Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (40 page)

And among these powerful players there was yet another woman here by invitation, at Sherlock Holmes’ insistence:
 
a Miss Mirabella Hudson, chief bottle washer and of no use to anyone—except, apparently, to the Great Detective.

Those seated about the table turned and stared at her disinterestedly as she entered the room carrying a notepad and pen as Sherlock had instructed her to do.
 
The Cossack glanced at her from the door for only an instant.
 
No one would question the need for a transcriptionist.

“My secretary,” Sherlock said.

***

Mirabella took a seat at a small table in the corner, showing her deference to those at the grand table.
 

In an instant all the hardship I have endured is worth it
.
 
The tiger’s fangs, the bloody corpses, the fencing and pistol lessons, even the lace doilies.
 
Mirabella was thrilled beyond belief and thought her eyes might never close again as she scanned the room wide-eyed.

There was no reason for Sherlock to include her, she knew that.
 

Why did he?
 
She knew very well that Sherlock Holmes didn’t need a note taker:
 
every word spoken, every gesture was committed to his memory.
 
Why had he taken this action which he must know would mean the world to her and which afforded her the utmost respect?

Sherlock Holmes might push her to the extremes, but, underneath it all, she was finally beginning to realize that his forcefulness which bordered on persecution revealed that he had faith in her.
 
As he had in so few people.

And here is my reward.
 

“As you know, we are here to shed further light upon the murder of Mademoiselle Joëlle Janvier, a Russian spy of some resolve,” Sherlock began.
 
“Technically she died a married woman and was a Mrs. Bezborodov, but for purposes of this inquiry we will refer to the deceased as Miss Janvier, as we all knew her.”

Some knew her better than others
.
 
Mirabella glanced at John Watson.

“We know the following,” continued Sherlock.
 
“Joëlle Janvier was married in Russia to a Dr. Bezborodov, who in recent months strongly desired to remarry.”

“Divorce is only possible through a church court in Russia,” Bertillon said.
 
“Since divorce was exceedingly difficult, there could be only one infallible solution to his problem.”

“If you ask me, Bezborodov did it!
 
The swine!” interjected Prince George.

“I wouldn’t think so,” replied Mycroft, taking a sip of hot tea lavishly adorned with cream.
 
“There was a large monetary payment made to Mrs. Bezborodov, presumably to entice her not to put anything in the way of the proceedings.
 
There is generally a way if enough money is involved—even for the church.”
 
Mycroft shrugged.
 

“The existence of the bribe indicated, at least, that someone believed there was a way,” Sherlock added.
 
“In some cases divorce is possible if infidelity can be proven—particularly by the woman—and there was certainly evidence of this.”

“For reasons better left undisclosed, the divorce had to be kept secret:
 
the doctor could not afford the publicity.
 
Much associated with Miss Janvier was better kept secret.”
 
Mycroft stared pointedly at Prince George, appearing every bit the royal dressed in his regal attire: a red uniform, a pale blue sash across a not inconsequential torso, and a vivid display of gold braid and medals.

“However that might be, let us address Miss Janvier’s allegiance,” Sherlock continued.
 
“Through the expert detective work of Dr. John Watson, we discovered that during the early days of her marriage, Miss Janvier took a vow to serve each the revolutionaries and the Okhrana.
 
It has been a mystery to many which of those vows inspired her true loyalty.”
 

Chief Arkadiy Harting spoke up at this point.
 
“Miss Janvier chose allegiance to the Okhrana.
 
Thus, she became a double-agent as regarded the revolutionaries.”

“So, in effect,” Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson, studied Chief Harting, “You were her boss.”

Mycroft frowned.
 
“In so far as anyone was Miss Janvier’s boss, yes.”

“That’s precisely the point, isn’t it, Chief Harting?” Sherlock asked.
 
“Miss Janvier was betraying the Okhrana as well, wasn’t she?
 
She took the money, but she had no allegiance to anyone.
 
She was a
triple agent
in point of fact.
 
And you were one of the few who had her number early on.”

“Certainly not,” Chief Harting retorted, his expression suddenly stone-faced.

“Please do give us some credit, Chief Harting,” Sherlock continued.
 
“Otherwise, how can you explain the fact that Czar Alexander II was not aware of the attack on that fateful Sunday, and that the terrorists were so strategically placed?
 
There can hardly be a bigger clue to Miss Janvier’s allegiance than the murder of the Czar, can there?
 
And it gets worse, doesn’t it?”
 

“How can it possibly get worse than the murder of the Czar?” Chief Harting replied somberly.

“
The duma
,” Mycroft stated.

“The council assemblies to be elected by the people?
 
But those were reversed by Alexander III,” Chief Harting argued.

“Precisely,” Sherlock continued.
 
“Miss Janvier was in a position to know—she had to have known about the duma—and with that information she might have calmed her group and used her position for the future good of her country and its ninety-seven million inhabitants.”

“She had the power to save everyone—her people
and
the Czar,” Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock leaned closer to Harting.
 
“But, instead, she fueled the fan—potentially destroying her country’s future hopes.
 
For that, you despised her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Harting nodded, anger suddenly evident in his reddened complexion.
 
“The sorceress betrayed the Mother Russia.
 
She betrayed
everyone
.
 
When she left Russia, it wasn’t because of her husband, it was because there were those in the
Okhrana
who suspected her.
 
So she came to Paris and joined the circus.
 
Not until later did she regain favor with the Okhrana—against my protests.”

“But because the terrorist group was successful in its assassination of the Czar, understandably the revolutionaries were more positive towards her.”
 
Sherlock paused, frowning.
 
“But the Okhrana had its doubts.
 
The Czar had died after all.
 
So she had to do something to regain favor with the Russian government:
 
she had to sacrifice a few men to the cause.
 
She gave names of the revolutionaries who had killed the Czar to the Okhrana.”

“Yes, the men who were executed:
 
those who had thrown the bombs.” Chief Harting nodded.
 

“On the alter of Joëlle Janvier,” Mycroft murmured.

“Some might say that Mademoiselle Janvier was the one who threw the bomb, though she never touched it?” Sherlock pressed.

“Yes.”
 
Chief Harting nodded, regaining a modicum of his control.
 
He had, after all, been trained not to reveal his true emotion.

“But you were ordered to work with her, weren’t you, Chief Harting?
 
Those above you are not as perceptive as you.”
 
Sherlock asked.
 
He tapped his fingers on the table.
 
“And you held her personally responsible.”

Chief Harting nodded.

“But despite the reality, Miss Janvier appeared to be very successful, did she not, Chief Harting?”
 
Mycroft asked.
 
“Those in high places believed that you were the two best agents in the entire Russian Imperialist Police.
 
A great team.
 
The Circus was an effective front for her political activity, and Paris is the center of Russian revolutionary activity.”

“She was a master of deception,” replied Chief Harting, nodding.
 
“Miss Janvier once even stopped a bomb plot in St. Petersburg, saving Alexander III’s life.”

“Possibly a plot of her own planning?” Sherlock asked.
 

“Possibly.”
 
Chief Harting closed his eyes momentarily.
 
“But she was in good standing with the Russian government, who would hear none of my protests.”

“As it is, the oppression of the people is much stronger than it was under Alexander II, and the revolutionary groups much more active as well,” Mycroft noted.
 
“Miss Janvier created more work for herself on both sides.”

Chief Harting sighed, grief crossing his expression.
 
“Now the country is reduced to people executing each other, and it doesn’t make a great deal of difference.
 
But on that fateful day when Alexander II was executed, it made all the difference in the world.
 
If that had not happened, the tide would have turned.”
 
Chief Harting took out his handkerchief and dotted his eyes, as if he wept for every one of his countrymen.

“Ah, but it can always get worse, can’t it, Chief Harting?” Sherlock interjected.
 
“If Miss Janvier had lived, no doubt she would have made an attempt on the life of Czar Alexander III as well.”
   

Mycroft added,
 
“Miss Janvier was planning a trip.
 
The letter found near her nightstand from the Czar inviting her to the palace was proof of that.
 
If she had access to the Czar—Miss Janvier was a favored person at this point after all—she could get into the palace and kill him herself.”

“Wouldn’t a personal letter from the Czar indicate that Miss Janvier was on the Czar’s side?” asked Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson.

“I believe the letter indicated that Miss Janvier had wielded an invitation and planned to kill the Czar personally,” Sherlock stated.
 
“Recall that we have more than this letter to support our conclusion:
 
if Joëlle Janvier was on the Czar’s side, she was sadly ineffective in protecting Alexander II from the assassination.
 
Did she assist with the murder of Alexander II as retaliation for the death of her father?
 
And was she still plotting to kill Alexander III?”

“But she would be caught and hanged,” Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson objected, clearly incensed at this travesty to justice.

“Perhaps.
 
But the relevant point is that she didn’t believe she would be—and therefore might have made the attempt.”
 
Mycroft said.
 
“All the success had gone to her head.”

“Precisely,” continued Sherlock.
 
“Miss Janvier had been successful for so long at having other people take the blame for her crimes that she began to think herself invincible and the rest of the world idiots.
 
She was extremely narcissistic and believed that everyone else was inferior.”

“What an odd thing for you to say, Holmes,” Watson murmured, his hands still in chains.

“Arrêtez vous!”
 
Dubuque commanded Dr. Watson.
 
“Be silent!”

“Some of us use our gifts to benefit mankind,” Sherlock continued, his eyes resting on Dr. Watson.
 
“But back to Miss Janvier.
 
As much as Miss Janvier loved money, I believe that she loved power more.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed.
 
“She used her sexuality . . .” he glanced at Watson “she used whatever she had.
 
She reveled in the knowledge that she had the power to put revolutionaries in jail, that she could kill people without getting her own hands bloody, that she could control all sides and every side.
 
She knew how to manipulate and deceive.
 
The idea that she might kill the Czar of Russia and get away with it—a person who had felt so powerless as a child—was intoxicating to her.”

“She cherished delusions of grandeur,” Sherlock pronounced.
 
“She imagined that she could control not only those around her but the fate of entire countries—millions of people—and therefore the course of the world.
 
It made her feel . . . safe.”
 

“And, in the end, it killed her.”
 
Mycroft added.

“You have no proof of this.
 
It is only a theory,” stated Lieutenant Dubuque.

“Ah, but there is a great deal of proof of Miss Janvier’s mental state,” replied Sherlock.
 
“She was a triple agent, Chief Harting will confirm this.
 
We know that she sent many men to the hangman’s noose, her purported comrades.
 
Did she appear to have any remorse over this?
 
Not at all.
 
She tormented Mr. Stanislav Afanasy and Miss Van Horn continuously.
 
She kept her husband in a state of purgatory, and enjoyed making new conquests.”
 
He glanced at Watson and Prince George.
 
“A woman interested solely in money or in protecting her country would have behaved differently, with a different focus.
 
It was primarily about the power.”