Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess
Page 24
“You must remember this, Miss Hudson. If you hesitate, even an instant, you will find yourself dead. There are people out there who would hurt you if they could.”
Mirabella glanced at the red-headed girl in the corner hugging her ragdoll in a checkered dress with black button eyes. Sherlock followed Mirabella’s eyes as she mused, “It is difficult to believe that same little girl managed to escape killers and run straight to the police station.”
“She is one of your students, Miss Belle.” Sherlock looked into Mirabella’s eyes, and for the first time that she could recall, she saw admiration there. He momentarily looked away as she saw another emotion: embarrassment.
“Candice knew you were floating down the Thames out of the port of London,” Sherlock added matter-of-factly, looking away. “And she knew what the boat looked like.”
“Not to mention that she was fearless,” Mirabella whispered, searching his face.
“Certainly,” Sherlock nodded, now expressionless. “She might have been shot when she attempted escape, and well she knew it.”
“But Candice never got word to you, Mr. Holmes, only to Princess Elena. How did you recognize the pound note as a counterfeit bill?” She tried to lighten the mood. It was a ball, after all! Her first ball, as country barn dances didn’t count. “I recalled thinking what a beautiful new pound note it was.”
“Ah, there you have it, Miss Mirabella. It was too perfect, you see. Like your dress.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled up at him. “I like it myself, although I have no idea where I will have the opportunity to wear it again.” It was a full-skirted pink tulle dotted with dark brown polka-dots to match the color of her hair and edged with a flounce of scalloped brown tulle. Bows of brown velvet ribbon accented the hem and the velvet girdle as well as the shoulders, holding together the sleeveless brown velvet Spanish jacket.
She wore pale pink gloves of undressed kid, and her coiffure of glossy chestnut brown curls was wrapped with a Greek bandeaux of pink satin lined in dark brown velvet and a high panache of pink ostrich tips. She carried a pink ostrich gauze fan and wore pink slippers. Her jewelry was a simple pearl necklace and pearl drop earrings, on loan from Aunt Martha.
“Sherlock. Call me Sherlock if for tonight only.” The openness returned to his expression, if only for an instant.
“Certainly, sir . . . I mean . . . Sherlock.” She looked away momentarily before pressing him once again. “And how did you know where I was?”
“Watson and I went immediately to Lady Graham’s, only to find that the entire crew was gone. One of the children had overheard some of the conversation, and knew they had gone down to the Thames. It was a logical deduction in any case, the only way out of the country is via the waterways.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could take you to the opera some evening, Miss Belle. With Watson and Mrs. Hudson of course.”
“Truly? Oh, that would be wonderful!” They had reached the refreshment table and he handed her a glass of punch which she sipped even as he led her to a seat. “Does Dr. Watson like the opera?”
Sherlock cleared his throat and she thought she observed a frown crossing his face. “Watson has different tastes in music, preferring the cabaret, but no doubt he will yet go with us. I would not wish you to be deprived of his company, Miss Belle.”
“It is always best to include everyone in the party.” She smiled slyly. “Otherwise people have a tendency to gossip about one.” Mirabella glanced over to see Lady Alexandra, who was having a lovely time dancing with Lord Worthington, who seemed quite entranced with her. Alexandra was definitely of a softer bent than she had been upon their first meeting.
“And what does your aunt say about me—in private?” Sherlock asked.
“Why should that concern you, Sherlock?” She laughed, never before having heard the Great Detective express any interest in the opinion of others.
“Just curious,” he said with a shrug.
“She says that, between your experiments, playing that devil’s instrument all hours of the night, the criminal company you keep, and shooting up her walls, you are the worst tenant in all of London. Possibly the world.”
“Ah.” He swallowed a bit more punch than politeness allowed. “Your aunt was never one to be vague,” he murmured.
“And she said Scotland Yard couldn’t get along without you.” She wrinkled her brow, placing her finger on her delicate cheek.
“Mrs. Hudson is most astute.”
“Mr. Holmes, how did you know the pound note came from the orphanage?”
“It either came from the orphanage or it came from me—you have no other source of funds. And it didn’t come from me!”
“But the orphans of police?” exclaimed Mirabelle. “Right under the noses of the bobbies?”
“Brilliant plan. Who would suspect them? Officers were walking in and out all day.”
“How did it work, Mr. Holmes?”
“You shall call me ‘Sherlock,’ Miss Belle. Let me have that on this one occasion.” He frowned, glancing in the direction of Dr. Watson. “Miss Bickers was the artist of merit, and Mr. McVittie made the plates; Sweeney and Corbie kept the place running minimally.”
“Very minimally I should say,” Mirabella agreed, taking a sip of her punch.
“Miss Bickers was the real brains behind the operation. They took in the funds for the orphanage and balanced the books to the penny; no one could have found any fault with them. Then they deposited the equivalent amount in counterfeit bills, exchanged the real bills for the counterfeit, and stored away the real bills for their eventual escape.”
“Yes,” murmured Mirabella. “I thought it was very odd that Miss Bickers was supposedly painting all the time—and yet there were no paintings to be seen anywhere. But wouldn’t those counterfeit bills be out in circulation?”
“Well, yes, Miss Belle, but it was a very small operation—and expertly done. It wasn’t going to bring the Bank of England down. But it was enough, over the course of several years, to provide a comfortable living. And most people do not look closely when their suspicions are not aroused. Even if it were discovered at some point, it would not be traceable in all likelihood.”
“How did you guess, Sherlock?”
“I never guess, as you put it, Miss Belle.” His piercing dark eyes seemed to swallow her whole even as he glanced about the room, seemingly taking everyone else in as well. “Guessing is for the undisciplined of mind.”
“How did you know unequivocally and brilliantly, Sherlock Holmes?”
“The first clue was simply listening to your descriptions, Miss Belle. No one at the school appeared to know the job they were hired to do. Mr. McVittie was not a cook. Miss Bickers, the primary teacher—who was actually Mr. McVittie’s cousin, by the way—was not very learned. Granted, she was very talented—she was the artist who made the bills—but her talents were neither known nor being lavished upon the children. And then there was the little matter of the bill itself.”
“The pound note I gave you with Miss de Beauvais’ fingerprint?”
“Precisely.”
“But, as you say, they had a marvelous set-up despite their lack of ability—no one questioned them as long as the books balanced. Why did they not merely enjoy their good fortune and do their jobs?”
Sherlock laughed. “You speak from the perspective of the non-criminal mind, Miss Belle. The criminal mind is forever working much harder at getting out of work, exerting far more energy than is actually required for honest labor.”
“Hmmm. . . .and what about the threats on Princess Elena’s life?”
“With the leads I gave them, Prince Vittorio’s secret police found the Turkish nationalist groups responsible. Because of our investigation, I did not think it was extremist groups—but rather individuals very central to the Ottoman Empire—behind it all. As it turned out to be.”
“How dreadful!” Mirabella exclaimed. “Essentially they were willing to kill for territory?”
“But Montenegro would fight,” Mirabella considered.
“Montenegro is a small country with a small army; she only won the war because of her alliance with Russia, who may or may not stand by Montenegro and Serbia a second time. On the other hand, if Elena marries Prince Victor Emmanuel III, Montenegro will have a strong ally. The Ottomans knew that all hope of reuniting the seven Balkan states was lost if Montenegro were to form a powerful ally.”
“So . . . Once Princess Elena is married, it is over, there is no point in the Ottomans attempting to stop the alliance between Italy and Montenegro?”
“Precisely. What happens when countries marry each other?”
“Political alliances,” Mirabella replied. “Hmmm . . . Prince Vittorio’s uncle had nothing to do with the assassination attack?”
“Nothing at all. It was not a usurper to the throne of Italy behind the attack—but rather an enemy of Montenegro and a supporter of the Ottoman Empire.”
“But what about the Italians who initially attacked Princess Elena in Montenegro?” Mirabella asked.
“Hired by the Turks,” Sherlock replied succinctly, surprising her by appearing more interested in the dancing than in the case. “Mercenaries.”
“And do Prince Vittorio’s parents support Princess Elena’s marriage to their son?” Mirabella pressed.
“Indeed. In particular, Queen Marguerite favors the match. The Princess of Savoy does not hold to cousins marrying and favors the strengthening of the bloodline. She welcomes a bride who is not related to her son—and will be the mother of her grandchildren.”
“Most progressive. Yes, it is most unexpected,” Mirabella agreed. “Everyone expected the Queen of Italy from the grand House of Savoy to look down on the little Serbian nation, and yet it is the Queen of Montenegro who does not wish the union.”
“And yet . . . Princess Elena is likely to be the subject of disapproval all her life—particularly if she marries Prince Vittorio,” Sherlock remarked with a shrug. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Nothing about Princess Elena’s life will be ordinary,” giggled Mirabella. “I fear she will empty Italy’s coffers and give all the money to the poor. I never met a woman with more generosity of spirit.”
“Most unfashionable.” Holmes shook his head reproachfully, but his eyes revealed that he approved.
“I do hope Princess Elena’s unconventional behavior does not reflect poorly on Miss de Beauvais,” Mirabella murmured, unable to place conviction in her voice as she glanced at the proprietress. Even decked out in the latest fashions, Miss de Beauvais still looked stiff and matronly. “I would hate to see her finishing school in ruins.”
“To the contrary. That an Arabian princess galloped a horse through Sunbury Park to come to the aid of four young orphans and their ward has elevated Miss de Beauvais’ to the sensational.”
“She must be very happy. It is a relief.” Mirabella sighed. “It’s so strange that we were all attempting to save Princess Elena—and instead, she saved me. If I hadn’t been here attempting to protect her, she wouldn’t have known me to come to my aid.”
“You did protect her, Miss Belle. I expect the attack in the parlor would have succeeded had you not been there. You distracted the assassins.” Mirabella looked up to see him raise his eyebrows, but he was considering her words. “And, in turn, Princess Elena distracted the counterfeiters. Her attack may very well have given the children the courage to go on the offensive.”
“All along Princess Elena was completely capable of saving herself—and us.” Mirabella added softly, “And now she will save Montenegro.”
“Yes, Miss Belle,” he murmured. “But you helped Princess Elena discover her voice.”
“And she, mine,” she replied softly. Suddenly forlorn, she looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. “Whatever is going to happen to the orphanage?”
“Do not distress yourself, Miss Mirabella. The trustees have hired someone to run the orphanage—a much more learned person than Miss Bickers. And with a tender spot for the children. As it should be.”
“Whom did they hire?” she asked eagerly.
“A Miss Bethany Allen.”
“Bethany? But she is not even twenty!”
“She came highly recommended.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Who recommended her, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, there was an inconsequential recommendation by the king of Montenegro—but I think the referral to turn the tide in her favor was that offered by the world’s first private detective. That is an endorsement impossible to dismiss,” he stated in all seriousness.
“Truly?” she asked.
“And it appears our confidence was well founded,” he nodded. “Miss Allen has already received approval from the Board of Trustees for a library. She has a plan to solicit donations of books.”
“Bethany has such a winning personality, I have no doubt she will succeed.”
“Miss Allen has even convinced Miss de Beauvais to donate an hour of her time every week for instruction to the girls on manners and deportment.”
“Miss de Beauvais has a heart of gold, I am sure,” remarked Mirabella, glancing at Bethany hugging Susan. “Hmm . . . I believe Bethany found her calling. She really wasn’t cut out for the marriage mart.”
“Not precisely correct, Miss Belle.”
“Excuse me? What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”
He shrugged, seeming more interested in studying her in return than in recounting the narrative, an experience completely new to her. The friendly and talkative stance he was taking with her made her pulse quicken and her head swim. To have his attention and focus on her was a bit like being in the middle of an electrical storm. “When a lawyer was hired to go through the orphanage’s papers—well, it appears that the solicitor took a particular fancy to Bethany.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“A very handsome young man,” confided Sherlock. “It appears that the attraction was mutual.”
“A man of law,” she repeated, suddenly covering her cheek with the palm of her hand. “Do lawyers still wear the full white wigs in court?”
“Of course. We British are not savages.” He stared at her oddly.
“Many of us are not,” she whispered. And yet, a touch of emotion might be just what the doctor ordered. She glanced briefly in Dr. John Watson’s direction, who had taken this lesson to heart, and was all the better for it, a new man since arriving at 221B Baker Street. It was unfortunate that the lesson Sherlock had imparted to his friend he was unable to assume for himself.
“Shall we dance again—or would you prefer to mingle?” Sherlock followed her eyes with his own, landing on their mutual friend. For some reason, a sudden frown formed on his lips.
“Oh, I should very much love to dance. I’m not much for sitting about gossiping.”
“Yes, there are far greater attractions on this occasion.” Sherlock smiled down at her, the light returning to his eyes, as he led her to the dance floor.
The music started and he paused where he stood.
“The dance is a mazurka, Miss Belle. Are you up to it?” Sherlock asked, hesitating. “There is no more difficult dance.”
She glanced sideways at Sherlock, purposely bestowing upon him her most alluring look. “I assure you the King of Montenegro did not waste his money. I know how to dance the mazurka.”
“I should have known, Miss Belle!” Sherlock took her hand and they embarked upon the mazurka with its strong impetuous beat. “The mazurka is, after all a dance of independence, graceful and bold. Much like yourself, Miss Belle.”
“I came to London a country bumpkin,” Mirabella agreed. “I am proud to be a country girl, but I am now, officially, a New Woman.” Certainly she had read Daisy Miller by Henry James.
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br /> “And—the world’s first lady detective,” Sherlock added. “You have earned the title, Miss Belle. He continued effortlessly through the demanding dance, frequently embellishing upon the steps with the freedom from restraint which was characteristic of the dance—and of Sherlock Holmes. His intensity of energy was somehow both contagious and invigorating when combined with music.
All eyes were on them as they were, without question, the most vivacious of the dancers.
He twirled her about. At just the right moment he fell to his knees, shooting his arm straight up while Mirabella danced about him.
She smiled down at him and saw something new in the expression of Sherlock Holmes.
Pure joy. He was smiling back at her.
Standing up, they both waited for the next dance through an unspoken agreement, both attempting to catch their breath.
“You spoke of a mutual attraction between Bethany and her solicitor. How do you define such a term, Mr. Holmes? Have you run any experiments on the phenomena?”
“No.” His smile faded somewhat as he looked away. It was unusual that he should back away from anyone, and most certainly her.
“What about . . . a Miss Irene Adler? Did you run any experiments with her?” Mirabella persisted. She had no idea why she was so curious—or why she longed to hear the answer. A month ago she would have paid hard-earned money not to hear the answer.
“No . . .Yes . . . Certainly not! Well, such things are highly overrated. And most unscientific.”
Heaven help me, I want to kick him in the shins! Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m at a party dancing, Sherlock is being perfectly polite, and I still think he is the most incorrigible, aggravating man alive! She bit her lip in an effort to be quiet.
“Is something wrong, Miss Belle?” he asked, glancing sideways at her.
“Yes. I suppose sometimes I would like an honest answer from you, Sherlock. From the heart.”
“Don’t expect miracles, Miss Belle.” He took her by the waist and pulled her close, looking down into her eyes, even though the music had not started again.