Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess

by Suzette Hollingsworth

  Sherlock raised his eyebrow, glancing at Mirabella.

  “She means the corset,” Mirabella remarked.

  Miss de Beauvais closed her eyes momentarily, apparently quite distressed. “Do you see what I mean? Most inappropriate conversation!”

  “You brought it to our attention, Miss de Beauvais. My niece did not. Since your accusation regarding the matter is your justification for dismissing Miss Carnegie, what choice does she have but to explain the matter? If she says nothing, you dismiss her; if she vindicates herself, you dismiss her on the grounds that it was inappropriate conversation!”

  Miss de Beauvais shook her head, appearing most discomfited.

  “You see, Uncle Lochlan, the school requirement is to utilize the corset to reduce the waist one inch per month until Miss de Beauvais determines the waist is small enough. We have heard rumor that one girl left this school with a fourteen inch waist.”

  “It is no rumor, it is true,” replied Miss de Beauvais with obvious pride. “These type of results set our school apart.”

  “No doubt they do,” Sherlock agreed.

  “Some of the girls are fainting, none can eat much, some have headaches,” Mirabella continued. She added under her breath, “It is no wonder that Alexandra is a bit ill-tempered.”

  “And some experience a sort of euphoria . . .” added Miss de Beauvais. “None have complained to me.”

  “Oh, I think they quite like the competition, and the results,” Mirabella continued. “The girls are required to wear the corsets even when they sleep. Being allowed to remove them for bathing, perhaps a few hours a week.”

  “And you refused to be subjected to this regimen, Mirabella?” Sherlock asked sternly.

  “I did,” Mirabella replied.

  “Good,” pronounced Sherlock. “Thus far, Miss de Beauvais, all you have done is point out that my niece is more intelligent than the other girls and not swayed by the admonitions of either you or the group, indicative of an independence which the Carnegies value.”

  “Independence is well and good among the male population,” Miss de Beauvais replied. “But not the female.”

  “I beg to differ—independent thought has kept my niece alive, and possibly the other girls as well. Moreover, I must note that Princess Elena is extremely independent, and she will very likely be the queen of Italy in the future.”

  Sherlock would have wished to pursue that line of logic when at that moment there was a frantic knock on the door.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Carnegie, but my mind is made up,” Miss de Beauvais continued, ignoring the interruption. “Our business is concluded. I think it best that Miss Carnegie find another school.”

  “Then there is the not so little matter of a refund,” stated Sherlock, puffing on his pipe and appearing as if he were settled in for the afternoon.

  “We never refund, particularly if it is determined the young lady is unsuitable.”

  Miss de Beauvais frowned at the maid opening the door. “I thought I instructed you—”

  “Miss de Beauvais! A representative of—”

  A very large dark-skinned man of African-Arabic descent flung the door wide open, strutting in the room. He was wearing a top hat, a maroon silk Ascot cravat, a white pressed shirt, and black tails.

  “Mr. Abdul-Majid,” she nodded. “Mr. Carnegie and his niece were just leaving.”

  Momentarily the large man turned and bowed to Sherlock, who, in point of fact, was not leaving, before resuming his ferocious gaze upon Miss de Beauvais.

  Sherlock had to admit that Miss de Beauvais had courage; she did not appear ruffled.

  “What is this?” Mr. Abdul-Majid demanded, flapping a piece of paper about.

  “I’m sure I don’t know; I can’t see it. But wouldn’t you prefer to discuss it in private? Mr. Carnegie, I believe our business is concluded.”

  Sherlock continued pressing the tobacco into his pipe, feigning disinterest.

  “I have a telegram from King Nicholas I of Montenegro.”

  Sherlock glanced at the paper in Mr. Abdul-Majid’s hands with interest. No doubt King Nicholas had received his telegram stating that there were indications that Miss Mirabella was not in good standing with Miss de Beauvais, the same Miss Mirabella who had saved Princess Elena’s life.

  He reflected with satisfaction that he had surmised correctly when he had first received a summons from Miss de Beauvais. The only possible explanation for such a summons was the removal of Miss Belle from the premises—or the threat of doing so. The tone of Miss de Beauvais’ note had not been congratulatory but ominous.

  Please come immediately. There is a matter of grave importance to discuss. He did not know the specific transgression committed by Miss Hudson, but she had a way of ruffling feathers, as was often the case with those of a superior intellect. How well he knew that.

  Miss de Beauvais’ gaze was now fixated upon Mr. Abdul-Majid, who was pacing wildly about the room. With Miss de Beauvais’ eyes averted, Mirabella slipped the pound note to Sherlock.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Mr. Abdul-Majid.

  “The meaning of what?” At this point she stood. “If you would kindly step into—”

  “King Nicholas is in a great state of fury. He says you are antagonizing his daughter’s particular friend. He can hardly believe the report!”

  “I wasn’t aware the king’s daughter had a particular friend,” Miss de Beauvais murmured, her face turning ashen grey. She had obviously assumed that Princess Elena had made no mention of the attack to her parents. A reasonably good assumption given the fact that the princess had not been pulled from the school.

  Miss de Beauvais glanced at Mirabella who smiled sweetly. Sherlock took a puff on his pipe, gazing attentively at the woman behind the desk.

  “Princess Elena said nothing to me. But, n-no, Mr. Abdul-Majid, antagonize? It is not precisely like that! ”

  “What is it like precisely then?” demanded Mr. Abdul-Majid.

  “Yes, what is it like precisely, Miss de Beauvais?” asked Sherlock. “When you told Miss Mirabella to leave, what did you mean?”

  Mirabella tilted her head, awaiting the answer, all eyes on Miss de Beauvais.

  “Some of the other parents felt—”

  “Which other parents? Name them—immediately.”

  “Well, the duke of Glazebury has some objection to Miss Carnegie’s outside activities. His lordship feels that his daughter’s time could be better spent . . . But surely you don’t wish to discuss this with—”

  “What outside activities?” demanded Mr. Abdul-Majid, now leaning on the desk towards Miss de Beauvais.

  “I believe our esteemed proprietress refers to Miss Carnegie’s charitable works with orphans.”

  “You object to helping orphans?” Mr. Abdul-Majid exclaimed, his eyebrows raised in interest.

  “Certainly not!” Miss de Beauvais replied indignantly, seated once again. “But the time involved takes away from the stated purposes of the finishing school—”

  “—Princess Elena told me herself that she has time to learn everything required of her with so much time left over that she doesn’t know what to do with herself.” Mr. Abdul-Majid smiled for a brief instant. “And I must say she expressed herself more forcefully than she has in the past. Which is the only reason King Nicholas has not yet pulled her from this wretched place.”

  “But as you say, if she and the Carnegie girl are friends—”

  “Are you saying that Princess Elena would lie?” demanded Mr. Abdul-Majid.

  “Is that what you’re saying, Miss de Beauvais?” Sherlock asked, puffing on his pipe.

  “No! Of course not!”

  “Frankly, it’s becoming very difficult to follow your train of thought, which is often self-contradictory,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

  “Good,” pronounced Mr. Abdul-Majid. “Princess Elena might not be as polished as your girls who never give a thought for anything but themselves, but in my country
royalty is nothing more than a call to service. It is not an opportunity for one’s own glory. I begin to think your school is not the right one for the princess of Montenegro and I should report as such to his royal highness. The Russian czar is visiting, looking for a school for his daughter, and he will be interested in my report as well.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Abdul-Majid, please, it is nothing more than a misunderstanding. Of course we shall entertain the orphans. I can’t think of anything that would be better for the girls.”

  “Nor I,” agreed Sherlock, nodding with complacent acceptance of the outcome.

  “And the Carnegie girl as you put it?” asked Mr. Abdul-Majid.

  “Delightful girl. I can’t imagine the motive behind such an obviously false report.” Miss de Beauvais picked up her fan and began fanning himself.

  “It is difficult to fathom,” considered Sherlock, contemplating the unsolvable mystery.

  “Good.” Mr. Abdul-Majid tilted his hat to her, but his eyes looked as if they were ready to shoot flames. “I hope I do not have to call again. I cannot say that I have enjoyed my visit.”

  “It is always nice to see you, Mr. Abdul-Majid. I am sure you are always welcome.”

  Click. The door shut rather forcefully behind him, causing Miss de Beauvais to jerk in her chair.

  “It looks like our little tea party is on, Miss Belle . . .” Sherlock smiled, rising from his seat. “And that charity has returned to London.”

  Sherlock tipped his hat and moved to open the door, which was momentarily stuck from the force of its previous closure. He then strolled through the mahogany door, twirling his cane. “Good day, Miss de Beauvais. A pleasure, as always.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  25

  “What is it, Princess Elena?” Mirabella asked as Elena opened a letter with the royal seal of Italy.

  “It is from Amadeo, Vittorio’s uncle. He wants me to meet him in secret.”

  Very bad idea. “The duke of Aosta? Amadeo would be the king of Italy if Victor Emmanuel were to die without an heir. Amadeo was once the king of Spain until he abdicated the throne and returned to Italy—and some say he has a taste for being king. Why on earth would he wish to see you alone?”

  “Because I wrote to him and asked him to arrange a meeting with Vittorio,” she replied simply. “As you suggested Miss Mirabella.”

  “Me? I never wanted you to meet someone in secret who might wish to kill you!”

  “I will do it,” Princess Elena stated with finality. “I have decided.”

  “You will do what?” Mirabella demanded.

  “Amadeo has arranged a hunt in Northamptonshire with Vittorio and his friends. I am to join them there in disguise—as a boy. I will hunt with them, then I will reveal myself to Vittorio. In this way, I will show him who I am under the society woman.”

  “I like everything about your plan except the part about putting yourself in the care of one who might wish you and your love dead.”

  “That is the only part you don’t like?” Princess Elena asked, reflecting on the words.

  “Yes. Death and heartbreak, that is all.”

  “Good. It is a good plan.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  26

  “What have you discovered, Mr. Holmes?” Mirabella whispered to Sherlock. They sat on a wrought-iron bench in Miss de Beauvais’ small garden on Regency street. It was early fall and a bit chilly.

  “The attacker was Turkish,” Sherlock murmured. “We were able to identify him.” He moved closer to her, his arm touching hers. It caused her to feel something unfamiliar and warm. She had the sense for an instant that they were equals—or, at least, partners—rather than employee and employer.

  She never thought to feel that. “But the Russo-Turkish war was over three years ago.”

  “Ha! Ha! Wars are never over, Miss Hudson.”

  “I don’t see what you mean, Mr. Holmes. I never thought—”

  “What did you think, Miss Belle? That everyone would just pick up their toys and go home?”

  And the moment was gone. She was the servant girl once again.

  “This is just not the way my mind works, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella replied, exasperated. She had only just risked her life—and succeeded against great odds—and now she was being admonished for failing this history test. “I don’t think politically but scientifically. I don’t understand taking things from others that don’t belong to you, and fighting over property.”

  “As for politics, imperialism and nationalism play a factor to be sure, but it is much bigger than that,” Sherlock replied. “You must learn to study anything that affects human behavior, Miss Belle.”

  She bit her lip and glanced away.

  He frowned. “Miss Hudson, of all the things I will not tolerate, intellectual laziness is the most inadmissible,” he warned her, his left eyebrow raised.

  “Yes,” she murmured, somehow finding her tongue. “It is in the top twenty characteristics of mine which you will not tolerate, Mr. Holmes, that is most certain. Your list keeps growing.”

  “Answer the question, Miss Belle,” he replied softly. His words were stern but neither his voice nor his eyes were. “What feelings might the Turkish and the Balkans have towards each other if they had only been in a war over territory some three years ago? And how does that relate to Princess Elena?”

  “Naturally the Turkish do not like the Balkans—if they had a war—but why would they wish to hurt Princess Elena?”

  “Why indeed? And why now, with the impending wedding?” It was a question directed to her, she knew. Sherlock appeared amused, but he leaned closer to her, his steel-grey eyes penetrating hers.

  For some reason his proximity discomfited her at the same time it was somewhat pleasant and comforting. She’d had the absolute fright of her life, yet somehow she felt safe around him.

  Entirely illogical since he was the one who threw her into harm’s way.

  “Do you think it was an act of revenge, then?” Mirabella asked, reflecting on her own words.

  “Perhaps.” He nodded. “Certainly it must be considered.”

  “If they killed her, it could be either one, for revenge . . .” She paused to reflect.

  “Yes, Miss Belle?”

  “. . . or two, to stop the wedding.”

  “Aha! Precisely! Excellent, Miss Belle!” His eyes lit up and the left corner of his lip upturned in his characteristic not-smile. “And how did you come to these conclusions?”

  “Because, if she were dead, she could not marry crown Prince Vittorio,” she replied with a heavy sigh. “Naturally.”

  Sherlock seemed to consider her words. “I do not think revenge is the motive. It would be too coincidental that her life is in danger now that the crown prince of Italy has taken an interest in her. Why not three years ago?”

  “Quite so,” she nodded. “But it still does not answer the question as to why the Ottomans do not want Princess Elena to marry Prince Vittorio.” Her teeth started chattering. He placed his jacket over her shoulders, which seemed strangely personal to her. Sherlock Holmes was not given to kind gestures.

  “Exactly!” he exclaimed. His eyes now alight. “Why?”

  “I have no idea!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. “And I’m freezing! May I go now, before I catch my death of a cold, saving the Ottoman Empire the bother of killing me?”

  “Ah, but the Ottoman Empire has no interest in you, Miss Belle.”

  “You might have fooled me when that tall, dark man came after me with a nine-inch blade.”

  “Mere proximity.” He took her cold hands in his, possibly the strangest single moment in her life. His top-hat removed, his raven black curls were wildly unruly, and his dark grey eyes intense as he looked at her, as if he were seeing her, as if he cared that she were cold.

  Heavens to Betsy! Even through her thin white gloves she could feel that his hands were warm! She felt herself heating up quite quickly.

  “Miss Belle, I am waiti
ng patiently for your assessment. Who is in pursuit of Princess Elena?”

  “I must leave something for you to do, Sherlock Holmes! I am not in charge here! I am just your chief bottle washer and hired assassin when a murder is required.” She sighed with frustration, but honestly, she wished to cry. She had never had so much demanded of her, and her emotions were running rampant: fear, guilt, self-recrimination, insecurity, indignation. She was a good, God-fearing girl! She knew she had done the right thing, but it had nonetheless taken its toll. “You are the brains behind the operation, Mr. Holmes. Why do you expect so much from me? Must I do everything that is required on this case? It isn’t fair!”

  He looked at her sternly and she immediately felt remorse—though she’d be cast into the nether realm before she’d admit it to Sherlock Holmes.

  The fact was that her lack of focus had almost cost her life—and Princess Elena’s. Perhaps she should have been more focused on the case and left the orphan girls to themselves.

  “And what have you discovered, Miss Belle? Have you learned anything interesting?” Sherlock asked, rubbing his fake beard. He looked so completely different with the beard, top hat and ivory cane—sophisticated even.

  “Prince Amadeo has contacted Princess Elena. He wants her to meet him in private,” she murmured, worry creeping into her tone. “I have advised her not to go. I see no reason to do so.”

  “What does Amadeo give as the reason?”

  “He says it is to allow her the opportunity to spend some time with Prince Vittorio,” Mirabella replied.

  “And what do you think is his purpose, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

  “He may think to do her harm. Or he may very well think that, once the two star-crossed lovers are together, the romance will die,” Mirabella considered. “I wonder at it myself. The anticipation of something can take on a life all its own.”

  “Certainly. The best way to make a child want something badly is to deny it to the child.”

  “Hmmm,” Mirabella considered. “Do you think Prince Amadeo might have hired the Turks?”

  “Anyone might have. It would be the wise thing to do to draw attention away from the actual perpetrator.”