She did as she was told, but her expression was brimming with impatience.
I am the one entitled to that sentiment and not she.
“What is it, Mr. Holmes? Your jars are washed, your specimens labeled, your tea served, and your flat is spotless. There is no cause to use an unkind tone with me.”
“I will decide when there is cause and when there is not, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” She sighed heavily.
“Where is my bearskin rug?”
“Your? . . . why . . . oh.” Her eyebrows knitted into a frown as she glanced at the exquisite Persian rug in maroon, grey, and cornflower blue underneath their two mahogany Wingback chairs facing each other in front of the fireplace, a bottle of brandy visible on the sideboard. The armchairs in an embossed rose satin had been out of place before the addition of the Persian rug, being the only nice pieces of furniture in the flat. She smiled. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Quite elegant, I should say, Holmes,” Dr. Watson considered, stretching his legs out before him. “Changes the look of the place.”
“I did not wish for a change.” The Great Detective cleared his throat followed by a cough. “Answer my question, Miss Hudson.”
“It was quite hideous, you know. And filthy. I moved it into your bedroom.”
“It was terribly dirty,” Dr. Watson agreed.
“And it still is,” nodded Mirabella in agreement. “But Mr. Holmes’ bedroom is such a frightful place that the dirt is barely noticeable in there.”
“Miss Hudson . . .” Sherlock picked up his violin and began plucking on the strings.
“Every time I looked at it, it gave me the shivers,” Mirabella replied. “The poor creature’s mouth open in anguish and ferocity, the last breath it took a futile attempt to save its own life. Naturally, one must kill to eat, but why on earth does one see something magnificent and the first thought is, ‘I must kill it’? I cannot for the life of me understand that.”
“I cannot for the life of me understand why you do not comprehend that I am the employer and you are the employee,” countered Sherlock. “The fact that I give you monetary compensation and you take it should be your first clue, Miss Hudson.”
Her face was suddenly flushed with color as she bit her lip, which he found strangely pretty, before she suddenly turned to smile innocently at him, all the while backing towards the door. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I depart, Mr. Holmes?”
“What did you say we needed, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked, tapping his finger on his chin as he watched Miss Mirabella sway to the door.
“A pretty female,” muttered Sherlock, considering the young lady before him shooting angry darts from her eyes.
“I thought that was what you said.”
The two men’s eyes locked on each other, slow smiles forming on their lips in unison.
CHAPTER FIVE
5
“What do you mean I must have new clothes? How can anyone afford new clothes on the salary you pay me?” demanded Mirabella, staring at Mr. Holmes, who had the nerve to insult her clothing in front of the oh-so-kind (and handsome!) Dr. John H. Watson. And it wasn’t the first time the great man had humiliated her in front of the exquisitely eligible doctor.
Mirabella was scurrying about the flat doing everything she could to escape from her captors that she might begin decorating the flat with the items she and Aunt Martha had procured in Newgate the day before. Sherlock was detaining her with one of his hair-brained schemes—involving her no less!
Why does he care what I am wearing? And what is wrong with my dress?
Hmphh! She had never in her life encountered anyone as rude as Sherlock Holmes!
“You live with your aunt downstairs—how many laboratory assistants are given free room and board?” demanded Holmes, looking over his copy of the Pall Mall Gazette while enjoying his morning tea only just poured by the object of his consternation. “That should make your salary sufficient.”
“May I remind you, Mr. Holmes, that the building belongs to my Aunt Martha,” Mirabella replied while dusting.
“And your point is?” Holmes persisted.
“You, most certainly, have not given me free room and board, so it cannot be calculated as a deduction to the salary you pay me.” She dusted Sherlock’s library shelves with an extra flourish.
“Bravo, Miss Mirabella!” exclaimed Watson, without taking his eyes from his paper. He and Holmes were on such easy terms it was difficult to believe they had only known each other some nine months. It was as if they had become friends from the moment of their meeting.
Mirabella could well understand how anyone would befriend John Watson, but befriending Sherlock Holmes was taking one’s life into one’s hands.
Although Dr. John Watson had his demons and his sleepless nights as well when the nightmares from the war revisited him. On such days John Watson was distracted and sad—but never arrogant and unkind as was Sherlock Holmes.
And never as intense.
“If you feel that is relevant to our discussion, Miss Belle, I suppose it must be admitted,” Holmes muttered with a nonchalant note of indifference as he snapped his newspaper.
“Only if you have no objection to my interjecting reason into the conversation, sir.”
“Reason? Ha!” Sherlock laughed, almost sputtering out his tea. “From you, Miss Belle?”
“I certainly appreciate your kindness in allowing me to live in the building owned by my Aunt.” And for all you know, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I may be the owner of the building someday and able to throw you out on your ear.
What a delightful thought, she giggled to herself.
Dr. Watson looked up from reading The Financial Times long enough to mutter, “How odd that you overlooked such a significant point, Holmes.”
She smiled sweetly at Dr. Watson. Sigh. How difficult it was to tear one’s gaze away from twinkling turquoise blue eyes and blonde-streaked brown hair.
But tear she did, forcibly fixing a glare on the handsome doctor’s illustrious companion, who repaid her deeply felt sacrifice by looking away as if he had heard nothing which had transpired.
She would not be deprived of beauty in vain.
“May I be allowed to remind you, Mr. Holmes, that I come to work every day, on time, clean and pressed, I have almost single-handedly classified your fingerprint collection, and I do an excellent job in your laboratory.” She brushed a lock of her chestnut brown hair out of her eyes, her long hair kept tied at the nape of her neck as Mr. Holmes did not like hairs in his experiments destroying the evidence.
“Yes, you do, that is not at issue. Nor is your cleanliness.”
“There, there, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson offered, straightening the vest of his three-piece brown tweed suit, turquoise threads running through-out the material.
He is positively dreamy. Did anyone else of her acquaintance have such a turn for fashion? A gold watch chain dangled from his vest, and his brown leather gloves and bowler hat sat beside him on the table, allowing one the privilege of enjoying the good doctor’s always neatly cut dark blonde hair. She best liked to view it in the sunlight or the firelight where the streaks of blonde shown to advantage.
“Sherlock is not criticizing your appearance,” Dr. Watson continued. “It is precisely because you are so pretty that your clothing has come into interest.”
“Me? Pretty?” She looked at Dr. Watson and almost melted. How could anyone be so handsome and yet so nice? Nice. Sherlock, though very handsome in his own dark, demented way and more likely to turn heads of the two, did not know the meaning of the word nice.
And she knew very well she was not at all pretty: she was the plainest of girls, with thick brown hair, even browner eyes—though her mother had said they were large and expressive and lush with lashes. Of course one could not trust one’s mother on such matters.
She supposed that her skin and features were well enough, but she was not a thin, frail girl as was the style.
Though Aunt Martha had pronounced her undernourished upon her arrival. (who had the time or blunt to eat?) She had certainly filled out under her Aunt Martha’s care, requiring that she let out the seams on her blouses! Her legs were her best feature, long and shapely (which no one saw!). Her height was slightly above average, some would say too tall. And she wore thick black glasses—and thoroughly grateful to have them, she was!
All in all, she was the plainest, most background, most average, perhaps even gangly, girl imaginable. She was barely noticeable—and hardly worth noticing.
“Of course you are pretty, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson muttered shyly, clearing his throat. “Sherlock and I are both in agreement on that.”
She glanced at each of them with apprehension. What horrible manner of joke is this? She had never known Dr. Watson to be cruel.
“That is very kind of you to say,” she murmured, “but I certainly am not going to spend my hard-earned money on clothing.” She threw a spiteful glance at Sherlock Holmes, crossing her arms in front of her. “I am saving it for university.”
“Which university shall you be attending, Miss Mirabella?” Dr. Watson asked.
“Naturally it would be the University of London, as this would be the only university which currently offers a degree to women,” Sherlock stated with indifference. “Certainly Oxford and Cambridge do not.”
Mirabella could barely contain her excitement. “Yes, you are correct!”
“Of course I am,” Sherlock murmured.
“Last year four women received a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of London,” Mirabella continued. “The first women ever to do so!”
“Ah, my alma mater, from which I obtained my degree in medicine,” Dr. Watson pronounced proudly.” And what shall your degree be in, Miss Hudson?”
“Chemistry. Or Biology.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Sherlock stated. “Women are almost universally excluded from studying medicine. And no woman has ever been granted a Bachelor of Science degree.”
“Things are changing quickly, Mr. Holmes,” she replied indignantly. “You wouldn’t have thought ten years ago a woman would be allowed to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree.” Having arrived at Sherlock’s desk, Mirabella picked up the handcuffs, wondering, not for the first time if they had been used—and when?
“Don’t touch those,” grumbled Sherlock.
“Do forgive me.” She returned the handcuffs to their shrine amongst his papers and below his photographs hung on the wall. I didn’t know they had a personal meaning.
How she would love to lounge about and sip tea while reading. Mirabella picked up the duster and moved to apply it to the fireplace mantle, paying particular attention to the bust of Sherlock with the bullet hole through the head.
“It’s all for the best.” Sherlock remarked, taking a sip of his tea as he turned to Dr. Watson.
“What’s all for the best?” she turned on Sherlock.
“We couldn’t trust Miss Hudson to keep her tongue in her head anyway,” Holmes replied, his gaze remaining on Watson. “Which is critical to the case.”
“Trust me? What is this about? Are you . . .” She gulped, moving towards them as she flung her duster about, releasing dust into the air. “Mr. Holmes, are you going to allow me to go on one of your cases? Are you serious? What do I need to do? When do we start?”
“It is dangerous work, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson cautioned. “It was an ill-conceived notion. Upon further reflection, I seriously don’t think . . .”
“Dangerous for whom?” laughed Sherlock. “Miss Hudson or the criminal? Personally, my pity goes out to the criminal.”
“Oh, I have dreamed of this ever since first hearing my aunt speak of your detective and forensic work,” Mirabella twirled in the middle of the room, her duster clutched to her chest. “I am very good at taking and preserving the integrity of specimens. And, as you know, the sight of blood—even cadavers—doesn’t bother me at all. Well, maybe a little, I’m not without a heart like some people.”
“Ah, and how does your solitary heart cope with the vile and wicked things we see, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked with interest.
“The horrible things we see only fuels the desire to see justice done,” she replied without hesitation, lunging her duster into the air. “At that point what can one do except avenge the innocent and protect others?”
“It is a lofty sentiment, but Miss Hudson has not been trained for this type of work,” Watson insisted, his expression more concerned than ever. “I’m quite serious, Holmes.”
“As am I,” replied Holmes, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “And she will be. Thoroughly trained.”
“Never fear on that subject, Dr. Watson,” she nodded adamantly. “I can shoot a gun—and even wield a punch on occasion! My brothers were the best boxers in the county.”
“Take my word for it, Watson,” Sherlock nodded, “Miss Hudson is surprisingly strong.” He rubbed his wrist absently.
“I might not know an awful lot about ladies’ things, but Aunt Martha can sew. She has long offered to make a new wardrobe for me—but of course I can’t afford the material as I must save every penny for university. Although it’s not that expensive if you know where to shop. And I do. Why . . .”
Why indeed? Why on earth would she need elegant clothing to work on a case, anyway? The whole idea was peculiar. Probably another of Sherlock’s misguided ideas. She had to keep an eye on him or he was likely to blow up the London flat or possibly kill himself with the chemicals and drugs he kept hanging about. The man was far too removed from the world at times. But if it meant she would be included on the mission, she would wear a burlap bag if Sherlock commanded it!
Her heart was pounding as she clutched the duster. Mirabella had no idea she wished to be on a criminal case so much.
I must be out of my mind.
Holmes tapped his index finger on his unshaven cheek. “In the first place, Miss Hudson, you have to focus on playing your part and keep your mouth closed. It can’t be done. And you would have to make a visit with my optometrist and get those new glass lenses to put in the eye.”
“Do you think so, Holmes?” asked Dr. Watson. “I like her glasses. They give her a very intellectual, sort of modern look.”
“Now wait just a moment, Mr. Holmes, I am not sticking a piece of glass in my eye!” The burlap bag, yes. Glass in the eye, no. She intended to use these eyes for a while. “If you think I’ll do that, you’ve got another thing coming!”
“No, the glasses would have to go.” Sherlock’s gaze was on Dr. Watson, ignoring her, even as all his remarks were clearly intended for her. “They don’t fit the role. We can’t take any chances. But it is of no moment; she can’t keep her mouth closed, so it won’t work.”
“I most certainly can!” She cleared her throat. “And I’m not the only person guilty of that transgression.”
“Do you see what I mean, Watson? She’s insubordinate, rude, unfeminine, and completely incapable of disciplining her tongue.” He bestowed his warmest smile upon her. “But she’s very good at washing jars and keeping the floors clean. Now run along, Miss Hudson. Attend to your parlor decorations and leave us to solving the real problems of the world.”
CHAPTER SIX
6
The real problems. She’d give him a real problem. Or two.
But the truth was that Sherlock Holmes was the real problem: he was utterly incorrigible. Cantankerous, rude, unpleasant, more than a little disturbed.
And the most brilliant man she had ever met.
A few hours later Mirabella was absorbed in sweeping the floors of the laboratory—for what seemed like the tenth time that day—when suddenly a horrible stench caught her nose, whiskey and heaven knows what else.
“Lor’ luv a duck!” A dirty, smelly man stumbled into her. “Where is da nearest pub, miss?”
“How did you get in here? This is a private residence!” She gasped, startled and frightened at finding an i
ntruder inside the building, inching backwards towards the fire poker while eyeing the location of Dr. Watson’s pistol.
And then she recognized the intelligent silvery grey eyes looking back at her. His normally dark hair was almost black with soot—and he reeked. Of sardines, tobacco, and whiskey. “Mr. Holmes, is that you? And have you been drinking?”
“Blimey, I never drink when I’m workin’,” he replied, chewing on the cigar hanging from his mouth and popping the suspenders which held up his too-large beige corduroy pants. He tipped his bowler hat to her. “And when I’m not workin’ there are uvver bad ‘abits mawer ter me taste, Miss Belle.” He winked at her.
“Oh, you stink, sir. If you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
“Spiffing. That’s what I was goin’ fer. Believabili’y is everythin’ in dis business. Speakin ‘ov which . . .” he took some crumpled bills out of his pocket and held them out to her. “Go an’ buy yaaahrself some pret’y dresses. I’ve decided what yew are da best bird fer da job I ‘ave in mind.”
“Truly? Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you! Oh, I promise you won’t be disappointed . . .”
“I’m awready dissy-pointed.”
She rushed forward to curtsey before him as hugging him would have been completely . . . frightful.
“Are those perfectly safe?” She stopped dead in her tracks as she stared at the crumpled bills he held out to her—and then at him. Mirabella“I presume that you have read Robert Koch’s recent publication on germ theory. Most notably his studies of the bacterium Bacillus anthracis.”
“Lawd above! There ain’t no anthrax on deese pound notes, little missy. . . . . Thuff some gloves might be in order.”
“Without a doubt,” she frowned, making no movement towards the bills which appeared, at first glance, to be more money than she had seen in a lifetime. “If you would kindly place the bills on the chair—your chair, not Dr. Watson’s—I will fumigate them and proceed to the Ladies’ Emporium. Never fear, Mr. Holmes, my Aunt Martha is an excellent seamstress, and we shall make good use of your funds. What precisely do I need for the assignment?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 4