Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (25 page)

And scheming over a man, no less!
 

Yes, I am now one of them.

Regardless of her moral decline, in point of fact, all were delighted to have the company and protection of the handsome young doctor, who kept pace despite walking with a slight limp and a cane.
 
Mirabella observed that John’s pistol was strapped to his shirt inside his jacket.
 
He might walk with a stiff leg, but he had an athletic build and she had seen him run under the threat of danger:
 
John Watson was still definitely in his prime.
 

“Hello Miss Mirabella.”
 
A well dressed young man in front of the telegram office utilized by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson nodded to Mirabella, causing Bethany and Jacqueline to study their popular companion with some amount of surprise.

To be popular among the ladies was good, but to be popular among the gentlemen was far more important.

“Do you know all the handsome men in London, Miss Mirabella?” Bethany asked with a giggle.

I am forever going there to send telegrams on Sherlock Holmes’ behalf
.
 
“I am about town with my charity work, so naturally I will meet people,” Mirabella replied, holding Dr. Watson’s arm more tightly.
 
“Only acquaintances, I assure you.
 
Outside of Hamish, of course.”
 

Jacqueline put her gloved hand on her mouth, stifling her laughter.
 
“Thus far the only
people
we have seen are ze men, not ze ladies.”

“Mademoiselle,” Mirabella paused her walking long enough to curtsy to Jacqueline, joining in their mirth.
 

It did feel lovely to be one of them, she had to admit.
 
She was therefore reluctant to point out that the men she knew would not be considered marriageable by the girls’ parents—nor by they themselves, if the truth be told.

The party walked along Chancery Lane, heading south on Kingsway.
 
From the road they could see “The Old Curiosity Shop” as immortalized in Dickens’ novel.
 
They had the happy intention of reaching the Strand when a strange person emerged suddenly from behind a large oak tree at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
 
Mirabella immediately clutched her reticule, fingering her number thirty-two Marlin Pocket Revolver from within her hand purse, the ivory handle smooth, attached as it was to the silver embellishments on the barrel of the gun.

“Allo!
 
Allo!
 
Lawd above!
 
Can yew spare a tuppins to an old woman?”
 
A bent over woman came out of the shadows, waddling towards them and leaning on a cane.
 
The old lady smiled, revealing missing teeth throughout her mouth.

“Yes, of course,” Princess Elena spoke for the first time, reaching for her reticule.
 
Mirabella had observed that Princess Elena could not part with her money fast enough for the poor.
 

“No, Princess Elena,” Mirabella whispered.
 
“You must not let people approach you.
 
This is a weakness for you.”

“Allo!
 
Allo!
 
Kind lady, let me tell yaaahr fortune.” The old woman reached for Elena’s hand, but Mirabella dropped John Watson’s arm and moved between them.

“But the poor . . .” Princess Elena protested, reaching for the old woman’s hand.

“And she looks so hungry,” murmured Bethany.
 
“So
thin
.”
 

“Lor’ love a duck!
 
I am ‘ungry,” the woman stated.

“She has no teeth, what good would food do her?”
 
Mirabella took the arm of the old woman, leading her aside forcefully and almost knocking her over.
 
“No, we do not know her, I will attend.”

“And who is the handsome gent?
 
He looks to have a bit ‘o blunt,” the old lady asked as Mirabella shoved her to the side.

Gasp
!
 
Bethany stared aghast at Mirabella.
 
John Watson stayed behind with the ladies while Mirabella spoke to the old woman.
 
The good doctor was completely in his element now and could no doubt charm the beauties for hours, Mirabella reflected with annoyance.

She glanced in John’s direction, sighing, before looking into the bloodshot eyes of the old woman, the smell of her clothes making her stomach do a half-turn.

“Hello, Miss Belle,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“You need to shave,” she muttered.

“No time.
 
We’re working day and night trying to find the group responsible for your attack, Miss Belle.”

“What have you discovered, Mr. Holmes?
 
The dead man, who was he?” she asked anxiously without further ado, pretending to look in her reticule for change.

“We only know that he appears to have been from one of the Balkan states.
 
We haven’t been able to identify him as Serbian, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t either,” Sherlock stated.
 
“These telegrams back and forth are not as fast as we would wish.
 
We’re still trying to discover if he was an anarchist who hated the monarchy.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, looking up.
 
“An Italian anarchist who hates the
Italian
monarchy would make sense—but Serbian?
 
Princess Elena has Serbian blood in her.”

“It is the same principle, Miss Belle,” he replied.
 
“These two groups one might lump together.
 
An Italian anarchist despises the monarchy, but most of all the Italian monarchy.
 
He believes the monarchy to be harming his own people, an enemy of the people, if you will.
 
The same for a Serbian anarchist:
 
he hates the Serbian monarchy.”
 

“Don’t you remember that the first attackers spoke Italian?
 
Could they be working together?” she asked.

“Doubtful.
 
Anarchists have a dislike of organizations and hierarchy.
 
By definition, they cannot work within a group—even a group which hates groups.
 
There is always a great deal of internal fighting among those with extreme views—which means that the individuals within often work alone though they might share ideologies with others.

Her head was throbbing.
 
She didn’t really care who was responsible as much as she cared about the answer to another question.

“Do you think there will be another attack, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, glancing to the gated pathway shaded by the large oak from which he had emerged.
 
She knew that Lincoln’s Inn Fields had been here since the twelfth century and that it was once a popular location for duelists.
 
Somehow the violence enacted in the location did not fit the tranquility of the setting.

It was a reminder to her not to become complacent.

“I do,” replied Sherlock.
 
“Whatever their motive, now they may wish revenge in addition to their original motive.”

“Oh, my!
 
This is terrible.”
 
She shivered in her fashionable leather boots, seeing the face of her attacker holding a glistening knife in her mind’s eye again.

“The Italian police have increased their efforts, naturally.
 
They have caught the other man as well.
 
He was
wounded
.”
 
Sherlock turned his back to the girls, pretending to put Mirabella’s coin in his pocket in a fumbling manner.
 
He glanced sideways to look into her eyes.
 
Somberly he added, “Someone shot him.”

She shook her head, even as her eyes scanned the park and adjoining square.
 
She had never been calm since the attack.
 
There were so many bushes and so much vegetation that it would be an easy thing to conceal oneself.
 
“I never thought when I took a domestic job cleaning laboratory jars I might be required to murder someone.”

Sherlock studied her, as if he were reading her mind.
 

She had really come to hate that.

“Are you afraid to murder someone else, Miss Belle, should the situation arise?”

“Naturally I would not wish to do so!”
 
She bit her lip, hoping to keep a tear from falling down her cheek.
 
Since that didn’t work she feigned laughter and looked away.
 
“But I would to save myself or another innocent.”

Everyone turned to look at her laughing.
 
Sherlock patted her on the back as an old woman might regard her benefactor.

“Excellent job, Miss Belle, it had to be done.”
 
He eyed her with approval, an expression she rarely beheld from the great Sherlock Holmes.
 

Ordinarily she would jump through hoops for that expression on Sherlock’s chiseled, dark face.
 
Somehow murdering someone to earn it was . . . well . . . disturbing.

“Otherwise, I have every reason to think that Princess Elena would now be dead—perhaps after being tortured,” Sherlock added.

“I know,” she nodded.
 
“It was very clear these people meant to harm the princess!”

“When they entered the parlor of a ladies’ finishing school with a gun, there was not a lot of room for interpretation,” Sherlock stated somberly.

“A gun and a knife,” she murmured.

“All Princess Elena wants to do is to marry her love,” Mirabella felt her indignation rising, turning quickly into an anger she found difficult to control.
 
And which frightened her at the same time.
 
“Why on earth would someone wish to kill that dear, generous girl?”

“That is the mystery to be solved, is it not, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked.

“I hope you solve it quickly, before they kill her—and me!”

“It is all in your capable hands, Miss Belle,” he murmured.
 
“Never wait for someone else to save your skin.”

“
Me
?
 
What can I do?”

“You are with Princess Elena all day.
 
How are you spending your time?
 
What have you learned?”

“I am simply baffled, Sherlock!
 
It has gone round and round in my head.
 
The men were speaking Serbian,” she exclaimed, keeping her voice as low as possible.
 
“If it were the Italian anarchists, it would make more sense to me.
 
They hate the monarchy—and everything associated with it.
 
But in addition, they may hate the color of the princess’ skin, her race, her language, and her religion as well.”

“And what is her religion, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked, although she knew he knew the answer and was only testing her.
 
“Do you recall?”

“She is Serbian Orthodox, it is a Christian religion.”
 
Mirabella glanced at the Serbian beauty, the only one of the party who was not entranced by Dr. John Watson.

“Some Catholics may not think so,” he smiled, his eyes suddenly soft.
 

“How lovely.
 
We have yet one more faction who doesn’t wish Elena and Vittorio to wed.
 
Compared to these two, Romeo and Juliet look like an arranged marriage sanctioned by the Montagues and the Capulets.”

“And what else have you learned, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I almost forgot.
 
I know what has been bothering me all along:
 
Princess Elena said the men spoke Serbian—but with a Turkish accent.”

“Great scott, Miss Belle, why didn’t you say so!
 
Don’t you know the Serbs and the Turks are enemies?” Sherlock exclaimed, all eyes turning towards them.
 
He immediately lowered his voice, turning towards her.
 

“I have been so distraught over killing a man that I rather forgot.”

“The Balkan states have been under Ottoman—which is to say, Turkish—rule.
 
Now we have something to go on!”
 

“What?
 
I don’t see that we have anything to go on,” she protested.
 
“And, even if we did, I don’t see how all this academic investigation is going to stop them from killing us.”

“Please focus, Miss Belle.
 
Tell me what you know about the Ottoman Empire.”

She sighed heavily.
 
“Montenegro is one of the Balkan states, until quite recently part of the Ottoman Empire.”

“Very good, Miss Belle.
 
Most assuredly, Montenegro borders Serbia, Turkey, and Bosnia.
 
To the east is Roumania and Bulgaria, to the south is Greece,” murmured Sherlock, stroking his chin as an old woman might do in negotiating a good price for the day-old turnips in her bag.

“And they were all on the same side in the recent war with the Ottoman Empire,” she added.

“Indeed.”
 
Sherlock nodded.
 
“Serbia, Montenegro, Romania, and Bulgaria declared their independence from the Ottoman Empire in the Russo-Turkish War of eighteen hundred seventy-eight.”
 

“So the Ottoman Empire lost a great deal of territory,” she murmured, adding, “My head is spinning.
 
There are so many groups who wish Princess Elena ill that I don’t know where we are headed.
 
But this seems rather unimportant.
 
The war is over.
 
The Ottomans have already lost.
 
How is killing Princess Elena going to help them?”

“If the assassins were Turkish, I think there is only one interpretation one can put on that,” Sherlock mused.