“Indeed it was, but I never imagined the enthusiasm you would bring to it, Watson,” stated Holmes, winking to Mirabella. “All those days and nights making passionate love meant nothing to him.”
Mirabella turned to stare at John Watson, watching for a response. Sherlock had a point however reluctant she was to admit it.
“I did it for Queen and country! I assure you, Miss Mirabella,” muttered Watson through gritted teeth, “I had very little feeling for the woman.”
“You see, Miss Belle, only a few days ago the good doctor was embroiled in an amorous love affair—and note how revived his mood is now. As if her loss had no effect on him at all. To be sure, Watson did not kill her. He has not sufficient feeling for that. You may rest easy on the matter.”
“Where are you taking me?” yelled John Watson in a heightened voice, now being shoved again through the doorway.
“Never fear, Watson, the incidences of brutality and murder in La Santé Prison have declined and may someday approach an acceptable number. La Santé is one of the most famous prisons in France with a most respectable wing for the wealthy and well-connected,” Sherlock yelled after the captive who had been pushed into the hall. He added under his breath. “Of course you won’t be in that wing; you’ll be in the high security wing, old chap.”
“Holmes, you son of a b----“ Watson yelled as he was drug down the hall. Mirabella burst into tears, resting her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“There, there Miss Belle, all will be well.” Sherlock patted her shoulder.
“He didn’t do it, Mr. Holmes! I know it!” She looked up at him, knowing he would never lie to her.
Sherlock shook his head in the negative. “Of course he didn’t.” Sherlock glanced at Bertillon who was still in the room and who attended the conversation with interest.
“And the marks on his body? I overheard . . .”
“Beyond a doubt, the murderer has not a single mark on him inflicted by Miss Janvier,” Sherlock stated, looking out the window.
“But the struggle . . . ” She studied Sherlock, utterly perplexed. “Then why did you let them take Dr. Watson?”
“Two reasons, Miss Belle. First, it will be easiest to prove the good doctor’s innocence if he is locked safely away. If other criminal acts are committed, to be jailed will exonerate him of all charges.”
“Someone else . . . murdered?” she managed to whisper. “Do you really think?”
“It is a possibility. Let us then solve the case with haste, shall we?”
“And what is the other reason, Sherlock?”
He took a puff on his pipe and she thought she saw a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “Let’s just say that Watson needs time to reflect upon the sincerity of his affections.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Blackmail
Some moments later Sherlock was in the courtyard framed by three red brick walls. “Yes, the grass has been flattened. Someone was recently standing here.” He bent to examine the grass.
“Of course someone was standing here!” Lieutenant Dubuque laughed. “This is a circus with every manner of person providing the entertainment most populaire à Paris!”
Ashanti was brought to the French police officers wearing loose clothing but still walking with some stiffness Sherlock observed. “Did you see anything . . . Miss Van Horn?” he asked. “You were here, there is a piece of white bandage.”
“I was here. But was at least thirty minute before the murder.”
“And where you were between the time you left and the time you entré the chamber of Mademoiselle Janvier with Mademoiselle Mirabella?” Lieutenant Dubuque demanded.
“I went to the tiger’s cages.”
“Was anyone with you, Miss Van Horn?” Sherlock asked.
“No.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Not until Miss Mirabella came running to find me after the murder, to go to her room. We did not know was murder at time.”
“Why were you standing outside Miss Janvier’s window?” Sherlock asked in his most consoling tone.
“Practicing. The wall is good for the practice.”
“Practicing what?” Dubuque pressed.
“Striking my whip.”
“You are well enough to utilize the whip, Miss Van Horn?” asked Sherlock, his eyes scanning her patches of swollen skin and awkward stance. “I would not have supposed it. You have only just had your bandages removed.”
“I am tired—and stiff,” Ashanti agreed. “But doctors they say I have healed good and will perform again.”
“Bon. And did you Mademoiselle Janvier observe when you were in the courtyard practicing, Miss Van Horn?” asked L’Inspecteur Bertillon politely.
“How could one not observe her? Joëlle, she made certain all see her,” replied Ashanti. “She opened window and told me to go away.”
“Alors! Mademoiselle Janvier, did she give a reason for this request?” Bertillon asked.
“She said the noise it bothered her.” Ashanti smiled. “And it was not request.”
“Assist me if you please! And Mademoiselle Janvier, did she generally have the window closed or open?” asked Inspector Dubuque, making notes in his notepad.
“Open. She liked the air fresh.”
“Ah, but not the noise,” Sherlock considered. “And you, Mademoiselle Van Horn, were you practicing outside her window simply to annoy her? You weren’t truly exerting yourself very much, were you?”
Ashanti shrugged noncommittally.
“Comment? Mademoiselle Janvier, you did not like her?” Bertillon persisted.
Ashanti shook her head.
“Pourquoi?” Why?
“She was not kind, that one.”
“In what way?” L’Inspecteur Bertillon asked while Dubuque wrote furiously.
“How many ways are there not to be kind?” Ashanti stared at the inspector. “Joëlle, she was all of them.”
“The People they have seen Mademoiselle Janvier speaking with you on beaucoup occasions,” Dubuque pressed. “What was she saying to you?” It was clear that Dubuque was accustomed to interrogation and Bertillon to analysis, and, unlike everyone else present, L’Inspecteur Bertillon did not appear to object to Dubuque’s authoritative manner.
Ashanti glanced at Sherlock who nodded his approval.
“Joëlle told me that if I did not do as she told me, she would make sure I never worked with the tigers again.”
“What did she want from you, Mademoiselle?” asked Bertillon, breaking his silence.
Ashanti was silent.
“Ashanti, if you don’t tell them,” Mirabella interjected, her eyes pleading as she wrung her hands, “Dr. Watson will be hanged. And he didn’t commit the murder; I know he didn’t. We must tell the truth.”
Sherlock glanced momentarily at Dubuque before murmuring to Ashanti, “Even the French Police will piece it together eventually, Miss Van Horn. Best to tell them.”
Ashanti stared at them a long while before answering. “She wanted diamonds.”
“Les diamonds in the pouch velvet they were yours?” Dubuque exclaimed.
Ashanti nodded.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in exasperation. “Obviously Miss Janvier was blackmailing Miss Van Horn.”
“Where did you get the jewels, Mademoiselle Van Horn?” Dubuque demanded.
“It is elementary, lieutenant,” muttered Sherlock. “It isn’t necessary to distress the girl to this degree. The answer is obvious.”
“Bon Dieu! It is not evident!” sputtered Dubuque.
“My good man. The diamonds,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “were Miss Van Horn’s dowry.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Royal George
“I told you, damnit! She was alive when I left the room! The puppy following Miss Janvier around told you that as well!” The Duke of Cambridge twirled his long white moustache which met his white sideburns covering all but his chin, which was bare. He wore his military dress, red jacke
t, blue sash, black slacks, and knee-high black Hessian boots.
The Royal George, as he was called, looked every inch the monarch. He towered over men. The 2nd Duke of Cambridge, the Earl of Tipperary, Baron Culloden, and the grandson of King George III, was, in fact, the successor to the throne until Victoria was born, and he remained on close terms with his cousin the Queen.
And yet, George William Frederick Charles, born into royalty, was a working man. He entered the military as a colonel in the Hanoverian Army. He served in the 12th Royal Lancers, followed by the 8th Light Dragoons and the 17th Lancers. He was promoted to Major-General in eighteen hundred and forty-five, and to general commander-in-chief of the British Army in eighteen hundred and fifty-six.
“Doctor Watson, do you mean?” Lieutenant Dubuque asked irreverently as he looked up into the eyes of the Duke who was well over six feet. In addition to his own intimidating stature, the Royal George’s enormous body guard stood behind his master exhibiting rippling muscles, impressive to even a skilled boxer such as the Great Detective.
But the French lieutenant was neither intimidated nor impressed, not withstanding Prince George’s rank.
“I don’t mean nothing. I’m telling you what was, you frog, and if I had my way we’d annex your flowery soil into Germany!” he said, showing his Hanover roots. “I’ve got to get back to London, you ninny hammer!”
“Arrêtez s'il vous plaît! We have had a murder here. Bon. The French police does not care how important you are in your country, your grand dukeship, that is of little moment to us! We have a dead girl on our hands. And you a married man. Tsk! Tsk!”
“Don’t you tsk! Tsk! me” Prince George huffed. “Talking about me when that Romeo doctor—”
“I beg your pardon, your highness.” Sherlock interrupted this heated exchange. “But I must inform you in all fairness that the good doctor, like you, has served his country.”
“You don’t say?” asked Prince George, his opinion of Dr. Watson clearly improved despite the fact that the doctor’s innocence was a threat to his own. The Royal George tapped his cane on the bare ground of the courtyard framed by red brick which bordered Joëlle Janvier’s second-story room.
“Very true,” added Sherlock. “Served in the Second Afghan war as a surgeon. Injured at Maiwand.”
“Afghanistan, you say? Must be brave.” Prince George nodded, and it was obvious that his assessment of the man whose guilt could save his own neck from the noose was now altered.
“Better to answer the lieutenant’s questions, your Highness,” Mycroft interjected. “It will be that much sooner that the matter is put behind us.”
“I’ve told you all I know, damnit! If I knew who killed the lovely Miss Janvier, don’t you think I would say?” Prince George glared at the Frenchman, his opinion in that court apparently much the same. “So far as I know, it was the lieutenant himself!”
“M-m-moi?” sputtered the lieutenant. “Sacre Bleu! What idiocy do you speak?”
“I left, the doctor left, you were the only one remaining guarding the door, you said so yourself!” yelled Prince George. “You went in and killed her! The window was locked. This is as logical an explanation as any.”
“It is ridiculous, it is!” replied Lieutenant Dubuque with a sweep of the arm.
“And your companion here?” asked Sherlock, his eyes turning towards the bodyguard. “Surely he saw something?”
Put a sword in his mouth, and Prince George’s foreign bodyguard looked to be Blackbeard’s larger, meaner brother. The fierce-looking attendant wore a long, twirling moustache and a pointy short beard; his hair was dark. He had a light blue fleece hat resembling a fez, from which emerged an oseledet, a simple long lock of hair whereby the majority of the head was shaved. He had tall, knee-high leather boots. He wore a grey-brown tunic and a light blue shirt-dress of sorts—a beshmet—held together with a long red silk sash at the waist. The shashka, as the sword was called, was at his side, along with a whip tied to the beshmet.
“Wh—huh? You mean Kazimir?” The Royal George asked.
“He is presumably your body guard?” Sherlock asked. “A military man? It is his undertaking to watch and protect, is it not?”
“Kazimir is a Cossack. Bravest men on earth.” Kazimir’s expression did not flinch. But unlike a British guard, who would look straight ahead knowing the conversation was none of his business, the Cossack kept his eyes all over the room. He watched everything unashamedly, true to his heritage of keeping Russia’s borders safe in exchange for freedom and independence.
“Explain. I thought the Cossacks they protect the Czar?” asked Dubuque, stepping back involuntarily as he studied the threatening stance of the man standing before them.
“Damn straight!” replied the Duke of Cambridge.
“Cossacks are frightfully loyal to the Czar,” explained Sherlock, “risking their lives to keep the Czar safe, in order that they might not be under the Czar’s jurisdiction. In exchange for their protection, Cossacks do not pay any taxes to the Czar.”
“Comment! That does not make the sense,” murmured Lieutenant Dubuque.
“It don’t to you! To a Cossack it makes all the sense in the world,” sighed Prince George, clearly exasperated.
“In effect, they give their loyalty that they might have none,” stated Sherlock.
“So the Cossack—he is loyal to you?” Dubuque asked. “Or to Russia?”
“To both, didn’t we just say?” Prince George growled.
“In the Cossack’s mind, it is one and the same,” Mycroft murmured.
“Can he not speak for himself?” Lieutenant Dubuque asked.
Kazimir glared at the Frenchman, clearly understanding, but he said nothing.
“Do you trust him, le Duc?” Lieutenant Dubuque asked.
“Kazimir has been with me almost as long as my mother has,” muttered Prince George. Even with blue eyes, his gaze was fiercely intense. “I won’t have you question his loyalty. Kazimir would die for me!”
“Mais bien sûr! And where was the Cossack at the time of the murder?” pressed Dubuque.
“Kazimir wasn’t anywhere close to the murder scene!” replied Prince George. “He was outside guarding the building! And doing a damn fine better job than you did, lieutenant! The people he guards don’t die!”
“And your body guard—why did he not stand outside the door while you were visiting?” asked Inspector Bertillon, until now only watching and observing.
“Excellent question,” murmured Sherlock.
“Kazimir goes wherever he needs to be. He’s not one of your bloody lapdogs!” replied Prince George curtly. “If he thinks he needs to be outside the door, that’s where he’ll be. If he needs to be watching the building, that’s where he’ll be. And because he does what is needed is why I’m still alive talking to you bloody fools!”
Sherlock turned to Kazimir. “And where were you, sir, while Prince George was visiting Miss Janvier and until the murder was committed?”
The Cossack glared at the Great Detective as a wolverine might study its prey. Sherlock held his ground, envisioning all possible manner of defense were such a response to prove necessary.
Studying the formidable man before him, Sherlock concluded that the Cossacks’ reputation as a pirate-gypsy race, renowned for their raids against the Ottoman Empire, was no doubt deserved. When Napoleon invaded Russia, the French troops feared the Cossacks above all others, who were famous for guerrilla warfare, their specialty being scouting, reconnaissance, and ambush attacks, in part the basis for today’s special operations.
Kazimir turned his piercing stare to Prince George who nodded. “As commander said, outside building watching entrances and exits.”
“Where, precisely?” asked Sherlock, undeterred.
“In hallway, then in street, then in courtyard, then in hallway.”
“The courtyard outside Miss Janvier’s window?” Bertillon pressed.
“Yes,” said Kazimir.
&nbs
p; “Pourquoi? And why were you there, Monsieur?” asked Dubuque.
“Because his highness was inside room,” Kazimir stated succinctly in his deep, baritone voice. He placed his massive hands on his waist. “It is best place to observe. And if there is someone suspicious, I wish to see before they approach, not after.”
Prince George chuckled at the absurdity of the questions.
“And who did you see, my good man, while you stood outside the window?” asked Sherlock of the Cossack. The bodyguard was a wealth of information, having observed all, with the added advantage of being able to confirm or deny everyone else’s account. Sherlock was not sure that the police understood his importance.
“I saw dark girl in the courtyard, leaving as I arrived.”
“And what was she doing?” Dubuque asked.
Kazimir raised his eyebrows. “Leaving the courtyard.”
“He just said that, you idiot,” Prince George muttered, giving everyone a taste of that which constituted polite conversation in the military.
“Describe her, s'il vous plaît,” the lieutenant insisted. Sherlock gave the lieutenant credit that, regardless of the abuse hurled upon him, he went forward.
“She had whip in her hand,” Kazimir stated.
“Was she practicing?” Bertillon asked.
Kazimir shrugged.
“You bloody fools!” snarled Prince George. “Kazimir doesn’t know what she was doing, he only saw what she was carrying. Ask him what he was doing! How could he know what she was doing before he arrived?”
“We will ask ze questions, s’il vous plaît!” the lieutenant reprimanded angrily before turning to Kazimir. “Is this correct? Mademoiselle Van Horn’s activities they were not evident?”
“She was carrying whip,” Kazimir repeated.
“Did you see her use it?” Dubuque insisted.
“No.”
“Was Miss Janvier still alive when Miss Van Horn left the courtyard?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes.” Kazimir nodded. “As long as his highness was there, French girl was alive. When the commander left, I left the courtyard to meet him in hallway.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 21