Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (5 page)

“For the time being you still have a position, Miss Hudson, but you must promise to take my instruction more seriously.
 
Why should I waste my genius and my valuable time on a thankless girl which might otherwise be spent undermining crime and saving lives?”

“Oh, I am grateful, Mr. Holmes, believe me.”
 
Especially when you are asleep.

“As you should be.
 
But I assure you that you will be punished for your insubordination.
 
And your tendency to lie, which I abhor above all things.”

“Lie?” she replied indignantly, turning to stare at him.
 
“I do not even know how to lie.”

“You just did.”
 
He consulted his pocket watch.
 
“Not two minutes and fifty-seven seconds ago.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, genuinely dismayed.

The carriage turned onto Paddington Street where she saw James Taylor & Co., shoemaker to Sherlock Holmes. As if to commemorate the occasion, he tapped his foot in annoyance.
 
“I refer to the Case of the Sword Princess, which you claim to have solved.”
 

“I did not say that I solved the case, I merely said that I
helped
to solve the case,” she replied.

“It is nonetheless an incorrect statement.”

“Of course,” she murmured, understanding dawning.
 
“You were not the star of that discourse, therefore it must be untrue.”

“You are becoming more like LeStrade every day, Miss Belle.”
 
He stifled a laugh, an expression of uncharacteristic amusement crossing his features.
 
“Being abducted by the villains does not constitute solving the case.”

“I managed to save myself and four little girls!” she replied indignantly, crossing her arms in front of her waist.

“And would you still be alive today if Watson were not such a crack shot?”

“Probably not.”

“And would Watson have been there to fire the shot if I had not deduced where you were and led him to the location?”

“No.”

“So who solved the case?”

“You did, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am a wretched, evil girl.”
 
She added in a whisper, “And I owe you my life.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Belle.
 
Many people do.”

She sighed heavily.
 
“You seem to forget, Mr. Holmes, that I saved Princess Elena from a terrible fate.”

“
I forget nothing about you, Miss Belle
.”
 
He stared intently at her before looking away.
 
“Most notably, I recollect that you allowed your revolver to be separated from you, unlike the princess of Montenegro who had the forethought to have hers within her grasp.”

Will we ever put that behind us?
 
If Jesus forgave my sin, I should think that would be good enough for Sherlock Holmes.
 
She added in her own defense, “We did work together.”

“Miss Hudson,” he turned to face her, his expression severe.
 
“I will admit that you have had every success on your side thus far—despite your inattention, incompetence, and carelessness.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Holmes,” she demurred.

“I am, Miss Hudson.
 
You have been astonishingly lucky.”
 
She saw his hand clenching his ivory cane and feared it might split in two.
   

Where was the man who had held her in his arms at Miss de Beauvais’ Christmas Ball, smiling down at her, congratulating her?
 
Treating her as an associate.
 

Almost treating her as an equal, if that could be imagined.
 
Sherlock Holmes didn’t treat
anyone
as an equal!
 
He had even called her the
world’s first lady detective
!
 
High, high praise coming from one so intelligent—and one who considered himself so far above others.
 

She would never forget the look of admiration in his eyes.
 
Almost
gentle
, if Sherlock Holmes could ever be called that.

It had been a moment of heaven.
 
She stole a glance at the harsh profile of the man sitting beside her.

That moment was gone.
 

The Winter Circus

“It appears you have a visitor, nyet?”
 
The beautiful woman scantily clad in scarlet chiffon harem pants, her face covered with a veil, opened the door to the tiger’s cage.
 
In this outfit she both blended in with the other circus performers—and was unidentifiable.

 
“Are you insane?
 
What are you doing?” Beckham exclaimed in horror.  

“Getting rid of evidence, naturally.”
 
With the door placed between herself and the tiger, she effectively gave Beckham nowhere to escape, the tiger now in between him and the gate she held onto.
 
In point of fact, the predator was fixated on the trapped man, with little to no interest in the gate or the woman behind it.
 
The scent she had rubbed on Beckham’s clothing was proving to be effective.
 

“M-me?
 
I don’t know anything!”

“Soon you will not.”
 
She smiled.
 
“
Shishka!
” she murmured as the tiger inched towards him.

He reached in his jacket for his gun, only to find that it was now gone.
 
“Where is my pistol? . . . how did. . .?”
 
His speech was erratic as the terror of his situation struck him.

“You really should check for gun when you put your clothes back on, da?”
 
She advised.

“You’ll never be able to cover your tracks, Mademoiselle!” he exclaimed, frantically looking about him for some form of weapon, the only thing available being a long wooden pole leaning against the wall, which he snatched up.

“Oh, I think I will, dahling,” she purred.
 
“I already have, in fact.”

“The British government will find you—and you’ll hang!
 
But it’s not too late.
 
Throw me my gun.”

The woman laughed a taunting laugh even as the tiger advanced upon him, the animal’s curiosity now intense.
 

Beckham kept his eyes glued on the striped carnivore, even though the circus beauty was his only hope at this point.
 
The pole was a temporary barrier at best.
 
“Help me!
 
I promise I won’t say a word!”

There.
 
That was better.
 
She resented his lack of attention on her.
 
This was the part of the game she like the best, when her victim understood her power.

“
Nyet
, Mr. Beckham, you should not have spied on me.
 
How you think you can outsmart me?” she asked, almost singing the words. 

“This is inhuman!
 
I implore you, don’t do this!
 
Shoot me if you must, but this is too cruel by far!”

“Death is occupational hazard in our business, but how wonderful when can be dealt in such creative way, da?”

“How can you?
 
You’re not a woman, you’re a monster!” he exclaimed, covering his body with the pole as he jutted it into the jaws of the tiger.
 
He was doing fairly well at keeping the tiger at bay—for the time being.
 

But if the tiger decided to win, win he would.       
 

“Sheltered life you have led,” she replied tersely.
 
“In Russia, no shortage of cruelty.
 
Czar provides example daily.”
 
Her own beloved father had killed himself after he lost his land under the Emancipation of the Serfs, his family starving—and her mother too weak to do anything about it.
 

She, on the other hand, had the power to control life.
 

Every
life.
 
Man, woman or beast, it didn’t matter.
 
She always initiated the first—and last—strike.

The tiger was positively mesmerized by the scent she had placed on Beckham’s clothing.
 
She made a mental note to experiment further with the method.
 
And yet, it was not enough: circus animals were uncertain, having learned to obey man.
 
Some of the wildness had been trained out of them.

This is boring
.
 
The tiger was not ready to attack.
 
But she had anticipated this, as she always thought of everything, she congratulated herself.
 
She was so much smarter than everyone gave her credit for—so much smarter than the men she flattered.
 
She shrugged.
 
So much smarter than everyone, in fact
.
 
Everyone thought she was nothing more than a beautiful performer.

But Beckham had figured it out.
 
Anger rose up in her for his audacity to think he could trap her.

The same anger she had felt when she had found her father dead.

A small bucket sat in a corner, the contents of which she had obtained from a local butcher. Beckham’s back was now to her as he had inched closer to the cage door while keeping the tigers at bay.
 
Apparently he expected to find a way to overpower her.
 
Foolish, foolish man
.
 
As they all were.

Lining up carefully through the bars, she splashed the entire contents of the bucket over him.

“What is this?” he cried out, “My God!
 
Blood
!”

“Do svidanija, Mr. Beckham.
 
Good-bye
.”

It annoyed her that a drop of blood had splattered on her outfit.
 
Now she would have to change.
 
How inconvenient.
 
As she left the caged area with the now empty bucket to be cleaned out, she locked the outside door, dropping the key into her cleavage.

“AEEEEE!”  She heard the screams of the man as the tiger attacked him, the scent of the blood irresistible.
 
The tigers were kept hungry to improve their performance.
 
A man would have no chance against a determined tiger, particularly with no weapon.
 
Funny how the sound was barely noticeable amidst the noise of the circus all about them.

As she had known it would be.

It was disappointing that it would be over in seconds; tigers were efficient killers, in most instances severing the victim’s spinal cord.
 
She consoled herself with the knowledge that a murder committed quickly was always to one’s advantage, making it much more difficult to place anyone at the scene.
 
Amateurs had no place in the tiger cage and it would be assumed the British gentleman had made a foolish mistake.

Which he had.
 
He had underestimated her.

She had wished Beckham would suffer more—she wanted him to know who was responsible for his death and why—but sometimes it just wasn’t possible to enact her revenge as she would like to.   

On the positive side, by the time the lock to the door was opened no one would be able to tell that the extra blood was not Beckham’s.
 
He would be in no position to contradict that notion, being quite dead.
 

His secrets would die with him.

She had made certain that Stanislav, the tiger trainer, would be far away from the scene of the murder—waiting for her at a proposed liaison, which would likewise provide her with an alibi.
 
The only other person who might have been present, Stanislav’s assistant, was even now completely encased in bandages in the hospital.

Quiet ensued inside the tigers’ cage except for a few low growls.

My revenge is complete.

Feeling a strange satisfaction, she knew that she had the power and was the victor.
 
She was always the victor.
 

It is as if I cannot lose
.
 
She smiled.
 
Just once she would like to come up against someone who posed a challenge for her.

A flash of lightening crossed the sky—as if she might get her wish.

She nodded to the heavens.
 
Even control the future do I
.

London

“Mr. Holmes, please do tell Dr. Watson.”
 
Mirabella gulped, offering the doctor his after dinner sherry in the comfort of 221 Baker Street.
 
She didn’t believe it herself and wanted to hear the news from Sherlock’s lips again—in the company of a witness.
 
“I am going to Paris . . .
aren’t I?
”

“Yes.
 
With Watson and myself,” Sherlock stated, taking a sip of sherry.

“Going to Paris, are we?” asked Watson with the raise of an eyebrow, a slight smile forming on his lips.
 
The good doctor was dressed immaculately, complimenting a physique created by competitive rowing, a sport he had taken up since his injury at the Battle of Maiwand.
 
Rowing only required upper body strength, not the use of his wounded leg.
 
Although Sherlock kept Watson running about London, if the truth be known.

John Watson is going with us!
 
Mirabella felt her heart jump in her chest even as she made a concerted effort for her expression to remain unchanged.
 
Something exciting had now turned into something
wonderful
.