“Wouldn’t a personal letter from the Czar indicate that Miss Janvier was on the Czar’s side?” asked Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson.
“I believe the letter indicated that Miss Janvier had wielded an invitation and planned to kill the Czar personally,” Sherlock stated. “Recall that we have more than this letter to support our conclusion: if Joëlle Janvier was on the Czar’s side, she was sadly ineffective in protecting Alexander II from the assassination. Did she assist with the murder of Alexander II as retaliation for the death of her father? And was she still plotting to kill Alexander III?”
“But she would be caught and hanged,” Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson objected, clearly incensed at this travesty to justice.
“Perhaps. But the relevant point is that she didn’t believe she would be—and therefore might have made the attempt.” Mycroft said. “All the success had gone to her head.”
“Precisely,” continued Sherlock. “Miss Janvier had been successful for so long at having other people take the blame for her crimes that she began to think herself invincible and the rest of the world idiots. She was extremely narcissistic and believed that everyone else was inferior.”
“What an odd thing for you to say, Holmes,” Watson murmured, his hands still in chains.
“Arrêtez vous!” Dubuque commanded Dr. Watson. “Be silent!”
“Some of us use our gifts to benefit mankind,” Sherlock continued, his eyes resting on Dr. Watson. “But back to Miss Janvier. As much as Miss Janvier loved money, I believe that she loved power more.”
“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. “She used her sexuality . . .” he glanced at Watson “she used whatever she had. She reveled in the knowledge that she had the power to put revolutionaries in jail, that she could kill people without getting her own hands bloody, that she could control all sides and every side. She knew how to manipulate and deceive. The idea that she might kill the Czar of Russia and get away with it—a person who had felt so powerless as a child—was intoxicating to her.”
“She cherished delusions of grandeur,” Sherlock pronounced. “She imagined that she could control not only those around her but the fate of entire countries—millions of people—and therefore the course of the world. It made her feel . . . safe.”
“And, in the end, it killed her.” Mycroft added.
“You have no proof of this. It is only a theory,” stated Lieutenant Dubuque.
“Ah, but there is a great deal of proof of Miss Janvier’s mental state,” replied Sherlock. “She was a triple agent, Chief Harting will confirm this. We know that she sent many men to the hangman’s noose, her purported comrades. Did she appear to have any remorse over this? Not at all. She tormented Mr. Stanislav Afanasy and Miss Van Horn continuously. She kept her husband in a state of purgatory, and enjoyed making new conquests.” He glanced at Watson and Prince George. “A woman interested solely in money or in protecting her country would have behaved differently, with a different focus. It was primarily about the power.”
“It is difficult to believe that she deceived so many,” Inspector Bertillon mused.
“Sometimes the mentally demented are far more successful than the normal person because the deranged believes his inner lie so unequivocally that he is able to convince everyone else of it,” Mycroft replied.
“There is someone she did not deceive, however,” murmured Sherlock, looking at the group of suspects before him. “The murderer.”
“You killed her!” Prince George exclaimed to Chief Harting. “You should have turned her in!”
Chief Harting grew somber. “I did not kill her.”
“True, you were not at the scene of the murder,” Sherlock stated. “Logically, there could have been only one person to have killed Miss Janvier.”
Everyone leaned forward at the table.
“The last person to enter the room,” Sir Edmund Henderson stated. “And the person no one suspected. Miss Francine.”
“Moi? I did not kill her!” Francine, the maid, exclaimed.
“If Prince George did not kill her and Dr. Watson did not kill her, it had to be you, Miss Francine,” Sir Edmund continued. “Lieutenant Dubuque swears that no one else entered or left the room.”
“Non! Non! I did not!” Francine exclaimed, throwing her head into her hands.
“Ordinarily you would not have been strong enough to kill such an athlete as Miss Janvier was,” Mycroft murmured. “Unless she had been drugged.”
“She was drugged,” Dubuque offered. “There were odd herbs in her system. Even morphine.”
“Yes, in trace amounts,” Dr. Watson offered. “In quantities which might have drugged an ordinary woman, but recall that everyone has a different tolerance to drugs. I don’t believe the amount present would have impacted Miss Janvier significantly.”
“Oh, and why is that?” Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson asked.
Dr. Watson added under his breath, “You would be astonished at how much champagne she could drink.”
“I must say that I agree. I believe the herbs in her system were for a different purpose altogether.” Sherlock turned to alight his eyes upon Ashanti, seated next to Francine.
“Arretez! Enough of this!” exclaimed Lieutenant Dubuque. “Whatever the political intrigue you seek to confuse us with, Mr. Holmes, it matters not! We all know, Mr. Holmes, that vous amie, your friend, Dr. Watson, was the murderer!”
“Impossible, Lieutenant Dubuque,” replied Sherlock with a heavy sigh. “Please listen this time, so I do not have to repeat myself unnecessarily.”
“And why is it impossible that Dr. Watson should be the murderer?” asked Bertillon.
Watson’s eyes were glued to Sherlock in intense interest.
“Dr. John Watson could not have strangled Miss Janvier with his bare hands as the marks on her neck were not those made by hands,” explained Sherlock. “And there was no weapon found on his person. It is very simple, really. The murderer could not have been Dr. Watson.”
“Hmmm,” replied Bertillon, tapping his cheek in thought. “Prince George, on the other hand—”
“Oui, the handkerchief with the initials ‘SF’,” muttered Dubuque.
“An interesting point,” considered Bertillon. “Voila! Sarah Fairbrother is a very interesting suspect from the beginning.”
“Did Miss Fairbrother kill Miss Janvier?” asked Sir Edmund Henderson, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, not one to beat around the bush. “Were the chocolates from Miss Fairbrother?”
“They were,” replied Sherlock. “It is inconceivable that both Miss Janvier and Mrs. Beauclerk would have had an anonymous gift of the exact same chocolates from two separate people, particularly since Miss Fairbrother was so resentful of both.”
“Are you saying Sarah was the murderer?” Prince George asked, as if he believed her fully capable of performing the deed despite her infirmity.
“No.” Mycroft repeated. “The remaining chocolates in the box were not poisoned, and we do not believe that the one she ate was poisoned either—or that the cause of death was poison, despite the odd contents of her stomach.”
“I will unveil the murderer to everyone’s satisfaction,” said Sherlcok.
“Do continue, Shirley, I don’t wish to miss afternoon tea,” murmured Mycroft, dipping a cookie into his hot tea in an elaborate blue china cup.
“That would be a travesty,” muttered Watson, jingling his iron chains.
“Very well. Miss Fairbrother sent the chocolates, but they were not poisoned. No doubt they arrived with a note of warning in the vein of ‘Stay away from other women’s husbands,’ words Miss Fairbrother uttered to me herself. It would not surprise me in the least if Miss Fairbrother believes the words to have some power in ensuring that justice will prevail.”
“Particularly since two of her rivals have perished shortly after reading them,” murmured Mycroft patting his mouth with a handkerchief.
“You can’t mean the chocolates and the note
were a threat and nothing more?” sputtered Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson.
“Indeed I do,” Sherlock stated definitively.
“Do you have any intention of revealing the real murderer during this lifetime, Holmes?” Prince George demanded. “I don’t think it necessary to bring the mother of my children into it if she has nothing to do with it!”
“Everyone has something to do with it,” retorted Sherlock. “From the beginning, this was a difficult case to solve as there were so many people who had reason to hate Miss Janvier.”
“Difficult but not impossible,” murmured Mycroft.
“Agreed. As we established, Miss Janvier investigated revolutionary activity and reported it to her boss, Chief Harting.” Sherlock turned to stare at Stanislav, no amusement in his expression. “Your revolutionary activity, Mr. Afanasy.”
“I am not murderer! Only attended meetings,” exclaimed Stanislav. His eyes grew suddenly soft. “And I loved her.”
“Did you?” asked Mycroft.
Sherlock then turned to Ashanti, who looked particularly beautiful in a white linen day suit with bustle which was cut to her athletic form, her dark eyes and skin radiant. “And Miss Janvier was blackmailing you, was she not, Miss Van Horn?”
“Yes,” nodded Ashanti. “She said she would hurt tigers if I did not give her diamonds.”
“But you were saving the diamonds to build better facilities for the tigers, were you not? So, no matter what Miss Janvier did, it hurt the tigers, the creatures you love most in all the world.”
Ashanti nodded.
“And you drugged her with the intent to kill her?” Mycroft asked.
“No. I did so she would not come back in animal form—and to help the baby.”
“The baby who was Stanislav’s?” Sherlock asked quietly.
Ashanti did not answer.
“O Bozhe moi!” Oh my God! Stanislav’s eyes grew wide open in obvious surprise. He clearly hadn’t known. He took his head in his hands in sudden grief.
“I do not believe that you killed her, Miss Van Horn,” Sherlock nodded. “Someone beat you to it.”
“Yes,” agreed Ashanti, a hint of disappointment in her expression, as if she might have wished it to be her. “But I could not have killed her. I could not harm the innocent baby.” She added quietly, “I have seen too much killing and pain.”
“You are not on trial for the desires of your heart, Miss Van Horn—or we would be able to convict many in this room,” added Sherlock.
Ashanti stared at the Great Detective aghast as if she had fully expected to be the scapegoat for the murder.
“As we have learned, Miss Janvier was ever in search of greater reward, both in terms of riches and excitement.” Sherlock returned his gaze to Chief Harting. “And she was not a double agent but a triple agent. Subsequently, she betrayed even you, did she not, Chief Harting?”
“Of course, I already said . . .” He stood up, but his demeanor was perfectly calm.
“No, I am speaking of her betrayal of you, personally, not of her betrayal of Russia. It wasn’t that you had attempted to inform the Czar of her duplicity—but that you dared not. She was blackmailing you as well. That is the source of your guilt, is it not? That because you kept quiet, the Czar died. She threatened to reveal your secret to the newspapers, did she not, in spite of the fact that your alliance had given her everything she had.”
“All the information was there! It was as clear as the red blood on the white snow!” Harting exclaimed. “It would have made no difference!”
“We’ll never know, will we, Mr. Harting?”
Mycroft’s cookie paused in mid-air as he stared at Chief Harting, suddenly very interested in the proceedings.
“She knew,” Sherlock leaned forward, “as you must, that you are the convicted terrorist Abraham Hackelman, and an escapee from prison.”
“You idiot! You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Prince George, jumping up out of his seat, “The head of the Russian Imperialist Police a terrorist!”
“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” remarked Bertillon, smiling.
But a splash had been heard and Harting was out the window, landing in the Seine below. In a short time he was out of view amidst the steamboats, although the commotion was further aggravated with people shouting and bells whistling.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Loyalty
“Attrapez-le! Attrapez le meurtrier!” Catch him! Catch the murderer! Lieutenant Dubuque yelled out the window.
“Oh, but it wasn’t Harting who killed Miss Janvier,” remarked Sherlock, staring distractedly out the window as he moved to stand by the lieutenant.
“Mon Dieu! But you said—” demanded Bertillon. “He’s jumped out the window!”
“I didn’t direct Harting to jump out the window!” replied Sherlock, shaking his head in disapproval. “I hardly think I can be blamed for that.”
“Possibly he has always had a longing to do such a thing,” Mycroft added.
“Why did Harting run then, if he wasn’t the killer?” demanded Bertillon
“I should think it would be obvious by now,” murmured Sherlock, wrinkling his brow in disappointment. “He ran because he was found out. Harting was a double-agent for years, acting as one of the revolutionaries, even being convicted and going to jail to maintain his cover, and eventually rising to the rank of Chief of Police in the Okhrana.”
“Harting is not, in truth, a terrorist,” considered Sir Edmund Henderson, who understood the workings of espionage as the head of Scotland Yard. “He was merely convicted as one. He was an underground agent.”
“Precisely,” added Sherlock. “Harting was playing his role so well that no one knew he was working for the other side. He was sent to jail as one of the revolutionaries. It is extremely dangerous work to be a double-agent.”
“He might have learned something in jail,” considered Dr. Watson reluctantly. “He had to keep his faith with the revolutionaries.”
“Even so, you can’t have the Director of the Russian Imperialist Police exposed as a convicted terrorist. Very bad for the image,” argued Mycroft. “What if the Prime Minister of England, or the President of the United States were exposed as a convicted terrorist? Do you think they would long stay in power?”
“But only think—“ insisted Dr. Watson, joining the conversation.
“We may certainly think, Watson, but we can never force anyone else to do so, nor will we,” murmured Sherlock.
“Alors! I assure you that the publicity alone will damage the reputation of both the Okhrana and the Russian Czarist government,” considered Lieutenant Dubuque. “Not to mention the French police that it was under their nose.”
“I am sorry to ask question, but . . . do you think they will catch Harting?” asked Ashanti. Clearly she knew what it was to be hunted and to be in hiding.
“No possibility of that whatsoever,” stated Mycroft.
“Why?” demanded Prince George, inadvertently touching one of the medals on his sash. “He should be tried. It is the law. If he is not guilty he will be released.”
“Remember that when Harting was convicted, many others were too,” considered Sir Edmund. “Why was he never executed? Because he was on the side all along of the Czars and he was merely doing his job.”
“Then why did he run?” persisted Prince George.
“Because the police would be forced to arrest him, it’s on the books. But they won’t go after him, and they won’t report it to the papers – unless there is a leak,” muttered Henderson, the head of Scotland Yard, adding with a command as he turned to glance at Mirabella. “Don’t put that in your notes, girl.”
“The reading populace is . . . easily swayed,” considered Mycroft. “All the opposing political side has to do is to slant the story and the populace is eager to believe it.”
“But shouldn’t Harting stay and face the music?” demanded Prince George.
“He certainly had motive to remove Miss Janv
ier,” considered Mycroft. “Hers was a crime against Harting, against their friendship, against the French and Russian governments, and even against the Czar. It is a betrayal against not only the French police but the czarist police.”
“And the Russian people,” agreed Sherlock. “But Harting didn’t kill Miss Janvier and he had nothing to do with it.”
“Why then did you expose him, Mr. Holmes?” asked Bertillon, appearing to be curious.
“I have not exposed Harting to the press. I merely stated the truth for our inner circle. I do not see how I can be blamed for his dramatic exit. I certainly did not ask Harting to leave.” Sherlock appeared amused with the proceedings.
“ENOUGH!” exclaimed Chief Henderson. “We have expostulated long enough. Who killed Mademoiselle Joëlle Janvier?”
Sherlock turned to Prince George. “Why don’t you tell us who killed her, your highness?”
“But it couldn’t have been Prince George,” interjected Watson. “He left before I did. And she was alive when I left.”
“True.”
“And you said it had to be someone who knew how to wield a whip,” Sir Edmund said.
“Yes, that limits the playing field, does it not?” agreed Sherlock.
“A whip? Are you mad?” exclaimed Lieutenant Dubuque. “There were no rope marks on her neck!”
“But we know that she was killed by asphyxiation. Meaning that she was strangled,” Sherlock reiterated.
Lieutenant Dubuque was almost red in the face. “If there were no rope marks on her neck, how could she have been strangled?”
“Correction. There were marks. Small, round, uniform marks,” said Sherlock. He turned to Mirabella, who was writing in the corner. “What do you say, Miss Hudson? Who killed Miss Janvier?”
“If it was a whipster, it had to be Miss Van Horn, Mr. Stanislav, myself, or you, Sherlock,” Mirabella said quietly.
“Bon.” Bertillon turned to Ashanti. “For my money, I think it was Mademoiselle Van Horn, if those they are the parameters. Of all the candidates, she had the most reason to hate Miss Janvier to my way of the thinking.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 27