvas tent. No doubt it was an act of Providence that the tent was stabilized to the degree that she was unable to knock it down upon them all.
“Nyet.” Joëlle laughed as if the idea was absurd. “There is fine Englishman who wishes to meet the beautiful Zsh-oëlle.”
“Who he is?” demanded Stanislav.
Joëlle shrugged. “Young and handsome doctor, only arrived from London. I go dressing room and await him.”
Oh, no! Could it be . . . Dr. Watson? Please, heavenly Father, tell me this ravishing beauty is not the reason we are here. Mirabella was able to inch herself to the ground and sit in the dirt, her head spinning. Tiger Attack. I do not stand a chance. John Watson and this femme fatale! He does not stand a chance.
Mirabella touched her hand to her cheek even as she watched the two of them verbally sparring, feeling the dirt smear her skin. This is nothing like the Parisian holiday I had envisioned.
This case was so much worse than anything she could have imagined. Only eight hours ago she was in ecstasy, now she felt that fear might make her explode.
“An Englishman! What is it with English, Joëlle?” He spit on the ground before a wicked smile crossed his lips. “Look what happened last Englishman. Tigers got him.”
Oh, no! Could Stanislav have killed Beckham out of jealousy?
Mirabella watched Joëlle intently, but the bare-backed rider gave no sign either of concern or remorse.
“Sometimes wonder if you are traitor to Mother Russia, Joëlle.” His eyes narrowed at her.
“Like you, Stanislav?” she asked seductively, both appearing to forget Mirabella’s presence.
Understandable. Who could notice her in the presence of the beautiful Joëlle?
“I not traitor!” he exclaimed indignantly. “I for Russia, not for Czar and pile of riches built on people’s labor.”
“Not say where others can hear, Stanislav! If you could speak decent Russian, we would not need speak in English. But you are peasant Ukrainian. Naturally Joëlle does not speak Ukrainian.” She spit on the ground. “A
nd as for English, at least they have money. Not just animal trainer!”
“I worked all life, no time for school. What wrong working for day’s wages? You always say you for worker, Joëlle, in meeting, but actions they are different.”
She shrugged, turning away from him. “Nyet, a girl she has to eat.”
“And anyway . . .” he took her by the arms, spinning her around and holding her very close in a familiar manner, “I am more than animal trainer. You know this.”
“Humph!” she laughed. “You might hold a position in . . .” She glanced at Mirabella before returning her eyes to Stanislav.
Miss Janvier had not forgotten Mirabella was there after all.
But the two bantering back and forth had already told her a great deal. Clearly they assumed the inept tiger presenter to be a foolish, harmless girl. Her attempts to knock down the tent were probably doing nothing to dispel that notion.
Perhaps my fumbling has worked to my advantage. Mirabella felt a moment of enlightenment, realizing that she had something to contribute to Sherlock’s case. She had learned a valuable tool in acquiring information: being too stupid to worry about.
Perhaps being a complete incompetent is the role I can play best.
Her interest in the case momentarily surpassed her overwhelming desire to enact bodily harm on Sherlock Holmes. She couldn’t help but deduce that Stanislav clearly had another role in an organization outside the circus, however little Joëlle thought of his importance—if indeed her disdain was not an act to further manipulate him. And Stanislav and Miss Janvier were in the same organization.
What was the organization? Stanislav had mentioned the bourgeoisie in derogatory terms and Mother Russia with a glow in his expression.
The organization in question must be an anti-Czarist group. Stanislav had a position in the group, and he clearly expected Miss Janvier to be impressed with his position.
Maybe Stanislav had more power than Joëlle would lead one to believe.
And maybe he had killed Beckham.
She swallowed hard. That would mean she was in close contact both with tigers and a murderer. Lovely.
“We will succeed, Da,” Stanislav insisted. “And what do you see in lazy bourgeoisies? None of them they work! Live off labor of others, all soft and flabby! One hanging about you now could be grandfather!” He smiled broadly as if surely she would see his point.
Mirabella was desperate to ask a question which might reveal more about Beckham’s killer, but she thought she’d better not press her luck at this time. Her life was hanging by a threat as it was, and she had used up all the luck of a lifetime in this one evening.
“Georgie?” she laughed. “He is prince. And what you, Stanislav? Circus clown.”
Prince George!?! This woman was seeing Prince George?
“He is English clown. Do you believe will marry you, Joëlle?” Stanislav sniffed loudly. “The English, they know what you are.”
She lowered her eyelids, as if very proud of what she was. As if to say, ‘and yet you all want me.’
He shook his head at her but there was longing in his eyes. “And English prince is married.”
She shrugged. “Would not be first time married man choose me over wife.” She turned to look back at him over her elevated hip. “Maybe I get lucky one of these days. In meantime I dine on caviar and champagne instead of horsemeat and cheap wine.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Bend in the Road
“I’m not going back in there!” Mirabella exclaimed despite her earlier promise to Stanislav. That was before she learned about the ‘accident’ with the prior ‘Tiger Girl’. Her hands were shaking, along with her knees and even her teeth. She couldn’t stop shivering. She wrapped the red satin robe more tightly around her body, which was a wasted action as the thin, shiny fabric provided absolutely no warmth. Involuntarily she looked up, catching a glance at the stars overhead. It was a clear, moonlit night, and the sky was filled with stars.
“Not going in where, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked.
Mirabella was standing behind the elephants’ cages, a predetermined meeting place. It was dark and noisy, and most would not care for the smells or the ground cover. She and Sherlock were guaranteed some privacy to discuss the case.
“In the ring with the tigers, of course!” she sighed heavily, surprised at his denseness which could only be deliberate in the case of Sherlock Holmes. “Mr. Afanasy wants me to come out from behind the cage door and be the presenter—replacing the hospitalized ‘Tiger Girl’—while he is the tiger trainer.”
“Excellent!”
“Excellent? What is ‘excellent’ about my impending massacre?”
“This is working out much better than I could have anticipated.” His manner was one of uncharacteristic excitement. “You’ll have much more time with Afanasy. No doubt you can incite him to talk when you are on friendlier terms.”
Horror struck her as she studied Sherlock’s face: even in the dark she recognized immediately the dawning of an idea in his eyes.
Sherlock Holmes with an idea is the last thing I want. In her mind’s eye she envisioned Sherlock assigning her to the elephant ring in addition to the tiger ring. This terrifying idea was followed by a mental picture of petite Kemberly, whom she had only just seen laying on the floor of the circus ring while Purdy Girl the elephant raised her huge hoof just above Kemberly’s perfect face.
Right after Purdy Girl had swung Kemberly about in her trunk a bit.
Naturally the gigantic animal would not do so well if Mirabella Hudson were the girl in the trunk, she reflected, picturing herself dropped by Purdy Girl from the strain.
Staring with apprehension at Sherlock’s determined expression, Mirabella’s mind wouldn’t slow down. She then had a vision flashing before her eyes of beautiful Rochelle suspended over the pool of black alligators. Only it was her own face in Rochelle’s body.
Imagining one’s death isn’t helping! Which of these options was worse? Alligators, elephants, or tigers?
They would all be effective in putting an immediate period to her existence, so it was difficult to pick one.
How did my life come to this? In the terror of the moment, Mirabella couldn’t remember how her life had become intertwined with Sherlock Holmes—or why.
“EWAAAAAAAAAA!” The occasional bellowing roars interrupted their conversation.
“Mr. Holmes, don’t you understand?” she exclaimed. “I might have been killed in the circus ring tonight! If it doesn’t seem real to you, it certainly does to me!”
“Miss Hudson, this evening four thousand people—myself among them—watched you save yourself and a seasoned animal trainer. I’m as astonished as anyone, I assure you.” There was a slight smile forming on his lips. “And I’m not accustomed to being astonished.”
“I might have saved Stanislav, but I certainly didn’t save myself! I’ve no doubt signed my own death warrant!”
“Mr. Afanasy certainly thinks you are capable of handling the tigers. He is in a position to know.”
“What Mr. Afanasy thinks is that he is safer with me in the ring—having had his last assistant mauled by tigers—and that, if something happens to me, someone else will readily fill my place. It’s no loss to him either way!”
“What do you want, Miss Hudson, more pay?” Sherlock Holmes demanded, turning on his heel in one swift movement, so close now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.
He looked particularly demented and fearsome, she could see that even in the dark. Darkness and Sherlock Holmes went together, and that was never more evident than now as he glared at her through the faint moonlight, his face unshaven and his frown naturally sinister. And his clothing added to the effect: he wore a knee-length black frock coat and a blue and gold striped satin neck cloth, along with a black top hat better suited to the opera than behind an elephant cage. His coal black curls peaked out from under the top hat lodged atop his head.
“I believe I h
ave stated my position clearly,” she murmured, somewhat uncomfortable that their breaths were intertwined in the moonlight. She whispered, “I am not going back.”
“I know I can always buy you with money, Miss Hudson,” he added. “Despite the fact that you appear to have no interest in baubles or clothes. Saving to attend your illustrious university.”
“And what good will money be if I am not alive to go to university? I need a body in order to attend!” His proximity making her uncomfortable, she backed up, carefully watching where she placed her foot in the beautiful red satin shoe.
She might hate this place, but her beautiful outfit—as skimpy as it was—was nonetheless expertly made. It had to be, or the material would no doubt be torn off her body with the extreme movement required. She felt an obligation to take care of it.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He shook his head. “You are surrounded by professionals, Miss Hudson.”
“Then you go in the cage and face the tigers if it is so easy, Mr. Holmes!”
“Screech! Owwww!” Mirabella could hear the laughter and chattering of the monkeys nearby.
She peered around the corner of the cage to see a juggler practicing with his five or six wooden miniature clubs in every color of the rainbow in the gas lamplight.
“To be sure, it would not be a pretty picture,” Sherlock murmured, twirling his hand and motioning to her outfit as he spoke, as if he were searching for words. Even in the dim light, she could see that Sherlock looked away in embarrassment.
Impossible. Sherlock Holmes was never embarrassed.
His voice grew suddenly rough. “It looks decidedly fine . . . You are quite convincing in it . . . I mean to say . . . it becomes you very well, Miss Belle.” He took out his handkerchief and began patting his face although there was a chill in the air. “At any rate, I have been a female on numerous occasions, but I am neither attractive nor convincing in tights.”
“I was meaning to speak with you about that, Mr. Holmes! How could you, in all good conscience—oh, wait! You have none!—expect me to appear half-naked before thousands of people without discussing it with me first!”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 9