“Sherlock Holmes!” she exclaimed, exasperated.
“Yes, Miss Belle?” he asked as he studied her, for once completely attentive, a smile on his unshaven face. She had to admit that Sherlock had a lovely smile on those rare occasions when he chose to utilize it, enlivened by his silver eyes which were always intensely focused.
“Are you certain that you know who the killer is, Mr. Holmes?”
“I do.”
“When will Dr. Watson be out of jail?” She felt a heavy sigh emerge from her lips, as if she had only begun breathing again.
“Soon. Very soon.”
She moved closer to him, attempting to divert her eyes from his masculine form. “Who is the murderer, Mr. Holmes? Please tell me.”
Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back. “Do you think I am simply going to tell you, Miss Belle? Show me that you have exercised your brain cells and made the slightest progress. You who have accused me of being undisciplined can provide me with nothing.”
She gulped. Oh, so Sherlock remembered that conversation, did he? I might have known.
“Show me some effort on your part,” he insisted. “Tell me who killed Joëlle Janvier.”
“Well,” she gulped. “It had to be someone who hated Miss Janvier. So that would be . . . me, Stanislav, Sarah Fairbrother, or Ashanti. And possibly Joëlle’s estranged husband.”
“The list of people who hated Miss Janvier is much longer than that, Miss Hudson,” Sherlock chuckled, taking another sip of his tea. “And who had the opportunity to kill her?”
“John . . . er, I mean, Dr. Watson or Prince George.”
“Tsk. Tsk. Wrong on both counts, Miss Belle.” He shook his head, his disappointment evident.
“But the only people who had access to Miss Janvier were Dr. Watson and Prince George.”
“Incorrect. They are the only two people I didn’t suspect from the beginning.”
“But—“
“Who is the murderer, Miss Belle? If you don’t answer the question correctly an innocent man will hang.” He placed his teacup on the mantle and moved closer to her, his robe open at the neck revealing his bare chest. His proximity made her a bit on the agitated side. Softly he added in an ominous tone, “I’ll give you a hint, although you have not earned it. It was a whipster.”
“But I don’t see . . . ? The murder weapon cannot possibly be a whip!” she exclaimed, utterly perplexed.
“The murderer must of necessity be someone who is able to use a whip. Since neither Prince George nor Doctor Watson are whipsters, neither of them could be the murderer. All the evidence points to someone else, it could not have been either of them anyway, but this is added confirmation.”
“You are saying that the murder weapon was . . . a whip?” she asked, disbelieving.
“Miss Belle, you astonish me,” murmured Holmes, leaning against the fireplace mantle. He left the teacup on the mantle and returned to his seat abruptly, moving to light his pipe. “I did not say a whip was the murder weapon. To the contrary, I said the murderer is someone who knows how to use a whip.”
I am completely confused. But regardless of whether or not she understood the words of Sherlock Holmes, she did not doubt their accuracy for a minute.
Oh, dear. It had to be Stanislav or Ashanti. Stanislav had an alibi—he was seen—at the time of the murder. It has to be Ashanti. Oh, heavenly Father, no. Please not Ashanti.
“Answer me, Miss Belle,” Sherlock implored her. “Who was the murderer?”
This was one of the most surreal moments of her life. “I think the murderer was . . . it was . . . Stanislav.” She studied Sherlock’s expression, hoping against hope that his countenance confirmed it.
“And what is the reasoning which led you to that conclusion, Miss Belle?” She could see his pulse beating rapidly at his neckline, a match to her own, she was sure.
“Because . . . he . . . because . . .”
“Because you like Mr. Afanasy the least of all the suspects?”
She nodded. It was so infuriating when Sherlock knew precisely what she was thinking. Of all Sherlock Holmes’ annoying qualities, this was the one she liked the least. It was much too intimate. Especially now.
“Tsk. Tsk. We are British, Miss Belle.” He set his pipe down. “If you wish to decide cases in that manner, you will have to move overseas, I fear.”
“Move overseas? Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
“There may very well be a place for you in the American judicial system, Miss Hudson.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A Meeting of the Minds
It was a veritable party of Europe’s most powerful and influential law enforcers. Chief Arkadiy Harting, head of the Russian Imperialist Police in Paris was present. Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson, head of Scotland Yard, had crossed the English channel to be one of the esteemed party. Prince George, supreme commander of the British army, as well as cousin to and confidante of Queen Victoria, was reluctantly in attendance, along with his Cossack bodyguard Kazimir who stood near the door in his gypsy attire, as colorful as it was billowy, a saber strapped to his side. Also present was Alphonse Bertillon, Head of the French Forensic Identification Department.
Never to be absent from any gathering of importance, Mycroft Holmes was present, who some said had far too much influence in the British government, along with his younger brother, Sherlock, fast climbing the ladder of fame and beginning to catch the notice of both Scotland Yard and the Queen of England.
Here some of the leading minds in criminology spanning three countries converged.
“All for the death of a circus bare-backed rider,” Mycroft Holmes murmured under his breath as his eyes scanned the room, seated beside his brother at a round table.
“Ah, but Mademoiselle Janvier was so much more than a circus performer to have warranted such a gathering,” replied Sherlock quietly, only heard by Mycroft as everyone else was chatting amongst themselves. Sherlock was not only a master of disguise but had learned to control his voice so that it was only audible to the intended party.
“True,” replied Mycroft. “She represented revolutionary unrest across Europe, in France, England, and Russia, and, in fact the entire continent. Monarchies have ruled for centuries, a remnant from feudal times. Whether that which is to come will be better or worse is yet to be seen, but everyone knows that change is in the air.” He took a sip of the tea already served. “Miss Joëlle Janvier was an affront to the old school represented here, desperately clinging to the status quo.”
“Do you think so, brother dear?” Sherlock murmured. “I should say Miss Janvier was an affront to almost everyone.”
Mycroft shrugged with indifference. “True. But was her death politically motivated—or was it personal, an act of passion?”
“And have you worked out the answer to that question, Mycroft?”
“Of course. But do carry on, Shirley.” Mycroft yawned, having no need of the glory—or the effort required to obtain it. “Should you like to go for an early drink when this is concluded? I fear it has taken a toll on my nerves.”
“Naturally. I worry for your continued health, Mycroft. You must learn not to exert yourself to such an extreme.” Sherlock glanced at Watson, in chains, accompanied by Dubuque, who had escorted the good doctor here from La Santé Prison.
“Quite so.” Mycroft put a large dollop of cream in his tea. “I can’t seem to contain myself.”
“You’re not the only one, my dear brother.” Studying Watson more closely, Sherlock concluded that Watson didn’t look any worse for wear, the color having returned to his complexion. The good doctor was looking well if unshaven and unkempt. No doubt the news that he was soon to be released from his chains had elevated his mood.
No, the ordeal had not hurt the handsome philanderer and had no doubt given Watson time for reflection. Of which he was seriously in need. Sherlock had always known Watson to be a lady’s man but had been dismayed to learn just how much of a rake hi
s friend could be given enough blunt and encouragement.
There are some places a man of honor should never go. Sherlock pursed his lips as he thought of Miss Belle. Even a rake should keep his actions confined to those ladies who understood what the game was about.
Sherlock forced himself to observe all those present as his thoughts were momentarily more uncontrolled than was comfortable for him. In addition to the criminologists, also present were the murder suspects: the maid Francine, Stanislav Afanasy, Ashanti Van Horn, Veronika Vishnevsky, and, of course, Dr. John Watson and Prince George.
Sarah Fairbrother, Prince George’s mistress and the mother of his children, sent her regrets due to her infirmity, and was excused.
The party sat in a large room overlooking the River Seine in a building near to the Ministere de la culture. The air was dark with the smoke of coal-burning tug boats putting along on the river, mixed as they were with pleasure boats and fishing boats. Despite the black smog, a more beautiful city was difficult to imagine with its cathedrals and palaces, exquisite architecture, elaborate formal gardens and statues, quaint bridges and fashionable people.
“Gentlemen.” Sherlock rose at the head of the table, seated beside his brother Mycroft. “And ladies.” He nodded his head towards Miss Ashanti Van Horn and Miss Francine.
And among these powerful players there was yet another woman here by invitation, at Sherlock Holmes’ insistence: a Miss Mirabella Hudson, chief bottle washer and of no use to anyone—except, apparently, to the Great Detective.
Those seated about the table turned and stared at her disinterestedly as she entered the room carrying a notepad and pen as Sherlock had instructed her to do. The Cossack glanced at her from the door for only an instant. No one would question the need for a transcriptionist.
“My secretary,” Sherlock said.
***
Mirabella took a seat at a small table in the corner, showing her deference to those at the grand table.
In an instant all the hardship I have endured is worth it. The tiger’s fangs, the bloody corpses, the fencing and pistol lessons, even the lace doilies. Mirabella was thrilled beyond belief and thought her eyes might never close again as she scanned the room wide-eyed.
There was no reason for Sherlock to include her, she knew that.
Why did he? She knew very well that Sherlock Holmes didn’t need a note taker: every word spoken, every gesture was committed to his memory. Why had he taken this action which he must know would mean the world to her and which afforded her the utmost respect?
Sherlock Holmes might push her to the extremes, but, underneath it all, she was finally beginning to realize that his forcefulness which bordered on persecution revealed that he had faith in her. As he had in so few people.
And here is my reward.
“As you know, we are here to shed further light upon the murder of Mademoiselle Joëlle Janvier, a Russian spy of some resolve,” Sherlock began. “Technically she died a married woman and was a Mrs. Bezborodov, but for purposes of this inquiry we will refer to the deceased as Miss Janvier, as we all knew her.”
Some knew her better than others. Mirabella glanced at John Watson.
“We know the following,” continued Sherlock. “Joëlle Janvier was married in Russia to a Dr. Bezborodov, who in recent months strongly desired to remarry.”
“Divorce is only possible through a church court in Russia,” Bertillon said. “Since divorce was exceedingly difficult, there could be only one infallible solution to his problem.”
“If you ask me, Bezborodov did it! The swine!” interjected Prince George.
CHAPTER FORTY
A Terrorist Plot
“I wouldn’t think so,” replied Mycroft, taking a sip of hot tea lavishly adorned with cream. “There was a large monetary payment made to Mrs. Bezborodov, presumably to entice her not to put anything in the way of the proceedings. There is generally a way if enough money is involved—even for the church.” Mycroft shrugged.
“The existence of the bribe indicated, at least, that someone believed there was a way,” Sherlock added. “In some cases divorce is possible if infidelity can be proven—particularly by the woman—and there was certainly evidence of this.”
“For reasons better left undisclosed, the divorce had to be kept secret: the doctor could not afford the publicity. Much associated with Miss Janvier was better kept secret.” Mycroft stared pointedly at Prince George, appearing every bit the royal dressed in his regal attire: a red uniform, a pale blue sash across a not inconsequential torso, and a vivid display of gold braid and medals.
“However that might be, let us address Miss Janvier’s allegiance,” Sherlock continued. “Through the expert detective work of Dr. John Watson, we discovered that during the early days of her marriage, Miss Janvier took a vow to serve each the revolutionaries and the Okhrana. It has been a mystery to many which of those vows inspired her true loyalty.”
Chief Arkadiy Harting spoke up at this point. “Miss Janvier chose allegiance to the Okhrana. Thus, she became a double-agent as regarded the revolutionaries.”
“So, in effect,” Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson, studied Chief Harting, “You were her boss.”
Mycroft frowned. “In so far as anyone was Miss Janvier’s boss, yes.”
“That’s precisely the point, isn’t it, Chief Harting?” Sherlock asked. “Miss Janvier was betraying the Okhrana as well, wasn’t she? She took the money, but she had no allegiance to anyone. She was a triple agent in point of fact. And you were one of the few who had her number early on.”
“Certainly not,” Chief Harting retorted, his expression suddenly stone-faced.
“Please do give us some credit, Chief Harting,” Sherlock continued. “Otherwise, how can you explain the fact that Czar Alexander II was not aware of the attack on that fateful Sunday, and that the terrorists were so strategically placed? There can hardly be a bigger clue to Miss Janvier’s allegiance than the murder of the Czar, can there? And it gets worse, doesn’t it?”
“How can it possibly get worse than the murder of the Czar?” Chief Harting replied somberly.
“The duma,” Mycroft stated.
“The council assemblies to be elected by the people? But those were reversed by Alexander III,” Chief Harting argued.
“Precisely,” Sherlock continued. “Miss Janvier was in a position to know—she had to have known about the duma—and with that information she might have calmed her group and used her position for the future good of her country and its ninety-seven million inhabitants.”
“She had the power to save everyone—her people and the Czar,” Mycroft murmured.
Sherlock leaned closer to Harting. “But, instead, she fueled the fan—potentially destroying her country’s future hopes. For that, you despised her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Harting nodded, anger suddenly evident in his reddened complexion. “The sorceress betrayed the Mother Russia. She betrayed everyone. When she left Russia, it wasn’t because of her husband, it was because there were those in the Okhrana who suspected her. So she came to Paris and joined the circus. Not until later did she regain favor with the Okhrana—against my protests.”
“But because the terrorist group was successful in its assassination of the Czar, understandably the revolutionaries were more positive towards her.” Sherlock paused, frowning. “But the Okhrana had its doubts. The Czar had died after all. So she had to do something to regain favor with the Russian government: she had to sacrifice a few men to the cause. She gave names of the revolutionaries who had killed the Czar to the Okhrana.”
“Yes, the men who were executed: those who had thrown the bombs.” Chief Harting nodded.
“On the alter of Joëlle Janvier,” Mycroft murmured.
“Some might say that Mademoiselle Janvier was the one who threw the bomb, though she never touched it?” Sherlock pressed.
“Yes.” Chief Harting nodded, regaining a modicum of his control. He had, after all, been
trained not to reveal his true emotion.
“But you were ordered to work with her, weren’t you, Chief Harting? Those above you are not as perceptive as you.” Sherlock asked. He tapped his fingers on the table. “And you held her personally responsible.”
Chief Harting nodded.
“But despite the reality, Miss Janvier appeared to be very successful, did she not, Chief Harting?” Mycroft asked. “Those in high places believed that you were the two best agents in the entire Russian Imperialist Police. A great team. The Circus was an effective front for her political activity, and Paris is the center of Russian revolutionary activity.”
“She was a master of deception,” replied Chief Harting, nodding. “Miss Janvier once even stopped a bomb plot in St. Petersburg, saving Alexander III’s life.”
“Possibly a plot of her own planning?” Sherlock asked.
“Possibly.” Chief Harting closed his eyes momentarily. “But she was in good standing with the Russian government, who would hear none of my protests.”
“As it is, the oppression of the people is much stronger than it was under Alexander II, and the revolutionary groups much more active as well,” Mycroft noted. “Miss Janvier created more work for herself on both sides.”
Chief Harting sighed, grief crossing his expression. “Now the country is reduced to people executing each other, and it doesn’t make a great deal of difference. But on that fateful day when Alexander II was executed, it made all the difference in the world. If that had not happened, the tide would have turned.” Chief Harting took out his handkerchief and dotted his eyes, as if he wept for every one of his countrymen.
“Ah, but it can always get worse, can’t it, Chief Harting?” Sherlock interjected. “If Miss Janvier had lived, no doubt she would have made an attempt on the life of Czar Alexander III as well.”
Mycroft added, “Miss Janvier was planning a trip. The letter found near her nightstand from the Czar inviting her to the palace was proof of that. If she had access to the Czar—Miss Janvier was a favored person at this point after all—she could get into the palace and kill him herself.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 26