Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess

by Suzette Hollingsworth

“Most unacceptable!” stated the proprietress.

  “We shall never laugh again,” Princess Elena stated solemnly.

  “Good. See to it.” Miss de Beauvais shut the door behind her.

  Shhh!” admonished Mirabella. “If we do not exhibit more ladylike behavior Miss de Beauvais will put an end to our good fortunes!” Glancing sideways at Bethany, she added, “And our questionable ones.”

  “How handsome is my husband-to-be?” pressed Bethany in a whispered tone, fully enjoying herself though her confidence in the prediction was clearly shaky at best.

  “The most handsome man in all of England,” replied Amity in all seriousness.

  “Well, he might just do then,” Bethany stated with a shy smile.

  “You will be very happy together,” added Amity.

  “Maybe all my cats will play with all your children,” suggested Gloria to Bethany.

  “But what about you girls?” asked Bethany to Amity, suddenly somber. “What will happen to you?”

  “Something will happen soon,” replied Amity, her expression distant. “We are all floating madly down the big river.”

  “The Thames?” Mirabella asked.

  “I guess so,” Amity replied. “I don’t know the name, I just see it in my mind. There is a big bridge. We are on a boat with coal, trying to get out of London. I hope we do not make it, or they will surely kill us.”

  “Kill us! What are you saying, Amity? You should not scare us so,” admonished Mirabella.

  “There is an angel coming to the orphanage,” Amity continued, but her eyes remained sad.

  “An angel,” murmured Bethany. “Is it Mirabella?”

  “No,” Amity shook her head while spreading her arms to encompass all of the young ladies at Miss deBeauvais’. “But it is one of you.”

  “I think they are all angels,” added Susan shyly.

  “And a lot of policeman are coming in December.”

  “The Christmas party,” Mirabella confided. “They have it every year.”

  “And what about Lady Jacqueline?” asked Bethany. “Whom shall she marry?”

  “Whoever she wants,” replied Amity, shrugging, which brought another cascade of giggles.

  “Oh, this is silly,” remarked Alexandra.

  “You are just angry because you want to know your fortune—and are too proud to ask,” stated Princess Elena without emotion.

  “Of course not! This is utterly ridiculous. I certainly do not want a husband with a strange hairstyle. I . . .”

  “Your father is mean,” interrupted Amity, staring at Alexandra. “And very important. You try to impress him by acting powerful like he does. Your mother is not very happy.”

  “Oh, that is sad,” remarked Susan, all of the orphanage girls turning to look at Alexandra. Though the greatest desire of each of their hearts was to have a family, it was something of a revelation to consider that not every mother and father was worth having.

  “Yes, Lady Alexandra is more like us than any of the other ladies here,” Amity nodded sadly. “We don’t have parents and hers are not nice—sometimes she wishes she didn’t have any either.”

  “More in common with you! Well, I never. I’ll have you know that my father is a duke, my mother a duchess, and they are exceedingly happy. Bethany’s father is only a merchant and—”

  “Shhh!” murmured Jacqueline forcefully. “And will Mademoiselle Alexandra wed?”

  “Yes,” replied Amity without hesitation.

  “Who? Who?” Alexandra demanded, temporarily ignoring earlier affronts to her person.

  “It depends . . .” considered Amity.

  “Tell me! Who?” Alexandra took her by the shoulders.

  Bethany interfered, taking her hands. “Let her go, Alexi.”

  “You will only be happy in marriage if you change.”

  “Change what?”

  “Change to not be like your father. His voice is in your head and it torments you. Do not listen to the voice and do not impose it upon yourself or others. It is not kind.”

  There was a knock on the door and Miss de Beauvais entered. Her voice was solemn. “The girls’ carriage is here.”

  Mirabella rushed to the kitchen while the girls did their curtseys and said their ‘thank you’s, returning with several boxes.

  “Here are sandwiches and pastries for later.” She bent and they all hugged and kissed her while waving to the other young ladies present who appeared noticeably disappointed to see them go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  28

  Holmes scrutinized the pound note with the very clear fingerprint on it. In an instant his eyes flew open. “Bloody hell . . .”

  “What is it Holmes?” asked John Watson, looking up from his desk in their shared flat. Something was terribly wrong.

  Of the two, John admittedly had the better desk, providing a clear view of Baker Street from the bay window.

  John Watson chuckled to himself. As in all things, he preferred the light, and Holmes preferred the dark corners. On the opposite end of the same wall was the Great Detective’s desk, a long table for chemical experiments, and bottles of chemicals in a bookcase. On the walls over his flat-mate’s desk were scientific charts and Holmes’ notes—held in place with a jackknife.

  “Damnation! Where are my notes?”

  “Pull the knife out of the wall, Holmes,” John sighed. Some things never change.

  Orderliness was an impossibility.

  John had his own room on the third floor, but that room was for sleeping—when he could sleep—the difficulty in slumber being the reason why it was so important to keep work and sleep separate. Still, he was utterly and thoroughly grateful: when he had returned from Afghanistan his life was a living hell, and now he was only in hell during the nighttime hours.

  “No! No! Not those notes!” Holmes began pulling books out of the bookcase and throwing them on the floor, as if he were in a rage. Or as if there were a million pounds hidden somewhere in the bookcase.

  “Calm down, man!” John exclaimed.

  “There’s not time, Watson!” Sherlock paused in his destruction of the flat momentarily as John stood up from his desk. “Make haste, man!”

  “Your fingerprints are all catalogued by name and then typed by the very competent Miss Mirabella—as you are quite aware, Holmes.”

  Some might call living with Holmes a hell of sorts, certainly a madhouse, but to John Watson, the intensity of living with Sherlock Holmes was precisely the distraction from his demons that he needed. He had tried to forget with gambling and women, but these were his weaknesses, John knew, and had offered him no lasting help. In point of fact, Sherlock Holmes had saved him.

  That Sherlock Holmes was his savior was a peculiar paradox since Sherlock had addiction and melancholy among his own demons. Life was strange that way.

  “Yes! Yes! This is what I need!” Holmes grabbed a leather-bound black book from his library and moved to sit at his stool. He began frantically thumbing through the pages, the pound note with the fingerprint positioned just above the open book.

  Despite the havoc—or, perhaps, because of it—Watson found that he often preferred to work alongside Holmes in the larger flat, especially now that Miss Mirabella was keeping both the laboratory and the flat dusted and clean.

  John smiled. Miss Mirabella. There was a woman whom one could easily fall for. Beautiful, intelligent, completely without airs. Pure of heart. She was so much like Holmes, however, stubborn and intensely curious, that she would take unnecessary risks. He chuckled to himself thinking of some of her conversations: Mirabella Hudson could talk for hours on end about a boring chemistry experiment, much as Holmes could.

  “Never in a million years . . .” Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes very briefly. “Oh, this is very bad. We must leave immediately, Watson!”

  “What is it?” John asked, pulling his service revolver from the top drawer of his desk and throwing on his jacket before he received an answer. In only ni
ne months, he had come to trust Sherlock Holmes completely. It wasn’t just gratitude to a man who had inadvertently taken him from the dark aftermath of Afghanistan which had threatened to immerse him in sorrow. Holmes was a peculiar fellow, but he was almost never wrong.

  And having faced death, John was indifferent about life and death, in much the same way many military men were. Facing death changed a man. Friendship and country were yet more important to him than anything. Certainly he would lay down his life for either.

  And perhaps, underneath it all, he wished for death, and the relief it would provide.

  “Watson, we have to go!”

  John Watson smiled to himself. In the meantime, life called.

  “I pray to God we’re not too late.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Dr. John Watson not far behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  29

  “I’m glad you decided to ride with us in the carriage, Miss Mirabella,” Amity stated, looking down at her shaking hands resting on the worn lace ruffle of her dress which had once been white.

  “You should have an adult chaperone, Amity,” replied Mirabella.

  “They have me,” Miss Bickers frowned. She tapped on the window to get the driver’s attention, although the volume of her voice was sufficient. “Faster, Sweeney!”

  “Yes, of course,” Mirabella replied absently, wondering if Amity was cold. It was mid-November, but they were all bundled in their coats—though somewhat worn and most too small—along with their scarves and mittens. She, on the other hand, only had a wrap and was a bit chilled. “Is something wrong, Amity?”

  The little girl nodded. “It’s happening much sooner than I thought.”

  “What is happening?” asked Mirabella.

  “Miss Bickers is stealing something,” replied Amity in a low voice. “She is leaving London.”

  “How did you know?” exclaimed Miss Bickers, grabbing Amity by the arm. “You’ve been looking in my things! YOU LITTLE RAT!”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Amity sniffed.

  “Leave her alone!” Mirabella exclaimed, indignant, as she took the little girl’s other arm. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Miss Bickers has a gun,” Amity stated, attempting to place herself in front of Susan.

  “What are you talking about?” gasped Mirabella. “I know you have an excellent imagination, Amity, but this is nothing to joke about!”

  “It’s no joke.” Miss Bickers pulled a gun from her pocket and pointed it right at her heart. “Now you have forced my hand, you foolish, foolish girl. Don’t you girls try anything, or I will shoot your nosy little teacher. And you know very well I will.”

  And it did look as if she wouldn’t have the slightest compunction in doing so.

  “W-what are you doing, Miss Bickers?” Mirabella demanded. “Have you gone quite mad?”

  “We hadn’t planned on taking the likes of you, such a nosy little biddy, but it might yet prove to our advantage.” The older woman smiled; Mirabella didn’t think she had ever seen her look so happy. Apparently the anticipation of killing someone did wonders for her mood. “It will give us insurance if anyone comes after us. No one will fire on a boat of little girls going down the Thames.”

  “Miss Bickers, this is absurd! One of these children could be hurt! How on earth could this be of any advantage to you?”

  “It can’t be helped! Once we’re out of London, we’ll let you go.” Miss Bickers laughed with abandon, as if she were enjoying her plan for them.

  “Miss Bickers, whatever it is you want, I shall endeavor to get it, just please don’t hurt these girls,” Mirabella pleaded.

  “I don’t need help from the likes of you! I have it all well in hand meself!”

  Heaven help us! After a short but terrifying ride, the carriage arrived at the Thames where two large men joined them.

  “Mr. McVittie! Why are you here?” Sukey exclaimed, staring at one of the men. She pleaded, “We’re not hungry. We’ve already ate.”

  The cook.

  “Shut up!” The one she had called Mr. McVittie raised his hand to strike the child, which Mirabella blocked with her own arm.

  “Har! Har!” the other man laughed. “You wuz stopped by a gull!”

  “Shut up, Corbie!” McVittie replied, raising his fist against the other men.

  Click. Miss Bickers cocked the gun, both turning the attention of the men from each other and showing the captives that she meant business. She was a woman who maintained control at all times, Mirabella reflected, her heart sinking.

  “Shhh!” Mirabella admonished Sukey. A young lady in a ridiculously ornate dress and four little girls were no match against Miss Bickers holding a gun and three muscled men, if one counted the coach driver.

  Mirabella thought of yelling but was terrified they would harm the girls. There was so much noise and commotion along the docks, and people were so accustomed to turning the other way. Particularly if someone were in danger.

  “Stop her! Stop her!” Miss Bickers yelled. With a gun pointed at Mirabella and everyone’s eyes on Sukey, the large men ignoring the other children to some degree, Candice slipped away. She made a dash for freedom, her red hair like a streak of sunset across the skyline.

  Candice had the courage I was lacking. Mirabella bit her lip, tears filling her eyes.

  “You idiots!” Miss Bickers shouted. “You were fighting with each other and weren’t keeping your attention where it should be.”

  Mr. McVittie grabbed the remaining three children with two hands. Corbie set out after Candice who was now out of sight.

  He returned shortly without the child. Mirabella sighed a sigh of relief. At least Candice will live. Looking at the other little girls with her, she wanted to cry. Dear Jesus, you may have my life, but please let them live.

  “Never mind! Let’s get going!” Miss Bickers commanded. “She was scared to death, I doubt she has any idea what to say or who to say it to.”

  In that you are mistaken, Mirabella thought. You clearly don’t know your own girls. Candice was her father’s daughter.

  “No one would believe her,” Miss Bickers added with an evil grin. “And anyway, we have insurance.”

  The small tea party was forced onto a steamboat identical to a dozen other dirty boats on the river Thames. If she had done anything in the coach, Mirabella knew she would have been shot. Now she didn’t dare do anything for fear they would hurt the girls.

  “Tie them up and put them below. We will gag them if they become too noisy.”

  “Why are you taking the girls?” demanded Mirabella.

  “No one will hurt us as long as we ‘ave them. If they are very good, we will release them once we be out of England.”

  But Mirabella doubted very seriously that they would. Her heart pounded out of her chest as she took in the sight of the children, even as she involuntarily pulled them closer to her. “What do you want, Miss Bickers? Why are you doing this? This is complete and total madness! Please I beg you to let the children go!”

  But, instead, they were all forced below deck at gunpoint, even as Mirabella pleaded with her assailants.

  There were crates upon crates below deck. Mirabella and the girls were tied up along the side of the boat where it was easy to attach the ropes to metal components. She could look out one of the portholes and see the south bank of the Thames passing by.

  Once they had been left alone, Mirabella turned to Amity. “What is in those boxes, Amity?”

  “Very pretty pictures,” replied Amity.

  “Art work? They are confiscating art work?” Mirabella looked around her: so many boxes. And all the same size.

  “Yes,” nodded Amity. “Miss Bickers did them. I told you she was very good. She has been working on them for years.”

  “I don’t understand. How could that have any value . . . ?”

  “Do you think . . . do you think they will let us go, Amy?” Susan asked.

  Amity shook her head
somberly.

  “What do you see, Amity?” Mirabella asked as calmly as she could.

  “They wish to kill us.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  30

  The little girls in her charge began whimpering and crying.

  “Hush, girls! No more of that!” commanded Mirabella. “It serves no purpose.”

  “But Amity said we are going to die!” wailed Gloria.

  “She most certainly did not!” replied Mirabella indignantly. “She said they intend to kill us. The question is, girls, do we intend to die?”

  All of the girls looked to Amity, who shook her head in agreement. “Sometimes people can change the future,” Amity sniffed.

  “If they have a gun,” muttered Gloria.

  “And there aren’t four big, mean men,” added Susan.

  “Three,” corrected Gloria, staring in alarm at the black soot now on her pink dress. “There are only three.”

  “Oh, it’s all my fault,” wailed Amity. “I said too much. Maybe if I had kept quiet Miss Bickers would have left us there.”

  “I have the same problem,” murmured Mirabella. “I never know when to keep my mouth shut. As for Miss Bickers, she let her fear take over—and her meanness—when, in actuality, we didn’t know enough to stop her.” We still don’t.

  “Miss Bickers is afraid?” asked Susan.

  “Yes,” nodded Mirabella, feigning confidence. “We must use it to our advantage. You see, girls? One can always change one’s course and thereby change the outcome. It’s . . . elementary,” forced Mirabella, releasing her breath slowly. Heavens above! She should never have let them tie her up! Now her chances of getting the girls out of this were just about nil! She was a stupid, stupid girl who hadn’t learned a thing from her training.

  “What are we going to do, Miss Mirabella?” moaned Gloria.

  “We must plan our escape and the capture of our captors.” She couldn’t count on Candice coming to the rescue in time. The boat was moving much more quickly than she had expected.

  All three of the little girls, seated on the floor tied to each other and to a long metal bar, turned to stare at her. She herself was seated on a chair with her feet tied and her hands tied—and padlocked—behind her.