Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (4 page)

Thank the heavens, there is a bucket on the counter holding water.
 
She filled the teapot and set it on the gas burner before inserting the schilling.
 
The water must boil for at least three minutes and the tea steeped for almost as long.

Next, Mirabella rummaged the cabinet for the tea leaves, easily found in a canister.
 
The tea set itself was difficult to miss:
 
a beautifully elaborate and exotic oriental pattern in navy blue and orange poppy, Mason’s Mandalay Blue Pattern.
 

“I hope I haven’t kept you too long, Mr. Holmes,” she murmured, returning to the sitting room with the tea set.
 

“Precisely five and a half minutes,” he murmured.
 
He seemed displeased, but no more displeased than she had left him.
 

He appeared to be fixated on something observable through the window.
 
Mr. Holmes was seated next to the fireplace, giving her the opportunity to observe him more closely.

“You might have asked me for a schilling,” he stated without looking up.

“I presumed that you would wish me to resolve the situation myself,” she replied softly.

Upon closer inspection, she was more approving of his attire if not his cleanliness.
 
His clothing was fine, though looking as if it had been worn for many days.
 

Despite his gentlemanly attire, Sherlock Holmes had the physique of a middle-weight boxer.
 
His muscles were taut and well-formed and he was slim.
 
He had dark, almost black, overlong wavy hair.
 
But his strongest and most alarming feature—which she always returned to—was the intensity of his gaze.
 
As if he could discern one’s darkest secrets.

Which was proving true.

As his eyes moved to settle on her, there was a definitive sarcasm intertwined with his unrelenting stare, as if he considered everyone inferior but was making a concerted effort to be amused by it rather than annoyed.
 

With little success
.

Tick tock!
 
Tick tock!
 
She waited anxiously for the verdict.
 
Mr. Holmes took a sip of the tea and frowned.
 
Slowly he lowered the saucer to the mahogany marble table beside his armchair.

“What is it?
 
Is something wrong with the tea?”
 
She had steeped the tea in boiling water for precisely three minutes, just as her Aunt Martha had shown her.

“Quiet, girl!
 
If there were something wrong with the tea, I would tell you.
 
Have no doubt on that score.”
 
He was seated comfortably in a wing-backed armchair in a rose satin damask fabric situated next to a velvet purple settee.
 
He did not motion to her to sit beside him, leaving her standing beside the walnut fireplace mantle.

Gasp
!
 
Her eyes completely took in the purple couch for the first time, which was possibly a mistake, given that her pulse was racing without any assistance from the décor.
 
On the other hand, certainly if her heart had stopped and she had proceeded to heaven, seeing this couch in her dreams might have frightened the vital organ into its former rhythm and returned her to this room.
 

Mr. Holmes added a touch of cream to his teacup and then stirred it meticulously.
 
“It is an excellent cup of tea.
 
You
cannot
work for me, young lady, if you continue to put words into my mouth:
 
I shall derive my own, and you shall attend to them.
 
Do I make myself clear?”

“Well then . . . why . . .”
 
She backed up until she was almost leaning against the mantle, placing her hand momentarily on the maroon wallpaper of questionable taste in rose and dark brown with inclinations towards purple in the triangular design.

“I shall ask the questions.
 
It is transparent to me why you lost your last position.
 
Be advised, my girl, if you are to be in my employ, you must
never
interrupt my train of thought.
 
Why should genius be disrupted for drivel?”

Everything about him had the feel of power, prophecy, and unpredictability.
 
Her current apprehension must have been how King Henry VIII’s select wives felt as they were sensing the end of their relationship with the king—and their heads.
 

All good things must come to an end.

“Yes, sir.”
 
Drivel
.
 
Was he quite serious?
 
She was not a world-class anything, but she was not stupid . . .
 

“Are you capable of comprehending what you read, miss?
 
Do you write legibly and do you have good penmanship?”

“Certainly I can read and write, sir!
 
I am even saving to go to university—and it is so difficult for girls to gain entry, you know—and I read everything I can get my hands on.
 
I simply
live
at the university library.
 
Science is my one true love.
 
The best thing in the world would be to utilize scientific knowledge to invent something useful to society, and do you know—”

“Your dreams are not my concern.”

“Why, no, I suppose . . .” She swallowed.
 

“My wishes must become yours if you are to work for me.”

“Indeed they are, I—”

“I need all of the jars washed and the chemicals labeled in my laboratory.
 
My index system along with the results of my experiments need to be kept up on a
daily
basis.
 
I will not tolerate even the slightest error.”

“Naturally, you would not.”
 
She narrowed her eyes on the man before her, so exceedingly stern in his expression, as if he didn’t believe anyone could measure up to his expectations.
 

I will prove him wrong.
 
The great Sherlock Holmes will be wrong about this one thing
.

“I have a decade-old collection of finger prints
,”
he glared at her, the furrow to his brow returning. “It could be utilized to identify criminals if anyone at Scotland Yard had the wit and quickness of movement God bestowed upon a desert tortoise—which they do not, I assure you.
 
Good God!
 
The first thesis describing fingerprint patterns was published in eighteen hundred twenty-three by Purkyne!
 
How long must we live in the dark ages?”

“It is a t-travesty, sir,” she agreed.
 
“I r-read Purkyne’s paper myself—I believe he was a Czech physiologist—and I have been intrigued with the idea for some time.”

“I don’t need intrigue!”
 
His words were harsh but it seemed to her that his smoky grey eyes were softening.
 
“I need someone to classify and label my collection according to the twelve basic fingerprint types and cross-reference all alphabetically.
 
It is therefore necessary that you have an elementary understanding of science.
 
Can you take shorthand, Mrs. Hudson’s niece?”

“No, but I assure you that I can name every instrument and every chemical in this laboratory,” she replied indignantly, tugging at her worn dress.

“You will see many things which are not for the weak of stomach.”

“The pursuit of knowledge trumps all other considerations.
 
May I ask, Mr. Holmes,” she ventured, raising her chin.
 
She stood stiffly by the fireplace gazing down at him comfortably situated in his armchair by the fire, “Why did you call me intelligent earlier if you didn’t even know if I could read and write?”

“
May you ask
?
 
I’m sure I can’t stop you from chattering and questioning me incessantly though it has been the greatest longing of my heart for the past fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes I will never be able to reclaim.”
 
He set his teacup on the mahogany marble table beside his armchair.
 
“But once again, I shall answer you, young lady, my superior nature often getting the better of me.
 
Because you knew the instrument which I waved at you is a
platina spatula
.”

“Well of course, I—”

He coughed with discomfort, placing his hand in front of his mouth in a gentlemanly fashion, his gentile manners in great contradiction to his stinging tongue.
 
“Not a
spatula
.
 
To Mrs. Hudson it would have been no different than a stew-cooking utensil.”

“Mr. Holmes, am I to understand that you have evaluated my intelligence over a
spatula
?”
 

“Frankly, I would be astonished if you understood anything, Mrs. Hudson’s niece.”
 
He raised his eyebrows reprovingly.
 
“But I am advised that you clearly have the wish to be in my employ.”

She looked up.
 
“I do, sir.”

“Only an intelligent person would desire such a thing.”

“It cannot be accomplished by a single individual, even a genius such as myself.”

“Perhaps you require the aid of a mere mortal, Holmes?” his flat-mate asked, looking up momentarily from his newspaper.

“I do,” Holmes nodded.
 
The two men sat facing each other in front of the fire on an unseasonably cold fall day in Westminster, London, each enjoying their pipes.

“Count me in,” Watson murmured distractedly without the slightest hesitation.
 

“I must warn you, my good doctor, that the time may come when, in the interest of apprehending the criminal, it may be necessary to break the law.”

“Too many laws on the books, I should say.”
 
The tall, slim man stretched out his left leg and rubbed it, the old war wounds acting up.
 
Injuries aside, he was in the prime of life, looking to be in his early twenties but in actuality just having turned nine and twenty.
 
All in all, he was a far different sight than the aimless convalescing soldier he had been when they had met some nine months prior.
 

“We might . . . I shudder to think it . . .” Holmes took a puff on his pipe “even end up incarcerated.”

“Hmm . . . not a pretty picture.
 
I can’t say I enjoyed my last visit to the galleys.”

“Though I dare say being a prisoner of war is a far different experience than our civilized London jail systems.”
 
Holmes raised his eyebrow at his friend as he surveyed him.

“You have a point, Holmes.
 
But neither is to be recommended.”
 
Dr. Watson picked up the
Pall Mall Gazette
and began skimming the front page.
 
He murmured aloud as he read, “The Turks are strengthening their army—with the apparent hope of recapturing the lost lands of the Ottoman Empire.
 
I have strong doubts Russia will come to the Balkans’ aid again if there is another war.”

“I must concur.
 
And that brings me to the case.
 
So are you in, Doctor?”
 
Sherlock pressed.
 

“Hmmm?”
 
Dr. Watson glanced over the top of the paper.
 
“Without a doubt.”

“Excellent.
 
There is no one I would rather have by my side.”

“Nor I.”
 
Dr. Watson returned to his newspaper.
 
“But let us waste no more time sitting about bantering.”

“I agree entirely, Doctor, there is evil afoot to apprehend.”

“What is the case Holmes?”

“There is an assassination attempt against the Princess of Montenegro, an exceptionally mysterious and beautiful young woman.”

“The blaggards!
 
Who would wish to harm the princess of a tiny Slavic country?”

“As for the reason to wish her dead, Princess Elena Petrovi
ć
-Njegoš has a bewitching power over men.
 
She is tall with black hair and black eyes.
 
She rarely speaks and yet she has a Madonna-like countenance which captivates.”

“Bewitching?”
 
Dr. Watson chuckled.
 
“Seriously, Holmes, you don’t expect me to believe—”

“A duel was fought over our enchantress following a ball in St. Petersburg where there was presumably a heated argument over which of her suitors was entitled to the next dance.
 
She was swept away in the middle of the ball amidst the ruckus.”

“Doesn’t seem like the type of woman anyone would wish dead,” Dr. Watson considered, laying down the
Gazette
.

“Ah, but don’t you comprehend, Watson?”
 
Sherlock leaned closer towards him.
 

“No.”
 
John Watson shook his head, with the expression of one who speculated that a woman who held men captive in a spellbound state was precisely what one would wish.
 
“Not in the least.”

“What do you suppose has happened with this great beauty now out of the schoolroom and set loose upon the male realm, Watson?”
 
Sherlock sighed impatiently, taking a puff on his pipe.
 
“You of all men are aware of the weaknesses of your gender.”

“Princess Elena has dazzled someone of note, I should think,” Dr. Watson remarked without hesitation.
 
“Someone . . .
 
of great power
?”

“Precisely, Watson!”
 
Sherlock slapped the arm of his chair.
 
“Prince Victor Emmanuel III, the prince of Naples and the crown prince of Italy.”
 
Sherlock cleared his throat, adding, “Called ‘Vittorio’ by his family and close friends.”