Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (30 page)

“Take a look yourself,” Sherlock murmured.
 
“Look at these strange, round marks on the neck, all the same size—very faint, but there nonetheless.”

“Could they be self-inflicted?” Watson asked.

Sherlock chuckled sardonically.
 
“You knew Miss Janvier.
 
She was having far too good a time to do such a thing.”

“But she was about to be investigated.”

“Miss Janvier thought herself to be invincible,” Sherlock stated.
 
“She was a true narcissist.”

“Someone might have entered through the window,” Watson suggested, glancing at the closed window.

Lieutenant Dubuque moved to examine the window.
 
“
Alors!
 
The window it is locked from the inside.”

“Correct.
 
If someone were to enter and leave through the window, he could not have locked it,” concluded Sherlock, placing his hands in his pockets while his eyebrows knitted together as he looked out the window.
 
“And there is no ledge on this third story and no stepladder in sight.”

Sherlock studied the area around the window, even as he donned white gloves and began dusting for fingerprints and collecting hairs from the area.
 

“What do you do, Monsieur Holmes?”
 
Another Frenchman entered the room and approached Sherlock.

“I’m dusting for fingerprints as I am sure you are well aware,” Sherlock replied with a raise of the eyebrow.
 
“L’Inspecteur Bertillon, I presume.”

“How did you know this?” the gentleman asked.

“You have an air of confidence, which infers that you are in charge,” Sherlock replied.
 
“I know from Mycroft that Bertillon has an interest in the case.
 
And the deference which was shown to you by Dubuque when you walked in the door.”

“You are correct, Monsieur Holmes.”
 
The newcomer clicked his heels together and bowed.

“Naturally.”
 
Sherlock bowed his head slightly, which was far more respect than he was generally inclined to show anyone.
 
“I have read your paper which established a method of identifying criminals based on the assigning of numbers for each characteristic, resulting in a single summed figure.
 
Most systematic.”

Bertillon beamed. “And I have read your paper on fingerprinting, Monsieur Holmes—most intriguing.
 
But I am not convinced that it will yield much result.”

“I certainly admire your orderly approach, Mr. Bertillon, and the humility which inspired you to name your method ‘bertillonage’.
 
In all truth, it is a vast improvement over anthropometry.”

Bertillon stroked his perfectly trimmed goatee beard.
 
“And yet, you are dusting the room for fingerprints, Monsieur Holmes?”
 

“The system of bertillonage will be replaced by fingerprinting, I assure you Inspector, which is more conclusive, far less complicated, and therefore less prone to errors.”

Bertillon frowned.

Sherlock was never inclined to conceal the truth in order to placate others.
 
Why should he stroke egos, particularly those egos with a strong personal interest in incorrect conclusions?
 
Every fiber of his being revolted against it.
 
“In addition, bertillonage is limited to characterizing known criminals and comparing the results to the reports of eye witnesses.
 
We do not have the criminal here to take his measurements.
 
Nor have we identified any eye witnesses.
 
If we already knew who the criminal was—necessary to utilizing bertillonage—the case would be solved.”
 
It was astonishing that bertillonage was considered the highest form of criminal identification.
 
These were the times they lived in.
 
Criminology was still a field dwelling in darkness.

“But we do know who the criminal is!”
 
Dubuque insisted.
 
“It is your friend the doctor!
 
He strangled Mademoiselle Janvier with his bare hands.”
 

“Impossible,” Sherlock murmured.
 
“The marks on her neck are not commensurate with that theory.
 
And there was no weapon on the doctor, you said so yourself.”

Sherlock observed a box of chocolates by the bed.
 
He hadn’t seen Watson carrying any chocolates, only the roses and champagne.
 
“These aren’t from you, are they Watson?”

“No.”

“Did you see Prince George holding any chocolates, Lieutenant?”

Dubuque raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.
 
“Non.”

“Do you know who they are from?” Sherlock insisted.

“Non,” Lieutenant Dubuque replied.

“Have them analyzed for poison,” Sherlock commanded.

Lieutenant Dubuque frowned.
 
“But we already know Miss Janvier was strangled—according to your doctor!”

“I did not say she was strangled.
 
I said she died of asphyxiation,” Watson considered.
 
“The point Holmes is making is perhaps Miss Janvier was given something to reduce her resistance.”

“Exactly.
 
On the other hand, Miss Janvier had many enemies.
 
Perhaps there was a separate, completely unrelated attempt on her life.”
 
Sherlock returned his eyes to the body laying lifeless on the pink carpet, without blood or injury, as if she were sleeping—except for the look of horror crossing her expression.
 
The Great Detective pronounced, “On the surface it would appear inexplicable . . . unless . . .”

Sherlock moved to study the artifacts on the white marble nightstand beside Miss Janvier’s bed.

“La magic noire
!
” exclaimed Lieutenant Dubuque, moving to stand beside her bed decorated in a silk floral pattern.
 
Black magic
.
 
“Très mal.”

“What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, moving towards them.
 

“Roots, herbs, bark, snake skins, and dried animal parts,” replied Sherlock, adding in a murmur.
 
“Voodoo.
 
Black Magic
.”

“Disgusting!” moaned Mycroft, entering the room while fanning himself.
 
“Put it in the report, but I don’t wish to see it.”

“Ha! ha!” chuckled Sherlock.
 
“Yes, Mycroft, you will reflect upon it in your easy chair in front of a fire while drinking a brandy.”

“Certainly, and I could solve the case were all the facts to be laid before me,” murmured Mycroft indignantly.
 
“But I need your fine eye for detail to do the leg work for me, Shirley.”

Sherlock spotted a gold coin on the floor near the animal remnants, as if it had been knocked off, which he picked up and examined.
 
It was a Chinese coin.
 
He murmured, “Most interesting.”

“What avez-vous?” Dubuque asked.
 
Sherlock showed the lieutenant the coin.
 

“I do not see what it is so important?”

“There is a hole drilled into the gold coin,” Sherlock explained.
 
“Interesting.”

Dubuque shrugged.

“May I take the coin and examine it for fingerprints?” Sherlock asked, though he had every intention of doing so regardless of the answer.
 
When there was a nod from Bertillon, Sherlock placed the gold coin in a handkerchief, pocketing it.

“Do you think Miss Janvier was poisoned, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked.
 

Dr. Watson shook his head.
 
“I don’t seen any indicators, but it is difficult to be certain before the autopsy.”

Sherlock moved to Miss Janvier’s wardrobe and fingered an outfit in . . .
scarlet chiffon
.
 
Hung next to a man’s overcoat.
 
He returned his eyes to the remnants of voodoo so out of place in a room rampant with lavender and pink, chiffon and silk, and huge gilded mirrors squeezed into every spare inch of space.
 
He noted that the room was surprisingly devoid of personal pictures outside of photographs and paintings of Miss Janvier.

“But would everything be left out here in the open?” asked Mycroft.
 

Sherlock tapped his chin with his forefinger.
 
“True, it seems to be more a part of a ritual than a poisoning, which the murderer would have gone to some lengths to conceal.”
 

“For my own part, I suspect that these remnants of voodoo were purposely left here to make it appear that the death was a case of magic—further adding to the mystery—given that there is no evidence of another presence in the room,” Watson said.
 

Sherlock turned to the lieutenant.
 
“You will have to examine the body for poison.
 
I would prefer to see Watson do it, but it’s an impossibility since he is a suspect.”

Dubuque nodded.

“On the surface, logic tells us that the killer must be the maid,” Sherlock continued.
 
“And yet, if that were the case, she would have to be very strong unless poison were involved—which perhaps it was.”

Mycroft stooped to pick up a lace handkerchief.
 
“Ah-ha!”

“Nothing unusual in a lace handkerchief in a lady’s boudoir,” Watson remarked.
 

Mycroft turned the handkerchief over, a wry smile forming on his lips as he handed the fine silk cloth to the lieutenant.
 
“What would a handkerchief with the initials ‘SF’ be doing in Miss Janvier’s room?”

“Très intéressant!”
 
Dubuque held up the handkerchief smiling.
 
“You would expect the initials to be ‘JJ’, would you not?”

“Unless the ‘SF’ stands for the Russian lady’s real name,” Bertillon considered.
 
“The stage actresses, they always have the false names.”

“No,” Watson refuted.
 
“Her last name was Bezborodov.
 
I don’t know her first name.”

“Natasha,” Mycroft murmured as if in a trance, his face suddenly ashen white.
 
“And the Duke of Cambridge’s wife is Sarah Fairbrother.”

A silence fell over the room until the maid was brought in, whimpering and crying.
 
She was indeed a frail looking thing.
 
But Sherlock had seen many a dainty murderer before.

“What is your name, Mademoiselle?” Bertillon asked.

“Francine.”
 
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

“And what did you see when you entered the room?” Sherlock asked.

“I saw Miss Janvier lying on the floor, Bien sûr!”
 
She sniffed.

“Did you touch anything, Mademoiselle Francine?” Sherlock asked politely, attempting to put the woman at ease.

“Non,” the maid shook her head vehemently.

“Were you and the mistress close?”
 
Bertillon asked.

For a moment an expression of amusement graced her face.
 
“Non.
 
She was close to no one.
 
And I was the maid.”

“Did you see or hear anything odd, Mademoiselle?”
 
Sherlock asked.

“I thought I heard a sound beneath the window,” she replied.

“Did you investigate?”
 
Bertillon asked.

“Non.”
 
She shook her head.
 
“I was too afraid.”
 
And indeed she was shaking, either from fear or guilt.

“Had you seen the voodoo items before, Mademoiselle Francine?” Sherlock pointed to the items on the desk.

“Oui,” she nodded.
 
“Miss Van Horn brought them.”

“You are dismissed,” Sherlock pronounced.
 
This appeared to annoy Bertillon, and certainly Dubuque, but Sherlock did not have time to waste with the niceties.

Sherlock moved again to the window. “I will need to examine the courtyard and speak to everyone who might have seen anything through the window.”
 
He pointed to the floor, where something was just under the bed.
 
“Look, there’s a piece of paper lying on the floor here.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, fanning himself.

Picking up the paper, Sherlock handed it to his elder brother.
 
“It is in Russian.”

“What does it say?” demanded Bertillon.

“It is a personal letter to Miss Janvier,” Mycroft replied, his voice somber.
 
“From her husband.
 
Offering her a large sum of money for a divorce.”

“We will never know if she intended to accept or not,” murmured Bertillon.

“To the contrary,” muttered Sherlock, shaking his head.
 
“It gives us a strong motive for murder either way.”

“Precisely,” agreed Mycroft.

Sherlock tapped his forefinger on his cheek.
 
“And yet, it is not only the nature of the missive which is revealing—which only confirms that which I already suspected—but the
location
of the paper,” said Sherlock, turning to glance at the window.

“What are you getting at, Holmes?” Watson asked, perplexed.

“I would have thought it more likely for Miss Janvier’s reading material to have been on this table,” Holmes suggested.
 
“There is no breeze, the window is shut, how did it fall to the ground?”

“Not important!
 
Mon Dieu
!”
 
Dubuque exclaimed.
 
“Paper on the ground or the desk is no matter.
 
It is the content which is of import,
naturellement
.”

“We are here as requested.”
 
Mirabella curtseyed in the doorway, joined by Ashanti.