Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (31 page)

“What are they doing here?” demanded Dubuque.

“Lieutenant!” Bertillon commanded, causing Dubuque to bow his head.

“I sent for them,” replied Mycroft.
 
“And the tiger trainer.”
 
Both Mycroft and Sherlock stared at Ashanti for an uncharacteristically long moment.

“And how long have you been out of your bandages, Miss Van Horn?” Mycroft asked.

“Two hours,” Ashanti replied.

“And were you with her the entire time, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

“Not the last hour,” Mirabella replied.
 
“Ashanti said she had something to do.”

An alarmed expression on her face, Ashanti looked at Mirabella who gasped as their eyes met, only that moment seeing the body on the floor.
 
The surprise exhibited by each of them was not lost on Sherlock.

Watson took Mirabella’s hand in a too familiar gesture and she looked up at him in a trusting fashion, which infuriated Sherlock.

One body was not yet cold and Watson was in search of another.
 
I warned Watson to leave her be
.
 
I will not have Miss Belle preyed upon by an experienced libertine
.
 
Sherlock felt a resolve which was now irreversible.

The lieutenant, who had been going through the drawers, now let out a long whistle.
 

“What did you find, Lieutenant?” Mycroft asked.

Opening a velvet pouch, a breathtaking display of diamonds was revealed.

“Magnificent!” murmured Watson.
 
“And worth a fortune.”

Sherlock glanced at Ashanti and observed her looking away with a pained expression as she bit her lip.

Definitely more to the lady than meets the eye.

“Miss Janvier was not murdered for theft.
 
The jewels were precisely where a thief would look,” surmised Mycroft, glancing at Watson.
 
He added in a low voice, “Without a doubt this was a crime of passion.”

“Quite so.”
 
Sherlock returned to the body on the floor.
 
“It cannot have escaped your notice, Bertillon, that there would very likely be wounds on Miss Janvier’s attacker.
 
Miss Janvier was an accomplished athlete.
 
She would not have gone into the next world easily:
 
she would have used her nails, her teeth, and anything else available to her.
 
Even if she was drugged, there would be marks.
 
I suggest that you thoroughly examine any of your suspects for signs of a struggle:
 
Prince George, Francine, Watson.
 
If you don’t find any wounds on your suspect, it is very unlikely that he or she is the assailant.”

“Of course!” L’Inspecteur Bertillon agreed.

Watson’s face turned suddenly ashen, turning to stare at his flat-mate.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, stating under his breath, “Please tell me, old chap, that you have no marks on you from . . . from . . . ?”
   

Inspector Bertillon asked the ladies to leave the room, Mirabella bordering on hysterical, and ordered Watson to remove his shirt.

There were, in fact incriminating marks, appearing as if they were made by fingernails and teeth.

“Tsk!
 
Tsk!”
 
Sherlock muttered, shaking his head.

“But it’s not what you think!” John Watson exclaimed.

The Lieutenant eyed Dr. Watson suspiciously, approaching him with handcuffs.
 
“Every man he has his breaking point . . .”

“My good man, you are being hasty.”
 
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
 
“Dr. Watson is needed for the case.
 
You have not, as yet, found the weapon.
 
You don’t even know what the weapon was.”

“But Monsieur Holmes,” L’Inspecteur Bertillon argued, “You are the one who told us to check for the marks.”

“Indeed you are, Holmes,” Watson growled, glaring at Sherlock and looking very much like a murderer indeed.

“You were their prime suspect, my friend, it was only a matter of time before they took you.
 
I merely wished to make a point.”
 
Sherlock stared at him pointedly.
 
“At any rate, it doesn’t prove anything.
 
I said that the killer would likely have marks on him.
 
I did not say that all men with marks must be the killer.
 
It was a test for innocence not for guilt.”

“Then Dr. Watson, he is not innocent!”
 
Lieutenant Dubuque stood to attention, blustering.
 

There is some truth to that.

“I am telling you, only two men they entered the room,” Dubuque continued, as if a fire had been lit underneath him.
 
“First, the English Prince George, and second, Dr. Watson.
 
No one entered after the doctor left except the maid.
 
I was on duty myself.
 
I know that the doctor, he is the killer.
 
This just proves it.”

“
Bon
,” Bertillon muttered, shaking his head.
 
“And he has the marks indicative of a struggle.”

“She was alive when I departed!” Watson repeated, blushing profusely, which seemed to further seal his guilt.
 

“Hmmm,” considered Bertillon.
 
“Prince George arrived first and had already left when Watson entered.
 
Essentially the doctor is the Duke of Cambridge’s alibi.”

“Precisely,” pronounced Watson.
 
“And I have none.”

“But do you protect Prince George?” Mycroft demanded of Dr. Watson.

“I would,” admitted Watson.
 
“But I am telling the truth!”

“Never fear, Dr. Watson.
 
I spoke to Prince George and I don’t believe he did it, there is no need for you to rush to his defense,” remarked Mycroft.

“Prince George is not the one in need of a defense,” murmured Sherlock, taking his black top-hat in his hand and rolling his fingers along the rim.

“But we have to save Dr. Watson!” exclaimed Mirabella as they placed the handcuffs on John Watson.
 
“He is so kind.
 
He would never hurt anyone, even someone as horrible as Joëlle Janvier!” She glanced about the room, the wallpaper a lavender floral, the carpet pink with blue hues like a sunset, and huge gilded mirrors placed at every angle reflecting pink roses, a favorite of the theatrical Russian spy.
 
It was difficult to believe that the life which had inhabited this ornately feminine space was gone.
 
And that the siren could potentially take another life with her.
 

A life so dear to her!

“Damn it, man!” snapped Watson as the cuffs clicked.

“He didn’t do it!”
 
Mirabella turned to John Watson, wrapping her arms around her waist.
 
“You didn’t do it, did you, John?”

Watson raised his eyebrows at her.
 
“Your confidence is underwhelming, Miss Mirabella.
 
And why should the French police believe me if you don’t?”

“I do!
 
It is so very wrong of them not to believe you!
 
I never suspected you for a moment,” she emphasized, closing her eyes momentarily.
 
“It’s just that she was so evil, she might turn anyone to the devil.
 
And where were you at the time of the murder, Dr. Watson?”

“I was with Holmes!” John Watson exclaimed as he was being dragged to the door against his will.

“Watson was in Miss Janvier’s room to hear the police tell it,” considered Sherlock, staring reflectively out the window while a pink chiffon curtain caressed his face as the French police pulled his struggling friend to the door.
 
“Prince George came out, Miss Janvier was alive.
 
Watson went in.
 
Not five minutes later the lady’s maid comes running towards us yelling that Miss Janvier is dead, followed by the good lieutenant stating that no one has entered the room since Watson left except the maid.”

“Yes, yes, thank you for that recounting of events, Holmes,” exclaimed Watson, bracing his body in the door, his top-hat having fallen to rest on the pink carpet.

Sherlock took his pipe out of his pocket and began filling it with tobacco, exhibiting far more energy and interest towards that endeavor than the rescue of his friend, which appeared to be a matter of some indifference to the Great Detective.
 
He glanced over his shoulder at his friend momentarily.
 
“It’s not looking good, old chap!”

“Oh, why did you kill her?” moaned Mirabella, genuine concern overtaking her as she dropped into the lime wing-backed couch beside Mycroft who was strangely quiet and reflective.
 
“We all wanted to, I’m sure, but . . .”

“I
didn’t
kill her,” John Watson exclaimed.

“Rest assured, Miss Belle,” Sherlock glanced towards her.
 
“Watson here did not hold Miss Janvier in the same abhorrence which the rest of the world felt for her.
 
He was quite
delighted
with her, shall we say?”

Sherlock’s eyes motioned to the canopy bed adorned with wispy chiffon sheets in pink and lavender.
 
Mirabella turned to stare at John Watson, aghast at the idea.
 
She felt more disgust, in fact, than she had with the possibility that he had murdered the she-devil.
 
That would have been understandable, after all.

“I was not precisely delighted with her as you say, Holmes!” shouted Watson from the other end of the room.
 
“I merely did not find her so offensive as others did.”

“Indeed,” smiled Holmes, lighting his pipe.
 
“Not so offensive, you say?
 
Yes, that would seem to be a true statement.”

“Monsieur le Doctor, you’ll need to come with us,
s’il vous plait
.”
 
Dubuque latched onto John Watson’s arm at L’Inspecteur Bertillon’s nod.
 
The French lieutenant’s aggressiveness was out of character with his adorable uniform: a little blue box hat, white slacks, a black belt with silver buckles, and a long blue over jacket adorned with over a dozen silver buttons decorating the lapel.
 
Between the ensuing struggle, it looked as if the officer and his prisoner might do a tap dance together.

Much to Mirabella’s surprise, Sherlock made no effort to interfere with the policeman’s advance, seeming to put more energy into enjoying a few puffs on his pipe.

John Watson’s body turned stiff, as did his expression, but he held his ground to glare at Sherlock.
 
“I did my duty, that is all.”
 
Through barred teeth he added, “At your insistence, Holmes!”
 

Very true
, Mirabella reflected.
 
It was, after all, an affair John Watson had been forced to undertake out of duty.
 
As she had faced the tigers, so had John Watson.

“Indeed it was, but I never imagined the enthusiasm you would bring to it, Watson,” stated Holmes, winking to Mirabella.
 
“All those days and nights making passionate love meant nothing to him.”

Mirabella turned to stare at John Watson, watching for a response.
 
Sherlock had a point however reluctant she was to admit it.

“I did it for Queen and country!
 
I assure you, Miss Mirabella,” muttered Watson through gritted teeth, “I had very little feeling for the woman.”

“You see, Miss Belle, only a few days ago the good doctor was embroiled in an amorous love affair—and note how revived his mood is now.
 
As if her loss had no effect on him at all.
 
To be sure, Watson did not kill her.
 
He has not sufficient feeling for that.
 
You may rest easy on the matter.”

“Where are you taking me?” yelled John Watson in a heightened voice, now being shoved again through the doorway.

“Never fear, Watson, the incidences of brutality and murder in La Santé Prison have declined and may someday approach an acceptable number. La Santé is one of the most famous prisons in France with a most respectable wing for the wealthy and well-connected,” Sherlock yelled after the captive who had been pushed into the hall.
 
He added under his breath.
 
“Of course you won’t be in that wing; you’ll be in the high security wing, old chap.”

“Holmes, you son of a b----“ Watson yelled as he was drug down the hall.
 
Mirabella burst into tears, resting her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“There, there Miss Belle, all will be well.”
 
Sherlock patted her shoulder.

“He didn’t do it, Mr. Holmes!
 
I know it!”
 
She looked up at him, knowing he would never lie to her.

Sherlock shook his head in the negative.
 
“Of course he didn’t.”
 
Sherlock glanced at Bertillon who was still in the room and who attended the conversation with interest.

“And the marks on his body?
 
I overheard . . .”

“Beyond a doubt, the murderer has not a single mark on him inflicted by Miss Janvier,” Sherlock stated, looking out the window.

“But the struggle . . . ”
 
She studied Sherlock, utterly perplexed. “Then why did you let them take Dr. Watson?”

“Two reasons, Miss Belle.
 
First, it will be easiest to prove the good doctor’s innocence if he is locked safely away.
 
If other criminal acts are committed, to be jailed will exonerate him of all charges.”