“Did you see anyone else while you moved to meet Prince George, Mr. Kazimir?” Sherlock asked, moving between the two men.
“I saw tiger girl leave building,” He replied.
“Miss Mirabella?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes.” Kazimir shrugged, indifferent.
“Anyone else?” Sherlock asked.
“Russian was in courtyard with me.”
“Monsieur Stanislav Afanasy?” Dubuque asked.
Kazimir nodded.
“And when did you see Mr. Stanislav leave the courtyard?” Inspector Bertillon asked.
“At time his highness left Russian girl’s room.” He spit on the ground. “Afanasy saw commander in window which caused him anger. Went in building as if headed for girl’s room.”
“However—you only saw Mr. Afanasy leave, you did not see him reach Miss Janvier’s room, did you Mr. Kazimir?” Sherlock asked.
Kazimir nodded agreement.
“And was Miss Janvier alive when Mr. Afanasy left?”
“Yes, I saw her through window. Then I left courtyard.”
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur, you’ve been very helpful,” Inspector Bertillon stated.
“Can we damn well get on with it now?” demanded Prince George.
Sherlock thought of the handkerchief found on the floor with the letters “SF” embroidered on them. “Your highness, your wife, is she visiting Paris?”
“Sarah?”
“How many wives do you have?” Lieutenant Dubuque raised his eyebrows.
The Royal George’s expression revealed that he considered himself to have none. Sherlock reflected that, though Prince George’s devotion to his troops was well known, being called ‘The Soldier’s friend’, he was seemingly undeserving of Sarah Fairbrother’s continued devotion.
“When a man through some ill-fated accident makes a great mistake, he must abide by it,” Prince George muttered.
“I take it that the great mistake was your marriage, your highness?” Mycroft asked.
The commander-in-chief of the British army suddenly became indignant. “I’ll tell you something, you young whippersnapper, when I came into my post, pay was about three pence a day for a common soldier, and the army’s idea of discipline was branding and flogging.”
“You don’t hold to that, sir?
“Damn straight, I don’t. The death rate in the non-active duty army was five times higher than in civilian life! That tells you something about the food and the conditions. The bloody Parliament treats convicts better than they do the soldiers who serve Her.”
Sherlock appreciated the sentiment. The man before him might have been born a prince, but he knew a working soldier’s life, and he had a great deal of empathy and a sense of justice. From the depth of feeling in Prince George’s eyes, Sherlock had not been surprised to learn that Prince George cried for days after a battle. His stormy temperament hid a deep emotion.
“And Sarah Fairbrother. Is she a jealous woman?”
Prince George suddenly burst into laughter. “Jealous? I should say so.”
“And your sons? Is it possible they would avenge their mother’s honor?”
“George, Adolphus, and Augustus?” Prince George stopped laughing abruptly. “Too busy gambling and skirting it themselves to be concerned.”
In contrast to the words spoken, Sherlock concluded that the sons were quite devoted to their father. The pride he observed in Prince George’s eyes did not lie: a father’s devotion was almost always returned by sons. All three had promising military careers—which must be due to the Duke of Cambridge’s connections.
“I’ll tell you now, as I’m not one to beat around the bush,” Prince George continued. “When I married Sarah, I was young and foolish. The love of my life was one Mrs. Louisa Beauclerk, and when she died on December twenty-eighth, it was the sad day which ended the happiness in this world for me. We were together some thirty years.”
“And how did Mrs. Beauclerk die?” asked Sherlock without wasting any time on the niceties.
Prince George frowned. “Some claimed it was poisoning, but that’s all twaddle! It was a natural death. She hadn’t felt well for some time.”
“How did some believe she was poisoned?”
“Chocolates they found in the house. But I know for a fact Louisa never touched chocolates.”
“It has been my observance that the food women eat in view of men is sometimes different from that which their stomachs reveal to have been consumed,” Mycroft murmured.
Sherlock thought of the candy beside Miss Janvier’s bed which was even now being tested for poison.
“Was your wife visiting you during your sojourn in Paris?” Mycroft asked.
“And what business is it of yours? I don’t like your tone. And you nothin’ but a bloomin’ civilian!”
“I am a civilian conducting a murder investigation at the crown’s insistence, if you please. I’ll ask you again, your highness. Was your wife visiting you during your sojourn in Paris?”
“Sarah? Humph! She ain’t here. Never travels.”
Sherlock considered that a visit to Piccadilly was in order.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Office of the Okhrana
Russian Imperial Consulate
97 Rue de Grenelle, Paris
“It is a fact that Miss Janvier was one of our agents,” Arkadiy Mikhailovich Harting, head of the Russian Imperialist Police in Paris, better known as the Okhrana, murmured. Mr. Harting, having much the serious appearance of a professor, leaned back in his chair. He was of medium build, muscular, sporting a goatee and slicked back hair, handsome in a meticulous sort of way. He added, “She spied on revolutionary activity, reported it to us and we, in turn, reported it to the Czar.”
“We had only just uncovered this information when we called Watson off the case,” Mycroft explained. The elder of the Holmes brothers languidly sipped on the tea which had been offered to him, heavily dolloped with cream. Mycroft sighed, his cup momentarily suspended in mid-air, “The next thing we knew she was dead.”
“Was she a good agent?” Sherlock asked bluntly. Certainly he had his own assessment of Miss Janvier, but he wanted to hear Arkadiy Harting’s.
“One of the best,” Mr. Harting replied simply, leaning back in his chair. Through the window behind Harting’s desk one could see the Seine River.
“The best . . . in what way?” pressed Sherlock.
“Nothing would stop her,” Mr. Harting replied without hesitation. “She knew no limits or boundaries. She was fearless.”
“No doubt she will be greatly missed,” murmured Mycroft, studying Harting over the rim of his cup.
“The organization will be significantly impacted by her absence, beyond a doubt,” Mr. Harting nodded somberly.
“What were some of Miss Janvier’s successes?” asked Sherlock.
“She had immense success in pinpointing and communicating arms sales and supply dumps.” Mr. Harting inadvertently rearranged the papers on his massive oak desk, sparkling clean, not often seen in government offices. LeStrade’s office came to mind.
“Ah, yes,” murmured Mycroft, seeming deep in thought. “I recall a store owner by the name of Loewenthal?”
“Precisely,” nodded Mr. Harting, his expression suddenly suspicious as his eyes alighted on Mycroft, as if he were displeased that someone outside of his organization should have access to this clearly confidential information. “One of Miss Janvier’s greatest successes was discovering and infiltrating a counterfeit operation to fund the revolutionaries. Robert Loewenthal, a Russian émigré, had a small sort of shop which served as a front for the operation. The entire ring was caught red-handed and brought to justice.”
“Her convictions must have run deep,” said Sherlock, scrutinizing Harting.
Harting raised his eyebrows. He was so polished and practiced that only the slightest disagreement was visible.
“I can see that you do not agree, Mr. Harting?” pressed Mycroft.
“And Miss Janvier fell within the last group,” Sherlock murmured.
“Quite so.” Mr. Harting nodded.
“And no doubt there are those who are attracted by the excitement and glamour of the life of espionage,” Sherlock added with a slight smile.
“You have an excellent command of both the details and the greater concepts of our organization, Mr. Holmes,” stated Mr. Harting with both appreciation and apparent discomfort.
“But though the work is perceived as glamorous by some, it is more accurate to call it dangerous, as evidenced by Miss Janvier’s untimely death,” Mycroft surmised.
“Entirely true,” Mr. Harting agreed.
“And where did Miss Joëlle Janvier’s motivations fit in on the continuum?” Sherlock leaned forward, nonchalantly stirring his tea. “In other words, how greedy was she?”
“Mercenary, with a lust for power and riches,” Mr. Harting replied simply. He leaned back in his chair, evincing a slight smile. “And one of the best because of it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Former Lover
“You were terribly jealous of Miss Janvier, weren’t you, Mr. Afanasy? She taunted and demeaned you.” Sherlock noted the accused’s lack of concern. His hair was long and dark, which he separated into a small braid on each side of his head, allowing the remainder of his hair to flow freely. He wore a white leotard and a gold belt, the stretchy top dipping low on his torso, revealing a muscular chest. His face was clean-shaven.
“This she did to everyone,” Stanislav shrugged with indifference.
“You were once her lover, were you not?” pressed Sherlock.
“Once.” Stanislav looked away, appearing suddenly emotional.
Sherlock pressed his advantage. “Miss Janvier found out about your activities—she was working for the Okhrana—and she threatened to turn you in, which would necessarily result in your being pursued by the Russian secret police. And you killed her.”
“Kill her why?” he asked sadly. “I loved her. No reason to kill her.”
“You had every reason, I should say,” Mycroft said. “It would silence her.”
“If had silenced her, why you know so much?”
“There is more to learn, I assure you, Mr. Afanasy.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes.
“Will not tell what you don’t know. Ha! ha!” Merriment crossed his expression of overall sadness, entirely out of place.
“Ah, your political activities, of course we know about that, Mr. Afanasy,” replied Mycroft. “We know that you are involved with revolutionary groups here in Paris. The Okhrana has been following you for months.”
“Pssst!” Stanislav spit on the ground. “Let follow. I am no traitor to Mother Russia!” There was no fear in his eyes, only courage, as one would expect from a trainer of the big cats. But there was, however, a sadness and determination, revealing an acceptance of misery.
The man is terribly unhappy and expects always to be so, Sherlock considered. “The point is that you are involved with groups plotting to overthrow the Czar. We know this for a fact so there is no point in pretending and wasting everyone’s time.”
“So to Siberia send me.” Stanislav threw back his head, laughing. “Am in France now, cannot touch me.”
“I imagine the Czar has his methods if the threat is great enough.” Sherlock added softly, “An assassination plot would certainly qualify.”
“You care why? Nothing to do with Joëlle.”
“Untrue. And maybe you didn’t know if she had yet told anyone about your connection to the group—maybe she just held it over you to torture you,” Mycroft said. “That combined with your passionate involvement makes you a perfect candidate for murder, Mr. Stanislav.”
“I knew. And . . . I not kill woman.”
“But you might kill a viper,” Mycroft suggested.
“Joëlle not viper! You not know her!”
I knew her as well as I wished to.
Stanislav spat on the ground again, then grew closer, his stance threatening. He placed the whip inside his gold belt which freed his hands. Sherlock held his fists close to his chest in the event he might need them.
Touching, though. And remarkable. In spite of all Miss Janvier had done to him and the threat she posed—the Russian police was well known for its cruel tactics— Stanislav loved her.
Stanislav twirled the whip which was in his hand. “Not afraid of tigers. Not afraid of Siberia. Not afraid of woman.”
“Fear and hate are closely linked emotions.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
“How I did it?” Stanislav pursed his lips. “I not able to enter room.” Stanislav pursed his lips and a genuine hatred crossed his countenance. “Wish I had been in room. Might have saved her.”
“Were you talking to Miss Janvier through the window before you proceeded to her room, Mr. Afanasy?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. We found your footprints outside the window.”
“So what?” Stanislav shrugged. “Many footprints there.”
“Was the window open when you spoke with Miss Janvier?” asked Sherlock.
“Yes. How Joëlle she hear me otherwise?”
“And what time was that?”
“Four thirty.”
“Precisely?”
“Da.”
“How do you know, Mr. Afanasy?”
“I hear ringing of clock tower.” He smoothed his hair back on his head and then wrapped his fingers around the thin straps of his leotard which covered very little of his muscled chest.
“And what did you say to Miss Janvier?” Sherlock asked.
“I ask her not turn me in. Not afraid. Just want to see what she say.” Stanislav’s countenance turned somber.
“What did she say?”
“She laugh. Joëlle she always laugh. She say she already did.”
Sherlock watched Stanislav fingering the whip. If, indeed, this were true, it gave Mr. Afanasy no motive unless it were that of revenge.
A strong motive indeed.
Or perhaps Stanislav didn’t believe Joëlle Janvier and presumed her to be playing with him as a cat played with a mouse—as she had always done.
If it was a crime of passion, there was often no logic to it. And Stanislav Afanasy didn’t appear to care what happened to him.
A perfect candidate for murder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Poison
“There were an enormous amount of foreign substances in Miss Janvier’s system. Do you know anything about that, Miss Van Horn?” asked Mycroft, leaning his tall body forward. He was clean-shaven, revealing his fine, chiseled features, and his hair was cut short. He was dressed in light-colored pants, a dark, fine frock coat, and a low-cut vest paired with a slim cravat. Though the mismatched pants and jacket were all the rage in the fashion world, it was uncharacteristically informal for the elder Holmes brother from what Mirabella had observed.
He is obviously going slumming on this particular evening, Mirabella reflected—a fashionable pastime of the privileged for diversion and amusement, instigated with the newly popular East End novels describing the slum conditions in St. George’s, Mile End, and, of course, the notorious White Chapel. She herself found nothing amusing in viewing the suffering of others.
“Of course, poison is the method of choice for women,” Sherlock said. “In addition, poison could be administered and the murderer not actually be present when the murder took place.”
“I gave Miss Janvier medicines, not poisons!” Ashanti shook her head in surprise, seated just inside the circus tent at a makeshift table where interrogations had been initiated.
“So . . . was Miss Janvier poisone
d or wasn’t she?” asked Mirabella.
“There was morphine in her system. But many people use that drug recreationally.” Mycroft glanced at his brother. “Did she take the drug herself, or did someone else administer the drug? And, if it was someone else, did it contribute to her death?”
“Oh, my head is swimming,” murmured Mirabella.
“It has only just begun,” Sherlock pronounced. “Our bare-backed rider makes an elephant look like a light diner with no appetite. She was hedonistic and indulgent in every way. In addition to the chocolate, strawberries, and champagne in her stomach, there were vast amounts of strange herbs in Miss Janvier’s system. Were they in the chocolate or the strawberries? And were they harmful to her? The herbs could be harmless to one person and fatal to another. And were they taken voluntarily or forced upon her?”
“But the sheer variety of substances in her stomach make it highly probable that an attempt at poison was made,” Mycroft added.
“Probable but not irrefutable. The first course is, of course, to identify everything that was in her stomach and then to find the corresponding item in her boudoir,” Sherlock said. “We then test the item in her boudoir in an attempt to determine if the poisons and questionable substances were in the strawberries, the chocolate, or the champagne. We then attempt to determine who provided each of the items. We know that the champagne was from Dr. John Watson. The chocolates may have come from the mysterious woman who had dropped the handkerchief, either “SF” herself, her carrier, or one who wished to implicate her. The strawberries add yet another suspect. And then there is you, Miss Van Horn and your voodoo ritual with the herbs.”
“Since there were so many substances in the stomach of the deceased,” Mycroft said, “either everyone was attempting to kill Miss Janvier at once—or a number of people were providing her with unharmful herbs. It seems unlikely doesn’t it?”
“Again, unlikely, but possible,” Sherlock mused, as if he had already come to some conclusions.
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 22