Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Sherlock observed a box of chocolates by the bed. He hadn’t seen Watson carrying any chocolates, only the roses and champagne. “These aren’t from you, are they Watson?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see Prince George holding any chocolates, Lieutenant?”

  Dubuque raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Non.”

  “Do you know who they are from?” Sherlock insisted.

  “Non,” Lieutenant Dubuque replied.

  “Have them analyzed for poison,” Sherlock commanded.

  Lieutenant Dubuque frowned. “But we already know Miss Janvier was strangled—according to your doctor!”

  “I did not say she was strangled. I said she died of asphyxiation,” Watson considered. “The point Holmes is making is perhaps Miss Janvier was given something to reduce her resistance.”

  “Exactly. On the other hand, Miss Janvier had many enemies. Perhaps there was a separate, completely unrelated attempt on her life.” Sherlock returned his eyes to the body laying lifeless on the pink carpet, without blood or injury, as if she were sleeping—except for the look of horror crossing her expression. The Great Detective pronounced, “On the surface it would appear inexplicable . . . unless . . .”

  Sherlock moved to study the artifacts on the white marble nightstand beside Miss Janvier’s bed.

  “La magic noire!” exclaimed Lieutenant Dubuque, moving to stand beside her bed decorated in a silk floral pattern. Black magic. “Très mal.”

  “What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, moving towards them.

  “Roots, herbs, bark, snake skins, and dried animal parts,” replied Sherlock, adding in a murmur. “Voodoo. Black Magic.”

  “Disgusting!” moaned Mycroft, entering the room while fanning himself. “Put it in the report, but I don’t wish to see it.”

  “Ha! ha!” chuckled Sherlock. “Yes, Mycroft, you will reflect upon it in your easy chair in front of a fire while drinking a brandy.”

  “Certainly, and I could solve the case were all the facts to be laid before me,” murmured Mycroft indignantly. “But I need your fine eye for detail to do the leg work for me, Shirley.”

  Sherlock spotted a gold coin on the floor near the animal remnants, as if it had been knocked off, which he picked up and examined. It was a Chinese coin. He murmured, “Most interesting.”

  “What avez-vous?” Dubuque asked. Sherlock showed the lieutenant the coin.

  “I do not see what it is so important?”

  “There is a hole drilled into the gold coin,” Sherlock explained. “Interesting.”

  Dubuque shrugged.

  “May I take the coin and examine it for fingerprints?” Sherlock asked, though he had every intention of doing so regardless of the answer. When there was a nod from Bertillon, Sherlock placed the gold coin in a handkerchief, pocketing it.

  “Do you think Miss Janvier was poisoned, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked.

  Dr. Watson shook his head. “I don’t seen any indicators, but it is difficult to be certain before the autopsy.”

  Sherlock moved to Miss Janvier’s wardrobe and fingered an outfit in . . . scarlet chiffon. Hung next to a man’s overcoat. He returned his eyes to the remnants of voodoo so out of place in a room rampant with lavender and pink, chiffon and silk, and huge gilded mirrors squeezed into every spare inch of space. He noted that the room was surprisingly devoid of personal pictures outside of photographs and paintings of Miss Janvier.

  “But would everything be left out here in the open?” asked Mycroft.

  Sherlock tapped his chin with his forefinger. “True, it seems to be more a part of a ritual than a poisoning, which the murderer would have gone to some lengths to conceal.”

  “For my own part, I suspect that these remnants of voodoo were purposely left here to make it appear that the death was a case of magic—further adding to the mystery—given that there is no evidence of another presence in the room,” Watson said.

  Sherlock turned to the lieutenant. “You will have to examine the body for poison. I would prefer to see Watson do it, but it’s an impossibility since he is a suspect.”

  Dubuque nodded.

  “On the surface, logic tells us that the killer must be the maid,” Sherlock continued. “And yet, if that were the case, she would have to be very strong unless poison were involved—which perhaps it was.”

  Mycroft stooped to pick up a lace handkerchief. “Ah-ha!”

  “Nothing unusual in a lace handkerchief in a lady’s boudoir,” Watson remarked.

  Mycroft turned the handkerchief over, a wry smile forming on his lips as he handed the fine silk cloth to the lieutenant. “What would a handkerchief with the initials ‘SF’ be doing in Miss Janvier’s room?”

  “Très intéressant!” Dubuque held up the handkerchief smiling. “You would expect the initials to be ‘JJ’, would you not?”

  “Unless the ‘SF’ stands for the Russian lady’s real name,” Bertillon considered. “The stage actresses, they always have the false names.”

  “No,” Watson refuted. “Her last name was Bezborodov. I don’t know her first name.”

  “Natasha,” Mycroft murmured as if in a trance, his face suddenly ashen white. “And the Duke of Cambridge’s wife is Sarah Fairbrother.”

  A silence fell over the room until the maid was brought in, whimpering and crying. She was indeed a frail looking thing. But Sherlock had seen many a dainty murderer before.

  “What is your name, Mademoiselle?” Bertillon asked.

  “Francine.” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “And what did you see when you entered the room?” Sherlock asked.

  “I saw Miss Janvier lying on the floor, Bien sûr!” She sniffed.

  “Did you touch anything, Mademoiselle Francine?” Sherlock asked politely, attempting to put the woman at ease.

  “Non,” the maid shook her head vehemently.

  “Were you and the mistress close?” Bertillon asked.

  For a moment an expression of amusement graced her face. “Non. She was close to no one. And I was the maid.”

  “Did you see or hear anything odd, Mademoiselle?” Sherlock asked.

  “I thought I heard a sound beneath the window,” she replied.

  “Did you investigate?” Bertillon asked.

  “Non.” She shook her head. “I was too afraid.” And indeed she was shaking, either from fear or guilt.

  “Had you seen the voodoo items before, Mademoiselle Francine?” Sherlock pointed to the items on the desk.

  “Oui,” she nodded. “Miss Van Horn brought them.”

  “You are dismissed,” Sherlock pronounced. This appeared to annoy Bertillon, and certainly Dubuque, but Sherlock did not have time to waste with the niceties.

  Sherlock moved again to the window. “I will need to examine the courtyard and speak to everyone who might have seen anything through the window.” He pointed to the floor, where something was just under the bed. “Look, there’s a piece of paper lying on the floor here.”

  “Indeed,” Mycroft said, fanning himself.

  Picking up the paper, Sherlock handed it to his elder brother. “It is in Russian.”

  “What does it say?” demanded Bertillon.

  “It is a personal letter to Miss Janvier,” Mycroft replied, his voice somber. “From her husband. Offering her a large sum of money for a divorce.”

  “We will never know if she intended to accept or not,” murmured Bertillon.

  “To the contrary,” muttered Sherlock, shaking his head. “It gives us a strong motive for murder either way.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Mycroft.

  Sherlock tapped his forefinger on his cheek. “And yet, it is not only the nature of the missive which is revealing—which only confirms that which I already suspected—but the location of the paper,” said Sherlock, turning to glance at the window.

  “What are you getting at, Holmes?” Watson asked, perplexed.

  “I would have thought it more likely for
Miss Janvier’s reading material to have been on this table,” Holmes suggested. “There is no breeze, the window is shut, how did it fall to the ground?”

  “Not important! Mon Dieu!” Dubuque exclaimed. “Paper on the ground or the desk is no matter. It is the content which is of import, naturellement.”

  “We are here as requested.” Mirabella curtseyed in the doorway, joined by Ashanti.

  “What are they doing here?” demanded Dubuque.

  “Lieutenant!” Bertillon commanded, causing Dubuque to bow his head.

  “I sent for them,” replied Mycroft. “And the tiger trainer.” Both Mycroft and Sherlock stared at Ashanti for an uncharacteristically long moment.

  “And how long have you been out of your bandages, Miss Van Horn?” Mycroft asked.

  “Two hours,” Ashanti replied.

  “And were you with her the entire time, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

  “Not the last hour,” Mirabella replied. “Ashanti said she had something to do.”

  An alarmed expression on her face, Ashanti looked at Mirabella who gasped as their eyes met, only that moment seeing the body on the floor. The surprise exhibited by each of them was not lost on Sherlock.

  Watson took Mirabella’s hand in a too familiar gesture and she looked up at him in a trusting fashion, which infuriated Sherlock.

  One body was not yet cold and Watson was in search of another. I warned Watson to leave her be. I will not have Miss Belle preyed upon by an experienced libertine. Sherlock felt a resolve which was now irreversible.

  The lieutenant, who had been going through the drawers, now let out a long whistle.

  “What did you find, Lieutenant?” Mycroft asked.

  Opening a velvet pouch, a breathtaking display of diamonds was revealed.

  “Magnificent!” murmured Watson. “And worth a fortune.”

  Sherlock glanced at Ashanti and observed her looking away with a pained expression as she bit her lip.

  Definitely more to the lady than meets the eye.

  “Miss Janvier was not murdered for theft. The jewels were precisely where a thief would look,” surmised Mycroft, glancing at Watson. He added in a low voice, “Without a doubt this was a crime of passion.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A Crime of Passion

  “Quite so.” Sherlock returned to the body on the floor. “It cannot have escaped your notice, Bertillon, that there would very likely be wounds on Miss Janvier’s attacker. Miss Janvier was an accomplished athlete. She would not have gone into the next world easily: she would have used her nails, her teeth, and anything else available to her. Even if she was drugged, there would be marks. I suggest that you thoroughly examine any of your suspects for signs of a struggle: Prince George, Francine, Watson. If you don’t find any wounds on your suspect, it is very unlikely that he or she is the assailant.”

  “Of course!” L’Inspecteur Bertillon agreed.

  Watson’s face turned suddenly ashen, turning to stare at his flat-mate.

  Sherlock raised his eyebrows, stating under his breath, “Please tell me, old chap, that you have no marks on you from . . . from . . . ?”

  Inspector Bertillon asked the ladies to leave the room, Mirabella bordering on hysterical, and ordered Watson to remove his shirt.

  There were, in fact incriminating marks, appearing as if they were made by fingernails and teeth.

  “Tsk! Tsk!” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head.

  “But it’s not what you think!” John Watson exclaimed.

  The Lieutenant eyed Dr. Watson suspiciously, approaching him with handcuffs. “Every man he has his breaking point . . .”

  “My good man, you are being hasty.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Dr. Watson is needed for the case. You have not, as yet, found the weapon. You don’t even know what the weapon was.”

  “But Monsieur Holmes,” L’Inspecteur Bertillon argued, “You are the one who told us to check for the marks.”

  “Indeed you are, Holmes,” Watson growled, glaring at Sherlock and looking very much like a murderer indeed.

  “You were their prime suspect, my friend, it was only a matter of time before they took you. I merely wished to make a point.” Sherlock stared at him pointedly. “At any rate, it doesn’t prove anything. I said that the killer would likely have marks on him. I did not say that all men with marks must be the killer. It was a test for innocence not for guilt.”

  “Then Dr. Watson, he is not innocent!” Lieutenant Dubuque stood to attention, blustering.

  There is some truth to that.

  “I am telling you, only two men they entered the room,” Dubuque continued, as if a fire had been lit underneath him. “First, the English Prince George, and second, Dr. Watson. No one entered after the doctor left except the maid. I was on duty myself. I know that the doctor, he is the killer. This just proves it.”

  “Bon,” Bertillon muttered, shaking his head. “And he has the marks indicative of a struggle.”

  “She was alive when I departed!” Watson repeated, blushing profusely, which seemed to further seal his guilt.

  “Hmmm,” considered Bertillon. “Prince George arrived first and had already left when Watson entered. Essentially the doctor is the Duke of Cambridge’s alibi.”

  “Precisely,” pronounced Watson. “And I have none.”

  “But do you protect Prince George?” Mycroft demanded of Dr. Watson.

  “I would,” admitted Watson. “But I am telling the truth!”

  “Never fear, Dr. Watson. I spoke to Prince George and I don’t believe he did it, there is no need for you to rush to his defense,” remarked Mycroft.

  “Prince George is not the one in need of a defense,” murmured Sherlock, taking his black top-hat in his hand and rolling his fingers along the rim.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Time for Reflection

  “But we have to save Dr. Watson!” exclaimed Mirabella as they placed the handcuffs on John Watson. “He is so kind. He would never hurt anyone, even someone as horrible as Joëlle Janvier!” She glanced about the room, the wallpaper a lavender floral, the carpet pink with blue hues like a sunset, and huge gilded mirrors placed at every angle reflecting pink roses, a favorite of the theatrical Russian spy. It was difficult to believe that the life which had inhabited this ornately feminine space was gone. And that the siren could potentially take another life with her.

  A life so dear to her!

  “Damn it, man!” snapped Watson as the cuffs clicked.

  “He didn’t do it!” Mirabella turned to John Watson, wrapping her arms around her waist. “You didn’t do it, did you, John?”

  Watson raised his eyebrows at her. “Your confidence is underwhelming, Miss Mirabella. And why should the French police believe me if you don’t?”

  “I do! It is so very wrong of them not to believe you! I never suspected you for a moment,” she emphasized, closing her eyes momentarily. “It’s just that she was so evil, she might turn anyone to the devil. And where were you at the time of the murder, Dr. Watson?”

  “I was with Holmes!” John Watson exclaimed as he was being dragged to the door against his will.

  “Watson was in Miss Janvier’s room to hear the police tell it,” considered Sherlock, staring reflectively out the window while a pink chiffon curtain caressed his face as the French police pulled his struggling friend to the door. “Prince George came out, Miss Janvier was alive. Watson went in. Not five minutes later the lady’s maid comes running towards us yelling that Miss Janvier is dead, followed by the good lieutenant stating that no one has entered the room since Watson left except the maid.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you for that recounting of events, Holmes,” exclaimed Watson, bracing his body in the door, his top-hat having fallen to rest on the pink carpet.

  Sherlock took his pipe out of his pocket and began filling it with tobacco, exhibiting far more energy and interest towards that endeavor than the rescue of his friend, which appeared to be a matter o
f some indifference to the Great Detective. He glanced over his shoulder at his friend momentarily. “It’s not looking good, old chap!”

  “Oh, why did you kill her?” moaned Mirabella, genuine concern overtaking her as she dropped into the lime wing-backed couch beside Mycroft who was strangely quiet and reflective. “We all wanted to, I’m sure, but . . .”

  “I didn’t kill her,” John Watson exclaimed.

  “Rest assured, Miss Belle,” Sherlock glanced towards her. “Watson here did not hold Miss Janvier in the same abhorrence which the rest of the world felt for her. He was quite delighted with her, shall we say?”

  Sherlock’s eyes motioned to the canopy bed adorned with wispy chiffon sheets in pink and lavender. Mirabella turned to stare at John Watson, aghast at the idea. She felt more disgust, in fact, than she had with the possibility that he had murdered the she-devil. That would have been understandable, after all.

  “I was not precisely delighted with her as you say, Holmes!” shouted Watson from the other end of the room. “I merely did not find her so offensive as others did.”

  “Indeed,” smiled Holmes, lighting his pipe. “Not so offensive, you say? Yes, that would seem to be a true statement.”

  “Monsieur le Doctor, you’ll need to come with us, s’il vous plait.” Dubuque latched onto John Watson’s arm at L’Inspecteur Bertillon’s nod. The French lieutenant’s aggressiveness was out of character with his adorable uniform: a little blue box hat, white slacks, a black belt with silver buckles, and a long blue over jacket adorned with over a dozen silver buttons decorating the lapel. Between the ensuing struggle, it looked as if the officer and his prisoner might do a tap dance together.

  Much to Mirabella’s surprise, Sherlock made no effort to interfere with the policeman’s advance, seeming to put more energy into enjoying a few puffs on his pipe.

  John Watson’s body turned stiff, as did his expression, but he held his ground to glare at Sherlock. “I did my duty, that is all.” Through barred teeth he added, “At your insistence, Holmes!”

  Very true, Mirabella reflected. It was, after all, an affair John Watson had been forced to undertake out of duty. As she had faced the tigers, so had John Watson.