He tapped his cane on the ground. “Miss Hudson! I’ll thank you to take a more appropriate tone with me.”
“And I’ll thank you not to throw me in the ring with man-eating predators, Mr. Holmes!” she replied in the least appropriate tone she should manage. She was generally at great pains to bite her tongue, but something about fighting for her life against deadly carnivores had loosened her reserve.
It’s deuced annoying how I am forever needing a female operative. I cannot play every role,” the Great Detective concluded. “It can’t be helped.”
“Yes, if there were no females in the world, it would be a much better place.”
Sherlock appeared pensive as he tapped his ebony cane on the ground, as if considering the merit of her words. He was silent, which she found even more annoying than his long tirades.
But his eyes were never still. She might wear a robe, but it adhered to her form, and she noticed that his eyes continually returned to assess her.
Perplexing. He was obviously thinking about how well suited she was for some devious plan, she knew not what.
“Miss Belle, the thing that gives me hope is that you are generally able to behave like a man and look like a female.”
Even his compliments sound like insults. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
He looked away momentarily. This was the most peculiar conversation: Sherlock Holmes was never hesitant, he was only straight forward. “Feminine and soft when it’s called for, powerful and confident when needed.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “I am no different from other women.”
“I beg to differ, Miss Belle,” he murmured without hesitation. “I am accustomed to women who are helpless, vulnerable, and unable to think for themselves, and, though I am pledged to help them in their very real dilemmas, I would not wish to be long in their company.”
“I was not born yesterday, Mr. Holmes! There are many capable women. My Aunt Martha for one. And I will never believe that the mother of Sherlock Holmes is unable to think for herself. As I know mine is not.”
“True,” he agreed reluctantly. “But my mother is not in need of my assistance. Moreover, she can be . . . demanding, histrionic, and ridiculous in her turn.”
Sounds like someone I know.
“Do try to be sensible, Miss Belle,” Sherlock continued with raised eyebrows. “And return to the subject at hand. You have only been in the ring once; as with anything it will become easier with practice.”
“Well, this female is not going back in the tiger ring!” she retorted. “It can be no less than an act of God that I am still be alive. I will not tempt fate, whatever nonsense you may choose to spout, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
He stepped back, staring at her in surprise, as if he were astonished that she did not care to be someone else’s dinner.
“Very well. If that is your final decision, Miss Hudson.” He twirled his ebony cane. She knew the cane contained a sword and it wouldn’t have surprised her if he had pulled the sword out and demanded that she throw herself into the tiger cage.
Instead, he seemed resigned to her decision.
“You . . .you are agreeing with me, Mr. Holmes?”
“What else can I do? I cannot force you to do that which you refuse to do, Miss Hudson.” He removed his top hat, rubbing his hand through his hair and turning away from her altogether.
“Quite right,” she agreed shakily.
“I shall look for a new assistant.” Returning to meet her eyes, he smiled perfunctorily at her and bowed, to be interpreted as either a gesture of departure or a supposed attempt at politeness.
It had to be the former.
She stepped forward in an attempt to gain his attention and stop him from leaving. “Are you saying, Mr. Holmes, that I cannot keep my position washing bottles, documenting specimens, and dissecting bodies at the morgue, if I don’t face tigers?”
“It will be difficult to find another situation so effortless and yet with so many glamorous elements in such illustrious company, I grant you that, Miss Hudson.” He shrugged, smoothing the lapels of his frock coat. “But I have never understood where your priorities lie, my girl. Perhaps it is for the best.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am always serious.”
And she knew Sherlock Holmes always spoke the truth.
This was no exception. She could feel it in his very manner, as if he were relieved at the idea that she would no longer be in his life—as if she created some difficulty for him.
“But . . . why?”
“Why do I always have to point out that which should be apparent by this time, Miss Belle?” He sighed heavily, looking away again. He was suddenly stiff and removed from her, as if they were strangers to each other. Sherlock Holmes was, once again, a machine. “I need a female assistant who is willing to go undercover on my cases when I need it. One who doesn’t ask questions and who does as I ask. I cannot perform every role—and I cannot hire two assistants.”
“Not for what you pay me.”
“EWAAAAAAAAAA!” Teensy accentuated.
“Precisely. And my career is far from established. True, I have had a few successes, but the public is very fickle. All it would take is one high-profile case unsolved, and my life’s work is over.” He turned towards her and placed his hands on her arms, his voice almost a whisper but somehow louder than she had ever heard it. “My life over. Why is it so difficult for you to understand that you were hired to perform a function, Miss Belle? And that you, like myself, must be extraordinary in everything you do? My future, and our future together, depends upon it.”
Our future together. What a strange sound that had.
“Tell me, this, Sherlock.” He released her and she and brushed the hair out of her face. “What if I were to be attacked by the tiger, and supposing I lived, I were to have a large scar across my face?”
“What if? What do you mean by that, Miss Hudson?”
“Would you still keep me in your employ, Mr. Holmes?” She braced herself for the answer.
“Hmmm. You would not be as useful to me, as you are no doubt aware, Miss Belle.”
“Enlighten me, Mr. Holmes.”
“If you are not able to reason that out, we have been remiss in your education, Miss Hudson. There are some roles which call for a pretty female. A scar we can add, but it would be much more difficult to remove one. And . . . ” he considered. “It would make you identifiable.”
She felt her jaw clenching. “And, what if, instead, I were to die after a tiger attack?” Inadvertently she reached down to rub her leg from a strained muscle.
“I can’t see that I would then have to choose whether or not to retain you. The choice would be made for me. Surely you must see that, Miss Hudson.”
“Would you not feel some sadness—or regret, Mr. Holmes?” she blurted out without meaning to.
As soon as Mirabella asked the question, she wondered why she had asked it. She had accepted the position, she knew the risks. She couldn’t have her feelings hurt anymore than an enlisted man should have his feelings hurt when his commander sent him in to battle.
But Sherlock’s lack of attachment to her was both disturbing and painful. She was so devoted, so loyal to him—it took man-eating tigers to scare her away! She couldn’t bear to be off the case—she began to wonder if she couldn’t bear to be deprived of Sherlock’s company—while he could dispose of her like yesterday’s newspaper.
Her eyes met his, where she searched for the answer, and saw nothing, which hurt her far more than she expected. She dare not ask for his feelings, for she knew he had none.
“Well? Would you feel anything if I were to die, Mr. Holmes?”
“Obviously I would not wish to see you dead, Miss Belle, or to learn that evil had prevailed. The idea has concerned and disturbed me for some weeks now.” He shuddered, adding in a whisper, “I never thought to feel such things—or wished to.”
“To feel what?” she asked.
He looked away and his tone was once again emotionless. “Though I must say it is my devotion to the execution of justice which propels me and not any personal feeling.”
“It is touching indeed that the thought of my death is so debilitating to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“What do you suppose I hired you for, Miss Hudson? Companionship?” He laughed. “I am not an old woman or a doddering fool requiring an attendant.”
You’re not an old woman at least. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, but you do require an attendant.”
“The fact remains that I am a world-class detective without time to spare, time which you are wasting at the present moment. Something which appears to have become a habit with you, Miss Belle.”
“Forgive me for taking up moments of your precious time which could very well determine whether I shall live or die.”
He tapped his cane on the ground, creating the sound of rock hitting wood. “I won’t say I’m not fond of you, Miss Belle. I approve of your drive and persistence. But unless you are able to not only try but succeed, you are of no use to me.”
“How kind.”
“I am not attempting to be kind.”
“I am relieved to know it, and it diminishes the sting.”
“Do you wish something more from me other than that of being your employer?” His voice became suddenly and uncharacteristically thin, and it seemed to her, almost anxious.
“Of course not!” she exclaimed, his words setting her ajar. What a ridiculous thought! She didn’t know why she was asking these questions herself.
And she didn’t know what she wanted him to feel. Nothing like the devotion she felt towards him obviously, but perhaps warmth, loyalty, friendship. At the beginning, she had disliked Sherlock while perceiving that he was somehow necessary to her future. And now to her very being, to all that she wanted to be.
Someone so utterly and thoroughly distanced from her.
And yet I have my answer. I am nothing more than a tool. A tool to be used and discarded. She stiffened.
“I understand now, Mr. Holmes,” she stated softly.
“You see, Miss Hudson, you are becoming illuminated as well. Ours is a professional relationship. And while we’re on the subject, allow me to dissuade you from setting your cap after Watson. There’s not a better chap among men—but I wouldn’t advise a woman to get within two continents of him. Particularly a lady of your inexperienced years.”
“Oh? Why, may I ask?” she murmured distractedly.
“Watson is . . . well, he’s knows his way about . . . that is to say, he’s a ladies’ man.”
“He likes women, certainly.” Unlike some unnatural men.
“It will take an eyelash fluttering, adoring, feminine flower of quiet demeanor to hold Dr. John H. Watson’s attention. Someone who is willing to manage him. I don’t see you in that role, Miss Belle.”
“And how do you see me, Mr. Holmes?”
“I do not necessarily see you married,” he added gravely, as if it were the worst of situations. “But if you choose that life, I advise you to find someone willing to run the race with you, Miss Belle.” He paused. “Someone who prefers a strong-willed, incorrigible, troublesome, pigheaded, unmanageable, opinionated woman of education.”
“Since you mention it, Mr. Holmes, as it so happens, I am far too busy pursuing my studies and saving my money for university to pursue Dr. John Watson.” And if you believe that, you’re not the detective I thought you were.
“Good. It appears our business is concluded.” His sigh was palpable. He bowed again, tipping his hat to her. “I wish you the best of luck, Miss Hudson, in your future endeavors.”
“So this is ‘good-bye’?”
“I may be able to keep you on in a small, domestic capacity unless my new assistant is able to meet all of my requirements, as you are not.” He moved to depart.
She bit her lip, terrified at the idea of Sherlock’s final departure, trying to think of anything to stall for time. “I do have some news. Stanislav is Ukrainian apparently.”
Sherlock turned his head to view her, even as his back was now to her. “Interesting.”
“I wondered why he and Miss Janvier spoke in English around me. Either she will not lower herself to speak Ukrainian, or she doesn’t know it. Clearly Stanislav cannot speak high Russian.”
He moved to face her again. “Unless Miss Janvier desires that you should hear what she is saying . . . “
“But why? It was clear that they both belong to a political organization—and my guess is that it’s an anti-Czarist group.”
“Why do you say so, Miss Belle?” He moved closer, clearly interested.
“Because everything Stanislav says is derogatory about the Russian upper classes—and, I would presume by association, the Russian government. Not so with Miss Janvier. She apparently goes to the meeting and is accepted, but it is evident that she aligns herself with money. She loves everything to do with established wealth, she made that quite obvious.”
“Excellent work, Miss Belle!” Sherlock pointed his cane in the air. “It doesn’t quite fit, though: the Ukraine is largely rural, but there is a growing nationalist movement among Ukrainians aligning themselves with the Russian empire. I would have expected Stanislav to support the Czar.”
“I’m quite sure he doesn’t. Miss Janvier, on the other hand . . . she’s much more difficult to read.” Mirabella shrugged. “Now may I cease going in the tiger ring—and keep my position?”
“Absolutely not! You are ideally placed to gather information, particularly since they clearly do not consider you to be a threat.”
“Perhaps my being in a continual state of terror causes them to think of me as powerless and unimportant,” she suggested.
“Perhaps,” he considered, leaning on his cane, now frowning. “And what is your decision, Miss Hudson? Are you staying on the case or returning to London in search of a new profession?”
She felt a sadness well up in her chest, having the strange feeling that their association was at an end. “Are you truly prepared to replace me if I do not risk my life and get into the cage with the tigers, Mr. Holmes?”
“That is the need I have today,” he nodded, lighting his pipe “If you do not do it, I will find someone who will.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but does it not seem a bit cold?”
“It?”
“You, I mean.”
“Logic is without emotion. It simply is. At any rate, it is of no interest to me what it seems, only what it is. Am I to tell you that you can sit on pink cushions and eat chocolates while I pay you, Miss Belle? There are criminals out there ready to slit someone’s throat, entire countries on the brink of collapsing, and dictators ready to subjugate a population while you ask me to cosset and admire you. Who will die while I am flattering you and satisfying your every feminine whim?”
“I do not wish to be cosseted and admired!” she sputtered, furious. “I merely wish to be alive to see tomorrow!”
“Then live,” he remarked politely, raising an eyebrow at her. “But while you are living, do you wish to be in the employ of Sherlock Holmes or not?”
She turned to leave, distressed, disillusioned, and heartbroken. She took a step towards her tent, glancing at the ground just in time to avoid the voluminous and slimy deposit from an elephant. In the process, she lost her balance, landing in a puddle of water.
At least the ground was soft and her tailbone was still intact.
If not her pride.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Key to the Case
Mirabella returned to the ladies’ tent to wash and change her clothing. Every tent dweller had a small sleeping area—not partitioned—a blanket, and a trunk for her clothing, which most ladies balanced on its end to allow for the hanging of clothes. In addition, Mirabella had a kerosene lamp which Sherlock had provided for her. She had claimed a space on the edge of the tent so that she might watch outside through the slit in the canvas. Sleep
ing was definitely a luxury on this case.
En route to the shared wash basin, Mirabella saw something which caught her eye: Veronika’s scarlet chiffon outfit had been thrown atop her bedding rather than hung or folded.
Mirabella looked about her, grateful that no one was watching her despite the openness of the area. She gasped as she saw that there was a red stain on the gold trim of the bodice, almost hidden by the scarlet chiffon. Could it be blood? The garment had been washed several times, but the stain was still evident.
She looked around again, insuring that no one was watching her. The sheer volume of activity in a circus environment was ever her friend. She hoped it might remain so.
Mirabella then placed her hand under the folded clothing in the trunk, the neatness in contrast to the garment thrown on the bedding, and found—a key! Mirabella pocketed the key and scurried to her own bed comprised of multiple blankets, turning her back to everyone as she compared Veronika’s key to her own key.
It is identical! This is a key to the tigers’ cages. Mirabella felt her breathing increase as the implications hit her.
Veronika has a key to the tigers’ cage.
This was shocking. Veronika was such a shy, quiet girl—so sweet. Mirabella liked her and would never have thought her capable of murder. Veronika had her wounds—her father had died at the Czar’s hands, she had said—but everyone had an inner wound of some type or another, Mirabella was learning.
Veronika might be involved in the anti-czarist movement—but many Russians were. It was not surprising that the orphaned girl should be opposed to tyranny.
Mirabella re-traced her steps to return the key and had only just slipped the key under the clothing when Veronika appeared from around the vertical trunk, her expression one of betrayal. “What are you doing, Mirabella?”
“I saw the key protruding out from your clothing,” Mirabella lied, much to her chagrin. “And I picked it up.” Mirabella cursed herself for being caught—what if she was face-to-face with Beckham’s murderer?—but her only course now was to obtain Veronika’s reaction.
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 10