Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (7 page)

“No, the glasses would have to go.” Sherlock’s gaze was on Dr. Watson, ignoring her, even as all his remarks were clearly intended for her.
 
“They don’t fit the role.
 
We can’t take any chances.
 
But it is of no moment; she can’t keep her mouth closed, so it won’t work.”

“I most certainly can!”
 
She cleared her throat.
 
“And I’m not the
only
person guilty of that transgression.”

“Do you see what I mean, Watson?
 
She’s insubordinate, rude,
unfeminine
, and completely incapable of disciplining her tongue.”
 
He bestowed his warmest smile upon her.
 
“But she’s very good at washing jars and keeping the floors clean.
 
Now run along, Miss Hudson.
 
Attend to your parlor decorations and leave us to solving the real problems of the world.”

The real problems.
 
She’d give him a real problem.
 
Or two.

But the truth was that
Sherlock Holmes
was the real problem:
 
he was utterly incorrigible.
 
Cantankerous, rude, unpleasant, more than a little disturbed.
 

And the most brilliant man she had ever met
.

A few hours later Mirabella was absorbed in sweeping the floors of the laboratory—for what seemed like the tenth time that day—when suddenly a horrible stench caught her nose, whiskey and heaven knows what else.

“Lor’ luv a duck!” A dirty, smelly man stumbled into her.
 
“Where is da nearest pub, miss?”

“How did
you
get in here?
 
This is a private residence!”
 
She gasped, startled and frightened at finding an intruder inside the building, inching backwards towards the fire poker while eyeing the location of Dr. Watson’s pistol.

And then she recognized the intelligent silvery grey eyes looking back at her.
 
His normally dark hair was almost black with soot—and he reeked.
 
Of sardines, tobacco,
and whiskey
.
 
“
Mr. Holmes
, is that you?
 
And have you been
drinking?
”

“Blimey, I never drink when I’m workin’,” he replied, chewing on the cigar hanging from his mouth and popping the suspenders which held up his too-large beige corduroy pants.
 
He tipped his bowler hat to her.
 
“And when I’m not workin’ there are uvver bad ‘abits mawer ter me taste,
Miss Belle
.”
 
He winked at her.

“Oh, you
stink
, sir.
 
If you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

“Spiffing.
 
That’s what I was goin’ fer.
 
Believabili’y is everythin’ in dis business.
 
Speakin ‘ov which . . .” he took some crumpled bills out of his pocket and held them out to her.
 
“Go an’ buy yaaahrself some pret’y dresses.
 
I’ve decided what yew are da best bird fer da job I ‘ave in mind.”

“Truly?
 
Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you!
 
Oh, I promise you won’t be disappointed . . .”

“I’m awready dissy-pointed.”

She rushed forward to curtsey before him as hugging him would have been completely . . . frightful.
 

“Are those perfectly
safe?
”
 
She stopped dead in her tracks as she stared at the crumpled bills he held out to her—and then at him.
 
Mirabella“I presume that you have read Robert Koch’s recent publication on germ theory.
 
Most notably his studies of the bacterium
Bacillus anthracis.”

“Lawd above!
 
There ain’t no anthrax on deese pound notes, little missy.
 
. . . . Thuff some gloves might be in order.”

“Without a doubt,” she frowned, making no movement towards the bills which appeared, at first glance, to be more money than she had seen in a lifetime.
 
“If you would kindly place the bills on the chair—
your
chair, not Dr. Watson’s—I will fumigate them and proceed to the
Ladies’ Emporium
.
 
Never fear, Mr. Holmes, my Aunt Martha is an excellent seamstress, and we shall make good use of your funds.
 
What precisely do I need
for the assignment?”

“Ye just deck yaaahrself aaaht fancy like a proper lady—ye’ll need several ever-day gowns an’ an evenin’ gown wiv all da proper acoutremun’s:
 
crocheted gloves an’ silk gloves, a lace parasol, a ladies’ fan, a satin reticule, boots an’ shoes, shiny bobbles, even feminine scent.
 
An’ a silk nightgown as a high-born gul’ wud haf, fergive me fer bringin’ up the unmentionables but they must be mentioned.
 
And while yer at i’ make yaaahrself a proper lab coat an’ a dress fer greetin’ me visitors.”
 
He handed her a card.
 
“Me optometrist.
 
Get some ‘o those new glass lenses to replace the arful
black
glasses.”

She stared at him.
 
“Why did you change your mind Mr. Holmes?
 
About me
, that is?”

“I didn’t, Miss Belle.
 
I’ve only been known to change me mind
once.
”
 
He straightened his posture and took out his pipe and lit it.
 
He was suddenly out of character, extremely rare for him once he was in disguise.
 

“I see.”

“I doubt that, Miss Belle,” he replied, taking a long puff on his pipe.
 
“Now run along before we embark upon the second instance.”

“You know, of course, that we can only accept girls who are members of the peerage.” Miss de Beauvais eyed Sherlock’s stylish attire.
 
“No matter how successful her connections.”
 
The proprietress was a brunette with her hair arranged in an ornate fashion, so stiff that it conceivably was meant to serve as a military helmet in the event of war.

A wise precaution in Sherlock’s estimation.
 
He approved of a sensible woman.
 
He also approved of any person without a high degree of emotion or sentiment, a criteria which the lady before him likewise met.

“Naturally.”
 
Sherlock glanced about the elaborate office, the style much in keeping with the large parlor he had observed upon entering
Miss de Beauvais’ Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies
.
 
The wallpaper was of a green and gold triangular pattern with a border more orange than red.
 
The ceiling was maroon and ivory while the carpet was maroon and green.
 
Oil paintings of flowers of every variety decorated the walls, the colors so vivid that one expected to see bees flying from one picture to the next.
 

Glancing at the décor, one certainly felt their sting.
 
In contrast, the Queen Anne chairs were starkly lacking in color, cushioned in cream and brown, as if there were no point in making the attempt.
 

“And what are the young lady’s connections?” she pressed.
 
“
Precisely
?”

Though
Miss de Beauvais’
was situated in the stylish part of town at 76 Regent Street, somehow it seemed appropriate that the exclusive finishing school was likewise nearby to
Piccadilly Circus.
 
That
Miss de Beauvais’
was also within walking distance of
Café Royal
, a favorite haunt of his and Watson’s, was mere coincidence—and most convenient as a location to compare notes.

“My niece is the granddaughter of a distant land baron on her poor deceased mother’s side.”
 
Sherlock mentally resolved to have Mycroft produce some piece of paper authenticated by someone of importance justified by national security issues.
 
Mycroft had considerable clout, regardless of the Foreign Office’s interest.
 

“I see.
 
Perfectly suitable.”
 
She nodded agreeably, but her expressed commitment lacked conviction.
 
Miss de Beauvais’ lips were generally pursed, as if her primary motivation were containing her thoughts.
 
Her face was elongated; there was nothing particularly unappealing—or appealing—about her features to which a make-up meant to look like the absence of make-up was applied.
 
No doubt the fear of looking like a stage actress caused her to err on the colorless side, which she more than made up for in her choice of clothing and home décor.
 
Glancing at her hands, Sherlock saw that her nails were short and buffed but unpainted.
 
Miss de Beauvais had attended to every detail, even if her intent was neutrality, and perhaps not with the best results.

It struck Sherlock that this woman might be his female equivalent in temperament, outlook, and emotional detachment.
 
It was amusing to contemplate making love to such a woman, one’s twin as it were.
 
Much like kissing a Venus flytrap.

“An impoverished land baron, but a baron nonetheless.
 
I am too busy making money to concern myself with such things.”
 
Sherlock placed a heavy wad of bills on the desk between them.
 
“All the cash holdings come from my branch of the family.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain we will completely adore your lovely niece, Mr. . .”
 
Her facial expression changed in an instant to a saintly sweetness, her good will towards him much improved, and he observed her eyeing with considerable sentimentality the wad of bills he had placed on her desk.

“Carnegie,” Sherlock replied, tipping his silk top hat before removing it.
 
“Lochlan Carnegie.”

“
Carnegie
?
 
By chance, are you a relation of Andrew Carnegie, the American tycoon, sir?
 
I believe he has Scottish roots?”
 
Her breathing became more rapid.

Sherlock took care to neither answer nor refute her assumption.
 
He pulled out his gold pocket watch and looked at it.
 
He then straightened his white silk tie, smoothing his false beard and well-oiled walrus moustache, before replying.
 
“My niece does some type of volunteer work, at an orphanage, I believe it is.
 
Only a few hours a week.
 
And we must be allowed to visit her—my associate, Hamish, and I.
 
She is most dear to us—an orphan herself you know, with only her two sinfully rich bachelor uncles to look to.”
 
He smiled his most winning smile, which by all accounts was not particularly winning.
 
It was hoped that a belief in his massive wealth enhanced his charm.
 
“
Miss
de Beauvais, is it?”

“Oh, I
am
sorry, that is out of the question, Mr. Carnegie.”
 
Her lips quivered but remained tightly held together.
 
“Once the girls enter it is a
closed-door
policy.
 
The girls are all required to stay here for the duration of their ten week term with little contact from the outside except that which we provide—under strict chaperonage, of course.
 
It is a very intensive class and is completed just in time for the Christmas holiday—at which time they may return home for a few weeks.
 
The final semester commences upon their return and ends in their coming out for the season as elegant, sophisticated young ladies, just in time for their presentation to Queen Victoria and all the accompanying balls and dinner parties.”

“And by elegant and sophisticated, I presume you mean
marriageable
?” Sherlock asked, emphasizing the word as he leaned closer toward her.
 
He could tell that she was attracted to either him or his money; he meant to discover which and to use that information to his advantage.

“Naturally.”
 
She nodded agreement.
 
“This is my pledge to you.”
 
The young female entrepreneur wore a gown of orange silk which somehow blended in this frighteningly busy room of green, maroon, and orange.
 
One was of the impression that Miss de Beauvais could not enter a room unless she were a perfect compliment to the décor—and that she must control everyone and everything in her environment.

Sherlock locked eyes across the desk with the business owner staring back at him whom he guessed had an unyielding will to rival his own.
 
Two confirmed bachelors as it were.

So much alike, they should have been a match.
 
Except for the fact that he detested her, which was perhaps a commentary on why he disliked to be alone in his own company unless he was focused on a case.
 

There was a significant difference in the expression of his and Miss de Beauvais’ similar characteristics, however:
 
her existence was completely devoted to the superficial aspects of life—and to herself.
 
His dealt with the harsh realities—and to the service of society.

Sherlock asked himself, as he often had, if it would not be more profitable to be the criminal than to side with the law.
 

Naturally
.
 
No one can beat me
.
 
Sherlock knew very well that he could succeed as a criminal.
 
Far stupider people had.