Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  “A woman?” she asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” nodded Sherlock, studying the photographs on the mantle piece. If, in fact, she had been married to the Duke of Cambridge, she would be the Duchess of Cambridge and he extended the proper address in the hope of winning her confidence, a ploy Gregson had clearly overlooked. Sherlock felt the woman who had borne the Duke three children deserved such an address, though the law didn’t agree.

  And I who have always been a stickler for the law. What is becoming of my ordered world? He knew who was stirring the pot: a Miss Mirabella Hudson.

  Fighting his distracting thoughts, Sherlock answered the lady. “A circus performer. Found dead.”

  Sarah shook her head. “George is a lot of things, but he would never kill a woman.”

  “And why is that, Miss Fairbrother?” asked Gregson.

  “Loves them too much,” she replied simply.

  “And you, Duchess, when was the last time you saw the Duke?” murmured Sherlock, moving about the room.

  “About a month ago, sir.” Her gaze rested favorably on him.

  “Does Prince George visit often?” asked Sherlock seating himself beside Gregson even as the tea arrived.

  The woman who had borne three children fathered by the grandson of the King of England and whose children were cousins to the Queen of England shook her head, adding a lump of sugar to her tea while unable to hide the longing in her eyes. “He pays his respects. And he takes care of the boys.”

  “There was a handkerchief found in the dead woman’s room with the initials ‘SF’” remarked Sherlock, taking a sip of tea. “How do you suppose it got there?” Sherlock watched her, noting that there was no surprise in her expression, which ordinarily would have been indicative of her guilt. Unfortunately, nothing about this case was ordinary.

  “I would expect that George dropped it accidentally,” she replied, her blue eyes steady and her lack of concern remarkable. She must know that the question inferred that she was a murder suspect. “He always picks up the lace for me when he travels to Paris.”

  “I need to ask, when Mrs. Beauclerk died—“ Gregson began.

  “George married me. He didn’t marry her, you know.” She glanced at a photograph on the mantle, her expression suddenly youthful if belligerent. “You’ve come from Scotland Yard, ‘ave you? That case is closed.” Sarah Fairbrother grew very stiff and her lips pursed together, as if she were finished with the conversation. She smoothed her blue taffeta dress around her which was of a fine material, and plenty of it. The furnishings were of fine quality, if outdated, and Miss Fairbrother had a maid. It was obvious that Prince George was taking care of her even if he was no longer in love with her.

  “There were chocolates in Mrs. Beauclerk’s room,” Gregson continued. “There was an identical box in the room of the deceased circus girl.”

  “You sent those chocolates, didn’t you Duchess?” Sherlock asked gently, already knowing the answer.

  “And poisoned them?” Gregson muttered.

  Sarah Fairbrother came quickly back to the present, but her eyes rested favorably on Sherlock. She then glared at Inspector Gregson, demanding, “You didn’t find any poison in the chocolate, did you?”

  “Not in the remaining chocolates,” Gregson replied. “We can’t be certain there wasn’t any poison in the chocolate she consumed.”

  “Do tell us, Your Grace, I have a friend rotting in jail for the crime who will surely hang if I don’t get to the bottom of this.” Sherlock added, “Forgive the inspector. He is not accustomed to be in the presence of royalty.”

  “You know I was the most celebrated actress of my day, Mr. Holmes.”

  “And the most beautiful. It is easy to see now that I have met you.”

  She smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling, and he began to see the sparkle that had attracted so many men. “And yet—Mrs. Beauclerk lived for thirty years with my husband—the best thirty years of my life. If I didn’t kill her when she was young, why would I kill her when she was an old woman?” She sighed heavily, dotting her eyes with her handkerchief. “George is the only man I have ever loved, you know.”

  “That I gathered, Madame. But he never deserved you,” stated Sherlock consolingly. “Although you must admit, it’s an odd coincidence that there would be chocolates in the room of two of your husband’s dead mistresses.”

  “It don’t mean it was me.” She added under her breath, “And possibly they should stay away from other women’s husbands.”

  “And you, Miss Fairbrother, where were you on the night of Thursday last?” asked Inspector Gregson.

  Both she and Dorothy chuckled, who was now adding hot water to the teapot.

  “Gregson,” Sherlock glanced at the blanket thrown over the back of the boxy chair Sarah Fairbrother was sitting in. “She was here, of course.”

  “Why of course?” demanded Gregson.

  “I’m an invalid, sir,” replied Sarah Fairbrother, pulling at the blanket to reveal wheels on her chair. “I haven’t been able to walk for fifteen years.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A Prisoner of his Own Mind

  “I cannot believe you, Mr. Holmes! You have truly stooped to new depths this time!” Mirabella exclaimed, enraged, as she paced Sherlock’s sitting room in the Le Grand Hôtel de la Paix, the whimsical embossed velvet curlicues in the wallpaper in direct contrast to her mood. “Your friend is in prison and you sit here smoking your . . . your . . . substances.”

  “I am smoking the substance, as you put it, in order to assist Watson.” Sherlock stared into the fire smoking his pipe without looking at her, dressed in his maroon velvet robe though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. “And . . . do you really think you should be alone in a man’s room, Miss Hudson?”

  She threw her arms in the air, the sleeves of her man’s suit tightening around her wrist. “I’m dressed as a man! No one could know. And anyway, I am alone all the time with you and Dr. Watson in your apartment in Baker Street.”

  “In the first place, Miss Hudson, you are working when you are in my flat in London. Here, you are only annoying me. In the second place, you really should give up trying to dress as a man, Miss Belle. It’s entirely unconvincing. Even a pillow at your waist cannot hide your curves.”

  “Now see here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” She moved closer to him and pointed her finger in his face. “We were not discussing my curves!”

  “I certainly was.” He took another puff on his pipe, a smile forming on his lips.

  “Do you see what I mean? This is not like you. You sound utterly foolish. You’re smoking your illicit substances and speaking gibberish—and you pretend to be on the case?”

  His grey eyes were reminiscent of a troubled storm as he ran his free hand through his coal black hair. Quietly he added, “I’m up against a wall.”

  “Are you quite serious, Sherlock? You’re using drugs because you can’t solve the case!” She was not accustomed to questioning her employer in this disrespectful manner, but she was utterly infuriated. John Watson’s life was at stake and Sherlock was using his pleasure drugs! If he had to do such a thing—which was anathema to her—at least it should be between cases.

  “Indeed. The illicit substance, as you put it, helps me to see clearly. What other reason could there be?” He glanced up at her from his chair. “Really, Miss Hudson, have you learned nothing in all your time in my presence?”

  “I have learned a great deal,” she sighed, moving to sit in the adjoining chair facing the fireplace but with a view of the Eiffel Tower. “The reason you indulge has nothing to do with the case. It is boredom and the need to be constantly stimulated, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I am bored, in fact,” Sherlock said, but his expression was one of interest.

  “You’re bored? Well then have a cup of tea and look out the window at the birds—or at the fashionable people strolling by.” She sighed. “Heaven knows I would love to have the time to do such things.”

/>   “Would you, Miss Belle?” he asked, but his expression was unmoved. “For me it is anathema.”

  “Clearly I don’t know the pain of being alone with myself as you do.”

  “I am longing to know the pain of being alone right now, in fact.”

  “God gave you this great mind and talent. Why do you wish to destroy that which you have been given, Sherlock Holmes?” She took the offensive pipe from his hand and placed it on the Louis IV stand between them but he made no move to reach for it. “You’re one of the greatest minds alive today.”

  “Of the century, I should say,” he shrugged indifferently.

  “Then why do you abuse your body—this gift you have been given?”

  “Only think, Miss Belle. Do try.” He stretched his long legs along the cream-colored carpet. In this setting of cream and taupe, his maroon satin robe stood out favorably, showing his physique to advantage.

  “There is no understanding you, Sherlock. It is hopeless.”

  “Only consider. I’m brilliant, my mind never stops. I don’t know how to function outside my mind.” He appeared suddenly somber and pensive.

  “Very true.” She poured a cup of tea for him, adding one lump of sugar and a generous dollop of cream, which she held out to him. “You are absolutely held captive by your mind.”

  “Precisely!” He took a sip of the tea. “Which is generally to be desired.”

  “But not in this case?”

  Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily. “Logic and deductive reasoning will generally solve the case, but at times, in my line of work, sometimes the answer only becomes clear when the mind stops and all the confines of thought are dissolved.” He closed his eyes momentarily, an expression of bliss present for only an instant. “One must be free of all limitations and be free to soar.”

  “Mr. Holmes, are you saying you can’t come to the answer without drugging yourself into sedation?” she pressed, sighing heavily.

  “Without question.”

  “Because your mind is too brilliant.”

  “Yes.”

  “How utterly ridiculous!”

  “Ridiculous or not,” he shrugged, opening his eyes and taking another sip of tea. “It is true. I don’t know how to stop my mind and, as you pointed out, my friend’s life is at stake.” He placed the teacup on the stand distractedly, appearing suddenly morose.

  “I’ll tell you why you use drugs, Sherlock Holmes. Because you like them. Any excuse will suffice.”

  He turned to raise his right eyebrow at her.

  “You prefer the drugged state because you cannot tolerate your own company,” she continued. And I can certainly sympathize with the feeling! “When you can’t come to a solution, when your mind is stale, you are forced to be with yourself. You are so uncomfortable with the solitary state that rather than persevering through it and learning to utilize it, your lack of discipline allows you to give up.”

  “Lack of discipline?” he chuckled. “You can’t be serious, Miss Belle.”

  “You are a most undisciplined person, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Right after your brother.”

  Sherlock huffed indignantly, his eyes taking on a sudden intensity. “Mycroft is most undisciplined, I’ll give you that, Miss Hudson, only doing that which pleases him. But I live for discipline, logic, and order.”

  “You, Mr. Holmes, give the appearance of one who is tireless and relentlessly determined,” she argued, “but yours is a drive born of an insatiable curiosity rather than the need to force yourself to do anything you do not wish to do. You only do precisely that what you wish to do: a luxury your exceptional intelligence and abilities have afforded you.”

  “How can you say that, Miss Belle, when I am scaling the sewers, on my hands and knees along the railroad tracks, tracking criminals in the middle of the night, and going without sleep until the case is solved?”

  “If one wishes to do something it cannot be considered discipline, can it?” she asked pointedly. “Perhaps you and your brother are alike in that: you only do that which you wish to do. You have merely been blessed with a great deal more energy and drive than your older sibling.”

  “Mycroft is assuredly the most hedonistic person of my acquaintance, and will accept nothing but the most luxurious of accommodations.”

  “The fact remains, Mr. Holmes, that you do not know how to do anything which does not please you. Every attribute has its corresponding detriment, and this is yours.”

  “I thank you for your unsolicited assessment of my character, Miss Hudson, though one might ask why you, who are financially dependent upon the talent, enterprise, achievements, and intelligence of that same character, consider yourself qualified to do so.”

  “I am sorry, sir, I merely wish for you to enjoy the life which is available to you—and which is inaccessible to most of us. And I cannot help but wonder if you, Sherlock Holmes,” she added deliberately, “the most gifted, amazing, and blessed person of my acquaintance, are happy.”

  “Happy?” he laughed, throwing his head back, his unruly dark curls flying everywhere. “Irrelevant.”

  “Hmph!” she exclaimed, now truly annoyed. “It is utterly repulsive to me that one of the most gifted men of all time destroys the vessel the rest of us would kill to have!”

  A seductive smile formed on his lips which she found somewhat disconcerting. “I do hate to see you in this repulsed state, my dear. Though it is quite becoming in its own way.”

  “And what is so horrid about your own company, Mr. Holmes?” she asked. “The more you give into the drug, the more difficult for you it will be. Now it is a simple distraction, but it will change your chemistry, and one day it will become something you crave. Your body will forever crave the drug.”

  “Miss Belle.” He took another puff on his pipe, closing his eyes momentarily. “Solve the case or leave me to my tried and true devices to solve it. If you have nothing to contribute, you are excused.”

  Mirabella pursed her lips, fuming. Sherlock was right. Until she was far more capable and had skills which could impress him into taking note of her opinion, she was wasting her breath as well as endangering her position. I cannot help him.

  She made a sudden resolve. I must study and learn everything I can from Sherlock Holmes so that I might be a worthy assistant. Until she was truly useful to the Great Detective—until she had earned his respect—she had no right to reproach him on any subject.

  She stood to leave. He took her by the hand and, for a moment, those stormy grey eyes held her frozen where she stood, as if there was something he wished to say to her but could not.

  “Miss Belle?”

  “Yes?” she asked, almost breathless from the grip he had on her hand.

  “Before you go, would you kindly draw my bath and call for a fresh pot of tea?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Alone in a Man's Boudoir

  Mirabella did not leave the Paris Le Grand that night. She stayed, sleeping in Dr. Watson’s room. She was too worried about Sherlock to leave him alone. Thankfully, Ashanti had her return performance with the tigers, leaving Mirabella free for the evening.

  Naturally Mirabella availed herself of a hot bath while she was at the Le Grand. Once must be clean, after all. Oh, my goodness, the hotel even provided a new bar of soap! The remains of which she put in her purse wrapped in a handkerchief.

  What is happening to me? I am not the respectable girl my mother and father raised! Thievery, but that was the least of her sins. They would be absolutely mortified to know that she had stayed in a man’s boudoir alone overnight!

  And if anyone else found out, she would be ruined. She should have paid more attention when Sherlock taught her disguises.

  “Good morning, Miss Belle.” Sherlock looked like a man who had indulged in a drunken orgy the night before. He was unshaven and his skin was ashen, his eyes red, and the curls of his dark, uncut hair rebellious. He had a decidedly masculine scent, though she knew he had bathed as she had drawn the bath her
self. The only undisturbing thing about the Great Detective was his maroon velvet dressing gown, pressed and clean.

  She rang the bell for tea and toast, retiring to the bedroom while it was delivered. Once the bellboy had left, she attended to the preparations.

  Sherlock took the hot tea she offered, and she was relieved to see that his hold on the teacup was firm and steady.

  “You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Holmes! Here you sit in your luxury hotel—no doubt recovering from an orgy of hedonism—while your friend sits in jail, alone.”

  “Not any closer? Au contraire, Mademoiselle Belle.” He stared out the window sipping his hot tea, appearing to savor it. Quite different from his disturbed countenance of late.

  “Excuse me?” She spun around, her hands now on both cheeks. “What do you mean Mr. Holmes?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “You really must improve your French, Miss Belle.”

  “Are you . . . did you . . . solve the case, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I did.”

  “Who is the murderer?” she demanded.

  “Ha! Ha! I am not a puppy dog at your beck and call, Miss Hudson. Nor will I condone the lazy of intellect.”

  Thank goodness. He is himself again.

  “If you are unable to piece it together for yourself, you shall know in due time,” Sherlock added.

  “How did you solve it, Mr. Holmes?” she asked excitedly. She wanted to scream with joy from the top of the Eifel Tower. She might do just that.

  “The way I always solve it. I told you mine was a tried and true method.”

  She shook her head in disapproval. “Mr. Holmes, I’m quite sure you could solve the case without the use of hallucinogens.”

  “Possibly. But, as you say, Watson was in jail, and the clock was ticking. Moreover, I rarely use hallucinogens. Now that is purely a drug for play.” He held his teacup as if toasting her, a devilish smile on his lips. “Stimulants are more in my line.”