“True. And finally,” Mycroft added, “We must conclude if any of these substances were actually the cause of Miss Janvier’s death, regardless of who might have made the attempt.” He turned to Ashanti. “We start with you, Miss Van Horn. The herbs believed to have come from you—the voodoo elements of herbs, bark, and dried snake—are not known to be poison unless she was fatally allergic to them. Perhaps you had inside knowledge?”
“And, if Miss Janvier wasn’t allergic, why were they given to her?” Sherlock asked.
Ashanti shook her head, refusing to answer.
“Just tell us this, Miss Van Horn,” demanded Mycroft, brushing the sleeves of his jacket with his hand. “Did you give Miss Janvier the strawberries?”
“Why would I give Joëlle strawberries?” Ashanti was strangely not reluctant to speak on this topic.
“Perhaps the herbs were a ruse to draw our attention elsewhere . . .” Sherlock considered. “Perhaps there was something in the strawberries.”
“We found strawberries in your room, Miss Van Horn,” stated Mycroft.
“It is no crime to eat strawberries,” replied Ashanti, covering her hand with her mouth.
“That’s true! I ate some of those strawberries in my tent,” Mirabella came to her friend’s aid. “They can’t have been poisoned.”
“Indeed they were,” Mycroft said. “The strawberries in Miss Janvier’s room were, in fact, poisoned, and the poisons match the contents of Miss Janvier’s stomach.”
Both Ashanti and Mirabella gasped in unison.
“Ah, so Ashanti gave you strawberries on the day in question, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked, his piercing gaze directed at her.
Mirabella bit her lip, nodding, feeling her eyes watering.
“Are you holding anything back, Miss Belle? I forbid you to do so in a murder investigation,” Sherlock said.
“Many people ate strawberries on that day, they came from a vendor outside,” Mirabella added.
“I am inclined to believe her,” Sherlock stated to his brother. “Miss Janvier could have been in no doubt that Miss Van Horn hated her—and Miss Janvier was not stupid however cruel she might have been. She would not have eaten food given to her by Miss Van Horn.”
“And yet . . .” Mycroft considered, “Miss Janvier ingested the herbs on her nightstand—and the strawberries.”
“B-b-but I did not give her the strawberries!” exclaimed Ashanti. “What was in them?”
Mycroft took a piece of paper out of his pocket and read it out loud. “I’ve only just received the report. Henbane, jimson weed, angel’s trumpets, and corkwood.”
Sherlock turned abruptly to stare at Mycroft.
“What is it, Shirley?”
“I don’t even know what any of those things are,” Ashanti wailed.
“It sounds like voodoo herbs to me,” Mycroft said. “Very strange names.”
“Miss Van Horn is telling the truth,” Sherlock said, leaning into his seat, as he buried his head in his hands.
“I bow to your superior knowledge of chemistry, Shirley. What is it?”
“Scopolamine. Those are the ingredients for scopolamine.”
Mycroft returned his eyes to the piece of paper, raising his eyebrows.
Sherlock turned to Mirabella. “What did the street vendor look like?”
“He had auburn hair—and a beard,” considered Mirabella, tapping her forefinger to her chin. “I remember thinking that his hair was very neatly trimmed and he looked quite out of place. He had an academic and intellectual way of speaking. Very odd, considering that he was selling fruit from a cart.”
“As I thought.” Sherlock turned to Ashanti abruptly. “Had you seen the street vendor before, Miss Van Horn?”
“No, never,” she exclaimed, her alarm beginning to come to the surface.
“Who was it, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella asked, turning to Sherlock, as she realized the answer to this question must be important.
“Professor Moriarty,” whispered Sherlock.
“If the professor poisoned Miss Janvier, then Ashanti had nothing to do with it,” Mirabella said.
“Unless it was her job to transport the strawberries to Miss Janvier,” Sherlock considered.
“Miss Van Horn, what do you have to say about the herbs in Miss Janvier’s room?” asked Mycroft. “Roots, bark, snake skins, and . . . hrumph . . .dried animal parts.”
Ashanti paused for a moment, as if considering denying any knowledge of the items. She lowered her eyes. “Joëlle, she asked me to help her.”
“To help her with what?” Mycroft asked.
“My auntie is medicine woman, a Sangoma. She taught me the old ways.”
“Your aunt is a Witch Doctor?” asked Mycroft.
“No.” Ashanti shook her head. “A Sangoma has no black magic. Is shaman or healer. She can also into the future see.”
“A clairvoyant,” Sherlock said, knitting his eyebrows.
“A Sangoma is good in everything she does. The future of the tribe depends upon it. Is not like the missionaries said. Sangoma is healer.”
“Was Miss Janvier sick?” Mycroft expressed his disbelief. “She appeared most healthy to me.”
“Was not sick.” Ashanti shook her head.
“What were you helping her with then?” Mycroft asked.
“I can say not. I am sworn to silence,” pronounced Ashanti.
“Then you may hang by the noose,” Mycroft murmured.
“Oh No!” Mirabella covered her mouth with her hand as she felt her eyes water.
“Miss Van Horn, you must tell us to save yourself,” Mycroft stated.
“Nein.” Ashanti shook her head. “A promise is a promise.”
“Can you nod ‘yes’ or ‘no’, Miss Van Horn?” Sherlock asked gently, his eyes looking out the window as if he were deep in thought.
Ashanti nodded in agreement.
“Miss Janvier, she was with child, was she not?” Sherlock asked abruptly, turning ninety degrees from where he stood to face her.
Shock crossed Ashanti’s expression, then she nodded.
“It is true,” Mycroft nodded. “The autopsy revealed it. Good work, Shirley.”
“It was obvious,” he muttered. “And why would you help her, Miss Van Horn? I gathered you were not the best of friends.”
“The girl who danced on horses—she had no friends,” murmured Ashanti. “She said . . . she would not hurt the tigers if I helped her.”
Sherlock raised his chin in disbelief. “But you didn’t have any reason to believe her, did you, Miss Van Horn?”
“No,” murmured Ashanti, shaking her head.
“You had already given Miss Janvier the diamonds, and she threatened you again. So you knew her word was not good.”
Ashanti nodded.
“Unlike your own,” Mycroft added.
“So why did you help Miss Janvier then?” Sherlock asked softly, his expression revealing that he already knew the answer and only wanted to hear it from Ashanti’s lips.
“Did not.” Ashanti released a slow, sly smile. “Only pretend to.”
“So, that leaves us where we started, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked, a slow smile forming on his lips. “If you wouldn’t kill the baby, you didn’t kill Miss Janvier for dread of harming the baby, either. And neither would you have transported the strawberries—for the same reason.”
Ashanti’s eyes opened wide, startled that someone would understand her—and believe her. “When Joëlle she die, her baby it was healthy. If the baby was sick, it was not because of me.”
Mycroft nodded gravely. “When Miss Janvier died, her baby was presumed to be healthy. But her baby was not old enough to survive Miss Janvier’s death. This was your alibi, Miss Van Horn, why did you not simply tell us?”
“I made promise,” she replied solemnly. “And you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“But you did give Miss Janvier a strange herb, didn’t you Miss Van Horn?” asked Sherlock.
S
he nodded. “It was an herb to rid her of the devil in her soul—and to protect her baby from the darkness.”
“That was very kind, considering your relationship with Miss Janvier,” Mirabella considered thoughtfully.
“What is the name of the herb?” asked Mycroft, appearing deep in thought. “That would be a useful herb—to rid one’s soul of . . . unwanted desires.”
“It did not work,” Ashanti replied, shaking her head sadly.
“I wouldn’t expect so,” murmured Mycroft, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes momentarily. “But it was worth a try.”
“Sometimes it works,” Ashanti explained. “A Sangoma can cure those who are sick in head. I have seen Sangoma distinguish between those who are sick und those who cannot be healed. Once in my village, there was a man who was mad—he was verrückt—and the Sangoma healed him.”
“But it did not work for Miss Janvier?” asked Sherlock.
“She did not wish to be healed of her heart black.” Ashanti shook her head.
“And you gave Miss Janvier another herb, did you not, Miss Van Horn?” asked Sherlock.
Ashanti looked pointedly at Sherlock, surprise written all over her face. “It was an herb, so that, when Joëlle died, she would not come back in animal form.”
“When she died?” repeated Mycroft, startled. “You knew that Miss Janvier would die?”
“Yes.” Ashanti nodded. “The tigers they told me.”
“Miss Van Horn,” Mycroft straightened his black silk tie. “You don’t honestly expect us to believe . . .”
“It is true. I can speak with wild animals. I have always had this ability.”
“I believe her,” murmured Mirabella. “The tigers listen to her. If they didn’t, I might be the dead body you are investigating instead of Miss Janvier’s.”
“I did not kill her!” exclaimed Ashanti, clearly exasperated. “It sounds crazy if I in English say it, but if you speak Zulu, you understand. I was not afraid to kill her, and I would have if tigers she hurt. But I saw her death. I knew I did not have to.”
Sherlock studied her. “So your alibi, Miss Van Horn, is that, even though you were fully prepared to murder Miss Janvier, the tigers came to you in a voodoo vision and told you the murder was unnecessary—that someone else would do the job for you?”
Ashanti nodded.
Oh, this is terrible, Mirabella reflected.
“And did you see in your vision—who killed her, Miss Van Horn?” asked Mycroft with something approaching amusement as he yawned.
Ashanti shook her head. “No.”
“And what about the chocolates?” Mirabella asked. “Were they poisoned?”
“The box itself was not,” Mycroft answered. “We can’t be certain if the one piece Miss Janvier ate was or not.”
“And the champagne?” Mirabella asked.
“The bottle itself was not poisoned,” Sherlock said.
“Miss Van Horn, I beg you will help yourself.” Mycroft stated gently, returning his attention to Ashanti. “Do you know who the father of the baby was?”
Ashanti shook her head. “Joëlle she has hurt enough people in life, I will not let her hurt another in death.”
“You must lay all the facts before us or you are obstructing justice and we can put you in jail,” Mycroft said.
Ashanti laughed. “Do you think I am afraid of jail? Or even hanging?”
“Are you afraid of anything, Miss Van Horn?” asked Sherlock deliberately, studying her with interest.
“Causing pain to those I love,” Ashanti managed to say as she rung her hands.
“And the tigers?” Sherlock asked softly. “Who will protect them if you are not here, Miss Van Horn?”
“Who are you protecting, Miss Van Horn?” added Mycroft. “If he is innocent, no harm will come to him.”
“The innocent they are always ones to be hurt,” she replied tersely. “The powerful, they go free.”
“Ashanti didn’t kill Miss Janvier!” exclaimed Mirabella, watching the direction of their pompous gazes. In an instant she felt she would burst with anger. “And I know that you know that! Why do you torture her?”
“Why do you say so, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked, his sudden interest obvious.
“Ashanti would have taken the diamonds with her instead of leaving them behind, of course!” replied Mirabella.
“I am inclined to believe you, Miss Belle.” Sherlock smiled with appreciation. “An excellent deduction.”
“Unless that was what Miss Van Horn wished us to think, and it was—as we have already determined—a crime of passion,” Mycroft considered.
“That is entirely illogical, Mr. Holmes.” Mirabella shook her head. “Ashanti wanted those diamonds for her tigers. They belonged to her. She would have taken the jewels with her—a crime of passion or not! Ashanti couldn’t take the diamonds while Joëlle was alive. And if Ashanti had killed Joëlle, she would have taken the diamonds before leaving. And no one would have known of the existence of the jewels to suspect her. This alone is proof that Ashanti is not the murderer.”
“I must admit, this is a convincing argument, Miss Belle,” Sherlock considered, his expression approaching admiration. “I begin to wonder if you might yet become a detective.”
“And besides—” she paused. “Ashanti doesn’t have the kind of passion required for the murder.”
“What are you saying, Miss Hudson?” Mycroft pressed.
“Ashanti has been to hell: she has suffered more than any person I know. She would have only killed with purpose. She is like the tiger: it would have been efficient and quick, without hesitation. It would not be a moment of irrational rage, it would have meant something.”
“And if it had been done with purpose,“ Sherlock nodded in agreement, “she would have taken the diamonds.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
La Santé Prison
“Not everything works out as it should,” murmured Mirabella.
“That’s a damn truth if ever there was one!” exclaimed Watson from his dismal jail cell. La Santé Prison’s dark grey stone did not improve the mood. The air was damp and it would appear that they were a mile beneath the earth’s surface if it weren’t for the very high window providing a minimum of light. There was a single bench and a bucket inside the cell, along with a blanket which, though worn, appeared to be clean. It was difficult to discern, however, particularly in the dim light. In many prisons, the blankets themselves were laden with insects and disease.
So Mirabella had brought some blankets and a wash basin, along with wine and food. She started to respond but held her tongue, thinking it better to let John dine in peace and to not disturb him with too many questions, though she was most anxious to know how he fared.
Obviously not well from the look of him. He had not bathed. He was unshaven and his hair ill-groomed. It was such a strange sight—she had never before seen John Watson thus. His three-piece wool suit had been confiscated, he was in a prison uniform, and he looked entirely out of place.
“What do you speak of, Miss Belle?” asked Sherlock.
“I was thinking of Ashanti,” she replied sadly, tearing her eyes from John to look at Sherlock. “What happened? I don’t understand it. It makes no sense that our country should have invaded her country.”
“Why not?” muttered Watson, rubbing his wounded leg with his free left hand, an injury which must have been exacerbated by the dampness. “It is a violent world and the innocent are often persecuted.”
The three were situated outside Watson’s jail cell, with only Mycroft being seated in a chair which had been procured for him. Ever the gentleman, he had offered it to Mirabella, who had declined.
“Indeed. There have been seventy-two invasions in this century alone,” answered Sherlock. “The sun doesn’t set on the British empire without some effort on our part.”
“Queen Victoria never sanctioned the invasion of Zululand, I assure you,” stated Mycroft indignantly.
“Shhh! Curb your excitement and lower your voice, Miss Belle. The guards might hear you. We don’t want them to confiscate the things we have brought for Watson,” cautioned Sherlock.
“We definitely don’t want that!” admonished John, gulping down a few swallows from the wine bottle.
Mirabella leaned forward, staring at Mycroft aghast, as she whispered, “What do you mean the Queen didn’t sanction the invasion, Mr. Holmes?”
“Sir Henry Bartle Frere undertook the invasion at Isandlwana without the approval of the crown,” stated Mycroft. “Neither did Cetshwayo wish to fight, the Zulu were British allies.”
“But they did fight,” replied Mirabella.
“Naturally, when the British invaded. It was that or surrender their homeland.” Mycroft raised his pants legs so they did not touch the ground.
“But the Zulu lost anyway,” murmured Mirabella.
“Not at Isandlwana,” Mycroft shook his head. “The Zulu won that battle. It was, in fact, the worst defeat in British colonial history.”
“It was this defeat which rallied British approval for the final annihilation of the Zulu,” Sherlock murmured.
“But how did the Zulu win Isandlwana?” asked Mirabella. “The Zulu only had spears and clubs. And the British had modern rifles and artillery.”
“Indeed,” nodded Mycroft. “And the Zulu defeated six fully manned companies of the famous first Battalion of the 24th almost to the last man with spears and clubs.”
“But how?” asked Mirabella, covering her mouth.
“With shear numbers. The Zulu died ten to one,” answered Mycroft.
“They were like dominoes falling left and right,” Sherlock uttered, a stark expression crossing his countenance.
“But why did Frere invade without the approval of the Queen?” persisted Mirabella.
“He wished to crush the savage foe,” replied Sherlock, shrugging matter-of-factly. “Frere’s Secretary of Native Affairs, Sir Theophilus Shepstone, feared a black uprising. And polygamy was repulsive to those stationed in Africa with the charge of uniting the natives and Boers under the British emblem.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 23