Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Since Mirabella was in this unenviable position, she must make the best of it. “It is a key to the tiger cage. Why do you have it, Veronika? Stanislav said there are only two such keys: I have one and he has one, and it is forbidden to make a copy.”

  Veronika stepped back, but there was anger written across her expression. “I have never seen the key before. I don’t know how it got there. And anyway, you should not have gone through my things. I thought you were my friend.”

  “And what about your outfit, Veronika?” Mirabella pressed. “It looks like there was blood on it.”

  “Why are you asking me these questions, Mirabella? It can be none of your business.”

  “It is my business! There was a man murdered in the tiger cages!” Mirabella replied with an indignation she certainly felt. “I have the right to insure the same doesn’t happen to me!”

  Veronika hung her head a bit, obviously distressed. Was it the distress of guilt? “Someone took my costume and returned it with blood on it. I do not know how the blood got there. It is as if they are trying to make me guilty. Like Russia. They did the same thing to my father. They broke his spirit.” A tear dropped down her cheek.

  “Did the red stain appear on your outfit the same day as Beckham’s murder?” Mirabella asked.

  Veronika nodded.

  Is she telling the truth? Mirabella hoped so, because, if Veronika was lying, she might be extremely dangerous. It wouldn’t be the first time a shy, wounded person was deadly.

  And if Veronika was telling the truth, someone was attempting to diffuse attention away from herself and onto Veronika—either because Veronika was convenient, or because the true murderer disliked Veronika.

  Or both.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Napoleon and Josephine: Le Grand Véfour

  “You must have very successful hospital, Doctor Watson,” Joëlle Janvier smiled giddily even as she ran her hand seductively along the distinctive red sash of the French Legion of Honor draped across the bottle of Cordon Rouge champagne. She was dressed in a strikingly low-cut black silk gown which was an unmistakable copy of Madame X’s daring evening gown, the mere portrait of which had caused a recent scandal when displayed in the Paris Salon.

  The Russian beauty leaned towards him, her plunging neckline vividly more scandalous than the painting she brought to mind.

  A mind that momentarily went blank.

  “Hospital?” John laughed forcibly. He removed his white gloves but left his black top hat on his head. He might be in Paris, but he was still British and still civilized. One did not remove one’s hat in public venues. “No. I’m strictly private practice. And you, Miss Janvier, may call me ‘John’.”

  “And what do you practice, Zsh-ohn?” she murmured, her lavender eyes bright with promise, even more stunning against her raven hair, as she took another bite of caviar. Like Madame X, Joëlle apparently used henna to cast purple hues into her shining black locks, but unlike Madame X, Joëlle had the lavender eyes to match.

  “I practice . . . whatever is asked of me.” He added in a seductive murmur, “I seem to be able to anticipate my patients’ needs.”

  John was enjoying himself and the sensual awareness this woman evoked immensely. He even relished the continual glances their way, he in his black suit with tails, white vest and white bow tie, and she in her black evening gown with the revealing neckline. His heightened awareness increased his enjoyment of every detail.

  The glances of admiration were a welcome balm to the war wounds still visible to the public. And even those which were not. Of all the things John hated, the stares and sympathy his limp evoked was the most aggravating to him.

  As if his wounds were an open book for strangers.

  “Mademoiselle Joëlle.” Apparently everyone had a certain familiarity with Miss Janvier. “And monsieur.” The waiter appeared, bowing before them. His tuxedo was so fine and so expertly fitted that John, who always took pains with his own appearance, could not help but feel admiration in the presence of an obvious man of fashion. “Have you decided monsieur?”

  “Ah, yes,” murmured John, scanning the menu a final time. He took a moment to relish the knowledge that he could order anything he wished. Being a person whose pockets were always to let, he was utterly delighted by this carte blanche.

  John smiled at the beautiful Joëlle. Along with the other benefits.

  “We shall begin with a shredded crab and radish salad, my good man. And, of course, more caviar and champagne. Then a tomato bisque. For the main course, let’s see . . .” He considered several items on the menu. “. . . perhaps a monkfish on mango with coriander mousse. Or would you prefer the lobster, Miss Janvier?”

  “Which more expensive?” asked Joëlle without hesitation.

  Le Grand Véfour’s waiter raised his eyebrows, making no effort to conceal his disapproval despite the obvious advantages to his gratuity of the more expensive dish.

  “The lobster, Mademoiselle,” he murmured with condescension. “But let me assure you that all of the dishes at Le Grand Véfour are —”

  “We take lobster,” she pronounced. She glanced at her date, who smiled, nodding his approval at whatever she might choose. She positively glowed, and it pleased John more than he could almost endure. His senses told him that this was a dangerous woman, but that did not preclude him from enjoying himself.

  Perhaps the knowledge increased his enjoyment, in fact.

  The garcon bowed slightly, the tails of his tuxedo miraculously unperturbed in spite of his movement.

  “For dessert, we try cherries flambé, Zsh-ohn? I have sweet tooth. And--”

  “And?” John asked, wondering with interest where this was going.

  “Everyone turn to look.” she smiled charmingly. Even in her constant need for admiration, she was delightful.

  John felt himself blush with a slight embarrassment, realizing that he shared a sentiment with this vixen: he did not mind the stares, not at all. The diva was beautiful. But more than that, he had never before met a woman who was more flirtatious—and more bold.

  And glad I am of it! She was the only woman of his acquaintance so without morals that he need not feel guilt for an indulgence—any indulgence. The two of them might have a good time—and each was getting far better than they deserved in the bargain.

  She could enjoy his company under the pretense that he was the real thing, and he could enjoy her attentions knowing full well that there was nothing real about her.

  “Of course, Miss Janvier, the cherries flambé.” Her appetite, combined as it was with a figure a man might only see in his imagination, revealed her to be an athlete. He hoped his imagination did not disappoint in other respects. “Whatever you wish.”

  “Bon.” The waiter bowed, the slightest frown on his lips, having much the expression of a royal who was obliged to endure the peasantry. With his every exchange, his air of superiority left no doubt that he was a waiter of sophistication.

  “Miss Janvier . . .”

  “My name Zsh-oëlle,” she pronounced with a sly smile, leaning forward and displaying her cleavage to advantage. It was odd that she had chosen names which began with “J”, which was not a sound in the Russian alphabet. Her pronunciation made the letter sound as if she were breathless, “Zsh-oëlle Zsh-anvier”.

  Perhaps not so odd.

  It was about time that they exchanged names since the first course was en route—the shredded crab and radish salad—along with the second bottle of champagne. Although generally a gentleman did not call a lady by her first name unless she were family or they were engaged.

  “Miss Janvier?” He considered. “It doesn’t sound Russian somehow.”

  “Is stage name. Last name Bezborodov.”

  “Ah, I see why you chose a different name.”

  “Ze English, they like ze French. Russians, not so much.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Some English love the Russians,” he leaned towards her, kissing her fingertips,
something he would have never been able to do with a respectable girl. Which made it all the more enjoyable.

  She did not withdraw.

  The tomato bisque arrived, which they began to eat. Delicious! He couldn’t remember when he had had a more enjoyable dining experience.

  “It is easy to see why Napoleon and Josephine’s love affair blossomed here,” John murmured, tearing his eyes from her and glancing about the restaurant so as not to appear too interested. He gathered that besotted men were putty in her hands.

  He wished it to be the other way around.

  Gaslight from the street lamps poured through the windows, further brightening the gold walls and ceilings, as did the numerous candle chandeliers. Mirrors were everywhere. The furniture was almost black, being a dark walnut, while the cushions were red; the carpet was black and gold.

  Le Grand Véfour was somehow opulent and quaint at the same time. Small tables with white tablecloths were scattered throughout.

  “Is that what you wish might happen?” she asked with a coy smile. “Love affair?”

  “I am most interested in romance.” John reflected that he might be enjoying himself a touch too much.

  He reminded himself that he was not here for an affaire de coeur but to discover information. If he ascertained what he needed to know before the relationship heated up, all the better.

  If he didn’t, well that was much to be regretted. One did what one must.

  John Watson smiled appreciatively at the sight of the beauty before him. He was with the exquisite Joëlle Janvier, but he did not require exceptional beauty.

  Though he certainly had no objection to it. John Watson liked women, selfish or foolish he didn’t mind: they were simply delightful.

  Unlike his illustrious flat-mate, John’s one requirement in a female companion was that she not attempt to poison, injure, or kill him—qualities which appeared to pique the interest of his mystifyingly brilliant companion—though Miss Janvier might prove to be the exception to John’s heretofore unwavering rule.

  As a point of fact, Holmes had warned him to be on guard at all times with Miss Janvier. Holmes would know—he recognized danger in a woman immediately.

  Holmes. John owed Holmes most of his aggravation. And everything good in his life.

  Sherlock Holmes had brought John Watson back to life and given him a reason to live. Holmes had taught him—by example, no less—that one might be unhinged and a bloody disaster. But was that any reason not to enjoy oneself?

  Holmes had illustrated the co-existence of bliss and despair, efficiency and destructiveness, genius and insanity all too well. Certainly, their weaknesses lay in entirely different areas. Holmes cared little for dalliance or for money, despite always seeming to have plenty of blunt.

  As for himself, John knew that he had always been attractive to women, but he had taken it to the next level since the war—he had become a bloody rake.

  He wasn’t proud of it, but he was now damaged goods—and he wasn’t just talking about the leg. When the nightmares came, sometimes he feared he had lost his mind. So why not have a bit of fun since he could hardly saddle a respectable woman with the unworthy ravages of the war?

  “It is the strongest wish of my heart that we should be on more familiar terms, Miss Janvier. Why don’t you start with telling me more about your background? I want to know everything about you.”

  “First you tell me.”

  “Not much to tell,” John replied with a shrug. “I am a military doctor, I was in the war in Afghanistan not so long ago, now I am here with a beautiful woman.”

  “And your friend? Who is he?”

  “My friend?” He feigned confusion. “I have many friends wherever I go.”

  “The man with unwelcome stare who appears to have fight with bear.” Her expression was perplexed. “Has wild look about him.”

  “Ah. Yes, I know who you mean. The gentleman, he is a business associate. We have been involved in a profitable business venture as a result of my contacts in the military. Very profitable.”

  She smiled, her eyes suddenly shining. The word ‘profitable’ seemed to be the word which was the key to all things Joëlle Janvier. “You should buy him comb, then.”

  “Yes, a trip to the barbershop is in order.” John paused. “Although he shows longer hair to advantage, in my opinion.”

  She turned her body towards him, although there was really no need. It would have been difficult to reveal more than was already revealed without undressing. “I raised in Moscow, is there I started in circus, you know.”

  “So you came to Paris with the circus, Miss Janvier?”

  “Nyet, I to prominent doctor was married, moved to St. Petersburg.” She nodded proudly. “He saw Joëlle perform and no other could he have despite protests of his family.”

  “I am gratified to learn that you have a preference for doctors, Miss Janvier,” John remarked with laughter.

  “Nyet,” she mused. “Not to do with that. He was very rich doctor. From old family.”

  “And you were happy with this doctor?” John asked.

  “I to death was bored!” A lilting laughter escaped from her lovely lips. “Like bird in cage I was.”

  A beautiful bird in a cage. Ah, there was something Miss Janvier cared even more for than money. What was it? Danger? Adventure? Adoration?

  Being hidden away in a rich man’s home, no doubt she disliked being unable to observe the effect she had on men. Joëlle Janvier was a ravishing creature—and he had yet to discover that the awareness of anything else was in her consciousness.

  Of course, Miss Janvier was not without talent. It took much practice and skill to perfect her show and he wondered how much of that competitive nature permeated her other endeavors.

  “I will make it my business not to bore you, Miss Janvier,” he murmured.

  “Greater adventure and danger I need,” she pouted, the look in her eyes shooting a current through his body, even as she began to answer his questions.

  “What type of danger?” he asked with some degree of aloofness, a manner she was clearly not accustomed to, and which seemed to make her more determined to win his interest.

  It was a calculated risk, but it paid off.

  “All type, Zsh-ohn,” she smiled, her lavender eyes twinkling.

  “And your husband? Is he deceased?” John asked.

  “Nyet.”

  “I did not know it was possible to obtain a divorce in Russia . . .”

  “Did I say I divorced?” she shrugged, taking a sip of champagne.

  “You are still married to this doctor?” John sat straight up in his chair, affecting a look of stern indignation. Exhibiting a moral indignation made his interest appear personal and less like that of a spy’s interest, increasing his safety level all around.

  “What difference it makes?” she demanded.

  “None whatsoever, it appears.” John raised his eyebrows. “But marriage is a sacred vow. Forgive me if I do not take such a thing lightly.”

  Involuntarily, it occurred to him that Miss Mirabella had everything this Russian starlet had to offer: beauty, excitement, a taste for adventure. Along with faithfulness and purity of heart.

  John brushed those thoughts away. In the first place, he did not deserve Miss Mirabella Hudson. All that aside, her intelligence was a bit intimidating.

  There was a girl with ambition. He wanted a girl who could put him first—or, at the very least, put their life together first. The man who married Miss Hudson—if she ever found the time—would always be competing with her goals and her drive.

  John chuckled to himself. And of late she was forever commenting on a complex scientific principle completely out of context to the social conversation. Her mind never stopped—much like Sherlock’s.

  He envisioned those long, shapely legs in the red satin outfit in the tiger’s cage. But, damn, she was a beautiful girl. He smiled to himself. Playing second fiddle to Miss Mirabella’s ambition might be wo
rth it.

  “Let me understand your position, Miss Janvier.” He fixed his gaze on Miss Janvier, keeping his manner aloof. “You do not consider marriage to be a sacred vow?”

  She shrugged with indifference. “In fact, I make not one but three vows at that time.” Joëlle replied without apology, taking another sip of champagne.

  She is bragging about being above any sort of moral code. John felt his heart beating more quickly, knowing that this was the information he had been waiting for. The effects of the champagne were telling him what he wished to know.

  And clearly Miss Janvier did not consider him to be a threat. This was generally the response people had to him, he wasn’t sure why. His non-threatening manner was serving him well in his newly found career of espionage. But neither did she give any indication of revealing her three vows to him. Her only intent was to entice, not to impart information.

  He might yet outmaneuver her.

  John saw the waiter approaching and shook his head, indicating that under no circumstances was the Frenchman to approach the table.

  “And I am to be impressed that you kept one of your three vows?” he laughed with unbridled amusement, hoping to goad her further. He wondered whether she kept that one remaining vow out of honor, deliberation, or mere happenchance, the answer to which might cast a poor light on an already miserable record. He murmured, “I already know you did not keep the marriage vow by your own admission.”

  “Da. Did not take marriage vow so seriously.” Her eyes were ripe with illicit promise. “But one of three vows I kept. So you will know I am not all bad.”

  “Oh, I sincerely hope that you are, Miss Janvier.”

  He felt himself shiver; he was not accustomed to this type of conversation from a woman and it was inviting at the same time he was appalled. “But, just as a matter of interest, what were the other two vows?”

  “You must guess that too, Zsh-ohn.” She ran her fingers along the yellow and red orchid placed in a silver vase between them. She clearly didn’t think he stood a chance of deducing the answer, but she had nonetheless given him permission to discuss the vows. That was something.