“The sexual behavior of those wholly removed from oneself has long been a reason for murder and persecution,” Mycroft said.
“Polygamy is repulsive,” agreed Mirabella. “Ashanti fled from becoming one of a harem.”
“You must allow for cultural differences, Miss Hudson,” advised Mycroft.
“No I mustn’t!” Mirabella replied. “Slavery in any form is wrong. And I understand that polygamy was not so distasteful to John Dunn and his thirty-eight wives!” Give or take a wife.
“Indeed, Miss Belle? I am most gratified to see that you are expanding your knowledge of the world.” She thought she saw a twinkle of laughter in Sherlock’s eyes, but it must be that the dim light was obstructing her vision. “To be sure, I expect that there has been no decrease in polygamy as a result of the Anglo-Zulu war.”
She paused to reflect. “It is also wrong that Frere acted without the Queen’s approval. But in the end, rather than the Queen’s government apologizing for their act, they rallied the troops and crushed the Zulu, validating Frere’s initial invasion.”
“Hello! I’m sure I’m enjoying this history lesson here in this jail cell,” exclaimed John Watson. “If you don’t do anything about it, I will hang by the neck for the murder of Miss Janvier while you debate the causes of freedom across the globe.”
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella replied, reaching in her basket for a baguette of French bread and a pear, passing them through the jail bars. “I was merely allowing you to eat your lunch without being interrogated.”
“Hmph!” John muttered, tearing into his loaf of bread as he downed the piece with wine.
“Do you have another bottle of wine?” John asked, swallowing. He re-corked the bottle and hid it under his blanket, apparently wishing to save the small amount remaining for later.
“No, but I shall bring you another bottle tomorrow,” Mirabella replied.
“Bring two,” John muttered. “Or a dozen.”
“That is an excellent idea,” mused Sherlock. “Watson may be able to bribe the guards for special treatment with a fine bottle of wine.”
“I’ll drink it myself, thank you for your concern, Holmes,” replied Watson with a stinging insincerity.
Mycroft straightened his collar from the seated chair, running his hand along his neckline. Mirabella considered that it was the only time she had ever been in Mycroft’s company and not seen him eating. It appeared the atmosphere had removed his appetite, and that was saying something for Mycroft Holmes.
“My good doctor, the Zulu wars do have some bearing on the case,” remarked Sherlock. “It speaks to motive and the character and stability of one of the suspects. Believe me, we are putting our heads together in an attempt to get you out of here.”
“Don’t speak to me, Holmes,” Watson retorted to Sherlock.
“Shirley has the right of it,” added Mycroft reflectively. “We must do a thorough analysis of each of the suspects in order to save our friend here.”
“Here! Here! Let’s not kill the innocent!” exclaimed Watson.
“I would expect Miss Van Horn to be extremely bitter as a result of the Zulu-Anglo war.” Mycroft considered the facts before them.
“Most certainly,” Sherlock considered. He was the only one of the four who appeared comfortable in this venue. It never ceased to astonish Mirabella that Sherlock looked at home wherever he was, be it before the Queen of England, in the dungeons of a prison, or scouring the sewers. “Essentially a rogue band of our countrymen invaded Zululand, the British got their asses served to them on a silver platter, the sympathies of the English people rose up, we went back in and finished off the Zulu, and then we left.
“Do you believe . . .” considered Watson, suddenly reflective, “That Miss Van Horn is disturbed enough that her violent impulses might be mis-channeled? It is her father, her family, and her country we are speaking of.”
She considered John’s words momentarily, determined to answer truthfully. “And yet . . . Ashanti is different. If anything Ashanti is somewhat removed from this world. She only inhabits it a small percentage of the time. It has been a place of great suffering for her.”
“But is she capable of murder?” asked Mycroft.
“Most definitely,” nodded Sherlock.
“The other possibility, of course,” contemplated Mycroft, “is that Miss Van Horn killed Miss Janvier accidentally.”
“Accidentally?” asked Watson. “What the devil . . .”
“She might have had the best of intentions in giving Miss Janvier the herbs—to kill the demon in her and to protect the baby—and it might have backfired,” Mycroft considered.
Her attention turned to John Watson. As she considered the very real possibility of the doctor hanging by the neck, she felt her heart would break.
But neither did she wish Ashanti to hang.
Mirabella had never been so thankful for the genius of Sherlock Holmes in her life. Everything depends upon it.
“But we already know that the strawberries had the poison in them, so the case is solved,” Mirabella said.
“The scopolamine?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes.”
“In combination with the morphine, scopolamine is a truth serum.” Sherlock turned to Mirabella.
“So it is not a poison?”
“Certainly scopolamine is a poison,” Sherlock said. “But it did not kill Miss Janvier. However, it does speak to motive, and it is possible that the person who administered the scopolamine is the killer.”
“And, anyway, why do we care?” Mirabella insisted. “Miss Janvier killed Beckham, we solved the murder, why don’t we just go home?”
“Ah, well, unfortunately Watson will hang if we do so,” Mycroft said, tapping his lips with his handkerchief.
“Just a slight glitch in an otherwise damn fine plan,” John muttered.
“In addition,” Mycroft added, “It is possible that whoever killed Miss Janvier is an even worse threat to Britain than she was. Miss Janvier was mainly a threat to her own country—Russia—but there are greater considerations from our perspective.”
“That’s a relief,” John growled.
“Hide this in your jacket, Dr. Watson,” Mirabella commanded, slipping a candy confection through the bars.
“I’d rather have another bottle of wine,” John Watson muttered.
“Are you having the . . . nightmares . . . Dr. Watson?” she asked.
He glared at Sherlock. “As if anyone cares.”
“Have you thought of keeping a journal?” she asked, reaching in her basket for a keyed notebook, fountain pen, and ink well. She placed them through the bars. “Sometimes simply writing one’s thoughts can bring peace.”
“No thank you, Miss Mirabella.” John did not accept the items. “Anything I would write now might be used against me in a court of law.”
“Or—I know!—have you thought of writing down your cases with Sherlock Holmes?”
John looked up, a certain light returning to his eyes. He stated derisively, “At this very moment I would love nothing better than to tell the world the truth about Sherlock Holmes!”
He moved to the bars and grabbed the items from her hands a bit too forcefully. He added, “Another bottle of wine might help the words to flow, as it were.” John ran his hands through his hair. “And a comb and shaving knife.”
Mirabella sighed a sigh of relief. A knife wouldn’t be allowed, Dr. Watson knew that, but the fact that he was suddenly concerned about his appearance was a sign that he was feeling better.
This was just the response she had hoped for. “And when you have finished, Dr. Watson, I shall call on the English papers and ask if they are interested in your recounting. It may yet further your case.”
“But do not mention Miss Hudson, Watson,” Sherlock interjected. “I do not wish her name in the papers under any circumstances.”
“Never fear, Holmes, I have a great deal to say—and none of it about Miss Mirabella.”
“Good.”
“You might not think so when I am finished,” Dr. Watson stated in a low tone.
“And what of the other suspects?” Mycroft asked, clearly ready to leave the environ. “Let us discuss them while the good doctor is still sober.”
“I fear that moment has past,” murmured Sherlock.
“What about Prince George?” Mirabella asked. “What of his wife?”
“You speak of Sarah Fairbrother, I suppose?” asked Mycroft, crossing his arms in front of his waist as he glanced about the jail. “Technically she’s not his wife, although there was a marriage ceremony performed.”
“How can she not be his wife, then?” asked Mirabella.
“Prince George, a prince of England, the Duke of Cambridge, and King George III’s namesake, cannot marry without the Queen’s consent. If Sarah Fairbrother is not apprised of that fact, you can be certain that the king’s grandson is,” Mycroft pronounced.
“Do you mean that Prince George willingly went through a wedding ceremony knowing that it was not legal or binding?” asked Mirabella, astonished, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.
“How could he not know it?” murmured Mycroft with a raise of his eyebrows, bemused. “Prince George was educated at Cambridge and his grandfather was the king of England. He himself was in line for the throne until Victoria was born. There could be no doubt that he knew whom he could and could not marry and under what circumstances from a very early age.”
“Very likely in the womb.” Sherlock began to load his pipe with tobacco. “It is quite inconceivable that he would be ignorant of such matters.”
“If the dictates of his own family and his superior education are not enough, try the Royal Marriages Act of 1772.” Mycroft covered his nose with a white handkerchief as if he found the smell deplorable. “Not to mention that Prince George did not even sign his name on the marriage certificate.”
“You can’t be serious,” muttered Watson, appearing to take an interest in the conversation for the first time. “He had to sign the marriage certificate. Impossible to conclude the ceremony otherwise.”
“I didn’t say he didn’t sign the marriage certificate,” replied Mycroft. “I said he didn’t sign his name. He signed instead ‘George Cambridge, Gentleman’.”
“In all probability he momentarily forgot his name,” stated Sherlock matter-of-factly.
“If so, it was admittedly at a very opportune time,” Mycroft mused, now patting his forehead with the handkerchief.
Watson chuckled, and Mirabella was relieved to witness a smile..
“Why would Prince George go through such a charade?” asked Mirabella, tapping her finger against her cheek.
“Perhaps to get the woman off his back,” considered Mycroft. “She is reputably quite strong-willed—and jealous.”
“And so that he might continue to partake of the marriage bed,” remarked Sherlock.
“Really Holmes, most unsuitable conversation,” Watson remarked, nodding his head towards Mirabella. “There is a lady present.”
“Glad to see you’re reviving, Watson,” remarked Sherlock, taking a puff on his pipe.
“And what is the Queen’s objection to Miss Fairbrother? Why wouldn’t she let Prince George marry her?” Mirabella asked, ignoring John’s censure, her curiosity getting the better of her as often happened.
“Miss Fairbrother is a stage actress. Reputedly the greatest beauty of her day,” Mycroft explained.
“The Queen objected to the match simply because Miss Fairbrother was a working woman?” huffed Mirabella, placing her hands on her hips.
“At the time of the wedding Miss Fairbrother had four illegitimate children by three different fathers,” added Mycroft. “If the second coming had commenced and Jesus Himself had asked her royal highness to approve the match as a personal favor to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, the Queen would not have consented to such a marriage.”
“I see,” murmured Mirabella, biting her lip.
“Never mind that two of those four children were by Prince George,” interjected Sherlock. “And she pregnant with a third at the time.”
“And yet he is taking up with a bare-backed rider in sequined tights!” fumed Mirabella.
“Excellent observation, Miss Belle. And if the morals of everyone present as well as all of the world’s countries meet with your approval, may we continue with the case?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, adding softly, “I’m sure I think of nothing else.”
“Good. Prince George is a weak man where women are concerned. But he is not alone among royalty in that.” Sherlock glanced at Watson. “Or among men in general.”
“And yet—”considered Mycroft, “It is not that Prince George is incapable of love or loyalty. Or even that he requires a younger woman. The Duke of Cambridge had a second mistress, a Mrs. Louisa Beauclerk, whom Prince George has described as the idol of his life and his existence. She died only months ago after a love affair spanning over thirty years.”
“It is no wonder he is seeking consolation. Though possibly in places where he shall not find it,” murmured Dr. Watson. “And Sarah Fairbrother still lives?”
“Oh, yes. But the Duke and Miss Fairbrother live in separate residences in Piccadilly,” Mycroft said.
“And how old is Prince George?”
“Sixty-five years of age,” Mycroft replied. “And still going strong. With no legal heirs.”
“Indeed. All of his illegitimate children unrecognized by the crown. And yet all are direct descendents of Queen Elizabeth 1 and every other British monarch as well as being related to all the royal families of Europe. Something very few respectable people are able to say,” remarked Sherlock.
“I wonder if any of the prince’s children are bitter?” mused Mirabella.
“Aha! Finally! Now we are getting somewhere,” Sherlock exclaimed approvingly. “Let us solve the case with haste!”
“How could they not be?” asked John, his interest in the conversation growing. “Their mother ill-treated, her devotion completely undeserved and unreturned, and their own status one of shame.”
“And yet Prince George is a devoted father, I understand, and has paid off his sons’ gaming debts more than once,” Mycroft mused. It was amazing the information that man stored in his head, Mirabella reflected, not for the first time wondering how he came by it.
“And what are their names?” asked Mirabella, her interest intensifying. “The children of Prince George and Sarah Fairbrother?”
“George, Adolphus, and Augustus,” Mycroft replied. “All with the surname of ‘FitzGeorge’, and all in military service like their father.”
“And all great-grandsons of King George III,” murmured Sherlock.
“I wonder,” mused Mycroft, touching his index finger to his chin.
“I as well,” nodded Sherlock, their eyes locking. “I wonder if any of the three might have had strong objections to their father cavorting with a young woman in sequined tights while their mother lives.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Royal Mistress
Sherlock stood outside 6 Queen Street in Mayfair, London, neat but not extravagant by any means. Certainly the address was in a desirable part of town.
All the homes were terraced, sharing walls, and 6 Queen Street was a four-story white washed building with three doors and wrought iron balconies on each of the levels.
Inspector Tobias Gregson, a tall, formidable man, took his peaked cap off his head and nervously twirled it in his hands. His full beard was neatly trimmed and he was dressed in a frogged jacket.
Gregson knocked on the door and was soon after greeted by a maid. “Is Miss Fairbrother home?”
The maid scrutinized the two gentlemen. “And who do you be?”
“Sherlock Holmes. And Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard.” The great detective stepped forward, removing his hat and bowing, but the gesture was lost on the plump woman who had already turned away
and was yelling, “Madame, Scotland Yard is here to sees ya. Will you sees them?”
“No,” a response was heard from the other room in a robust voice. Clearly the room’s inhabitant had the gift of projection which had been put to good use on the stage.
“The mistress ain’t at home,” the maid said.
“Excuse me, madam.” Sherlock brushed past her into a small parlor where he bowed again before an older woman, seated, who stared unapprovingly at him even as Gregson joined them. “I am Sherlock Holmes, here on behalf of the Duke of Cambridge.”
“Shall’s I call the police Madame? I couldn’t stop ‘im!”
“I am the police, Madame,” murmured the inspector. “Inspector Gregson at your service.”
The older woman shook her head in the negative. “Bring some tea, please, Dorothy.”
Sherlock remained standing, watching her. She had classic features and large blue eyes. Her hair was now white and braided in a style which must have been popular when she was young: in loops around her ears and across her head in a Grecian fashion. Though she had had a shapely figure in her youth, it was apparent that she was not now very active. There was pain in her eyes, emotional or physical, he surmised it was both. He glanced about the room in search of a cane and saw none—most unexpected—but he did see an unusual amount of clutter for a home which was four stories high, as if everything of importance was crammed into this one level. His eyes ran to the hem of her skirt to see excessively flimsy shoes which would not support a woman of her weight.
“Would you like a seat, sirs?” Her expression was calm and accepting, but her eyes were those of someone who had experienced much disappointment. Somewhat ironic since all about the room were paintings of Miss Fairbrother in her theatrical successes.
“Thank you, Miss Fairbrother,” Gregson replied politely while seating himself. Sherlock moved to stand beside the fireplace.
“My husband sent you?” she asked, looking at Gregson.
“Well, no, Ma’am,” the inspector replied. “But his Royal Highness is in a bit of trouble, and I’m wondering if you could help me with that. We’d like to clear his name if at all possible.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 24