Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (7 page)

“I can’t sleep because you’re playing the violin at 3:00 a.m., Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Mirabella, wincing as she managed to swallow the aspirin with her hot tea, the bitter taste dissolving in her mouth.

“Playing helps me sleep,” remarked Sherlock in surprise, looking up from placing the tobacco in his pipe.

“And wakes everyone else up!” chimed in Watson.

“Do accept my apologies, Watson.
 
I didn’t realize.”

“How can someone be so observant and yet so oblivious?” asked Mirabella.

“An interesting question,” considered Sherlock, taking a puff on his pipe.
 
“And one which deserves reflection.
 
But first, there is another matter which concerns me.”
 
His eyes rested on Mirabella.

Heaven help me.
 
She had completed the lighting and moved to stand beside the door.
 
What was keeping her from running for her life?
 
A full day in Sherlock’s company had long since grated on her nerves.
 
She asked reluctantly, “Yes?”

“It appears that you have taken up drink, Miss Belle.”

Dr. Watson stared at her in alarm.

“I certainly have not!”

“There is a certain melancholy to your personality of late and a tendency towards being annoyed.”

“I assure you I had no such tendency before meeting you, Mr. Holmes.”

“To drink or to annoyance?” he asked innocently.

“I do not drink spirits!” she exclaimed.
 
To excess anyway.
 
An occasional sherry with my Aunt Martha.
 
In fact, I will very likely have one tonight
.

“Yes, clearly there has been a change in your chemistry in the last six months.”
 
He continued, ignoring her as if she hadn’t spoken as he was wont to do.
 
“Naturally we can rule out the change of life for a young girl or an older woman as you are neither.
 
Next to consider would be a change in sleep patterns or a lack of proper nutrition.
 
We can all be assured it is not the lack of good food, you have the appetite of a horse.
 
You have only just informed me that your problems with sleep are musically rather than chemically related.
 
Therefore, there can be only one other explanation for a person of your gender and age if you have not dipped into drug use.”

“While we’re on that topic, let us discuss your drug use, Mr. Holmes,” she seethed, raising her eyebrows at him even as she placed her hands on her waist.
 
“There we actually have some facts to support the theory.”

“And what
is
the explanation for Miss Mirabella’s purported mood changes, Holmes?” asked Dr. Watson, bending forward in his mahogany wing-backed chair of rose satin, a smile on his lips.
 
It appeared both men were completely ignoring her this evening.
 

How charming.

“Please don’t answer, I beg you,” pleaded Mirabella, placing her hand on her head.
 
“I don’t wish my headache to grow.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson.
 
Miss Belle’s is the behavior of a young woman in love.”

Oh, my aching head!
 
She bit her lip and closed her eyes, quickly discovering that his stating the truth was far worse than his hurling unfounded and false insults at her.

The truth
.
 
This was the reason people hated Sherlock Holmes.
 
It was all becoming vividly clear to her now.
 
He always spoke the truth.

“But Miss Belle is not generally in the company of any male persons except for me and you, my esteemed companion,” Sherlock continued his musing, as if he had not inflicted enough damage for a lifetime in the past few moments.
 
“. . . both wholly ineligible due to the nature of our relationship and our respective ages.
 
I must confess that even I am somewhat baffled, a state to which I am most unaccustomed.”

Even through her squinted eyes she could see that John glanced at her, both interest and skepticism written across his expression.
 

Does he guess?
 
She couldn’t help feeling some relief that the idea did not appear to repulse him.

“I have to disagree with you there, Holmes.”

I was wrong, the idea does repulse him
.
 
She bit her lip.
 
I should have known
.
 
Dr. John Watson is handsome and dashing, always flirting with the ladies, and I am a plain girl with brown hair and brown eyes—and definitely without a twenty-inch waist.

“On what point, doctor?”
 
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at his friend.

“I do not hold either of us to be too old for Miss Hudson.
 
I am nine and twenty and you are not far behind me.
 
We are young men only just established in our careers—or beginning to be so—Miss Mirabella is a young woman not much more than a girl, granted, but she
is
out of the schoolroom.
 
The Queen herself took the throne at Miss Hudson’s age.
 
I am certain some of Miss Hudson’s contemporaries are now married, and very likely to men of approximately ten years their senior.”
 

Does he mean—could he mean—the idea of being with her is not unappealing to him?
 
Or is John only humoring Sherlock?
 
Observing his smile and his eyes alighted upon her, Mirabella could feel herself coloring even as her head swam.
 
She reached for the doorknob, strangely unable to place her hand on the protruding metal handle in the dismay of the moment.
 

Hers was a strange mix of elation and fear:
 
it filled her heart with terror that Dr. John Watson might guess the truth.
 
She would rather jump off the London bridge than he should discover her feelings.

“Y-y-you forget, Mr. Holmes, that I v-volunteer at
Lady Graham’s
Orphan Asylum for the Female Children of Deceased Officers of the Police
,” she managed to utter, stumbling across the words as she spoke.
 
She swallowed hard, determined to sound nonchalant.
 
“I encounter many young men in my comings and goings, so I don’t know why you should think it would be Dr. Watson or yourself—if there were any truth in your supposition, which there is
not
.”

“I am well aware of every move you make, Miss Belle,” Sherlock stated quietly.
 
Upon reflection, he added, “And are there a great deal of young men in that establishment?
 
I would be most surprised to learn it.”

“Y-y-yes, of course.
 
There is a young solicitor who is at
Lady Graham’s
at times, there is a gardener about the grounds, and a bookkeeper in the office.”

“The young solicitor you refer to,” considered Sherlock.
 
“Would that be the same solicitor who is engaged to a Miss Bethany Allen?”

“Well, y-y-yes, I believe so.”

“Tsk. Tsk,” replied Sherlock.
 
“I sincerely hope your affections are not engaged there, Miss Belle, because that shall lead to nothing but heartache.
 
And Miss Bethany is your
friend
.”

“Well, of course, I didn’t mean, I only meant that I do encounter other young men—“

“Ah.
 
And tell me about them.”
 
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

Yes, I will do that.
 
Right after I am crowned the Queen of England and just before the second coming
.

Dr. Watson watched attentively, strangely silent.
 
She could usually count on the good doctor to come to her defense when Sherlock was drilling her, but she was noticeably alone.
 
What could it mean?
 
No doubt he had considered the idea of being her beau—and withdrawn in horror.

Praise God, I found the doorknob
.
 
Now if I am able to turn it with all the sweat on my hands, it will be a miracle.
 
“You know, I think it is time for me to retire to my rooms.
 
I should not have trespassed on your time this long.
 
You have been fed, you have your evening tea and brandy, and your papers and your laboratory are in order.”

“Not at all,” remarked Dr. Watson.
 
“Do tell us about your young man.”

Praise the heavens!
 
He hadn’t guessed.
 
She bit her lip in relief.
 

“There is no young man, I assure you, Dr. Watson.”
 
She smiled shakily at John.
 
Though she would happily barbecue Sherlock Holmes and throw him to the wolves at this moment she had no wish to be rude to dear John Watson.
 
“And I would much prefer to hear about our assignment in Paris.
 
You know I must pack my bags and prepare for the journey.”

“I shall tell you in the interest of peace,” agreed Sherlock, watching her.
 
“You will have a task in Paris.
 
And when it is time for you to know the specifics of your engagement, I will tell you.
 
My brother Mycroft in the Foreign Office believes it has implications at the highest levels of government.”

“Mycroft?” demanded Dr. Watson.
 
“Must be important.”

“I see,” murmured Mirabella, comprehending positively nothing at this moment in time.
 

“Good.
 
So let us return to the former topic which I had not quite concluded,” Sherlock mused.
 

“I have concluded it,” she replied through gritted teeth.

“Ah, yes,” nodded Holmes in obvious dismissal of her wishes.
 
His expression bore that intensity of curiosity which she had come to fear.
 
“But I must be apprised of the emotional state of those in my employ.
 
Utilizing my powers of both observation and deduction, I do see, Miss Belle, that you are not so very much in love.
 
I will admit that I am relieved to know it.”

“Why do you say so, Holmes?” asked Watson, his curiosity now piqued as well.

“It is very unkind of you to discuss my feelings right in front of me as if your opinion were fact,” protested Mirabella.
 
“I can be the only actual judge of
my
feelings.”

“Having observed your skills of deduction first hand, Miss Belle, I beg to differ,” replied Sherlock appearing to consider her words with interest.

“Of all the arrogant, rude—”

“Arrogant and rude?
 
Perhaps.
 
But wrong?
 
No.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” she huffed indignantly, grabbing the doorknob tighter and managing to crack the door open, her back to him now.

“Oh, have I upset you, Miss Belle?”
 
He asked innocently, his voice wafting through the room like the spread of the Black Plague.
 
“Well then, let’s say ‘Good night’.
 
Watson and I will simply discuss the matter in your absence if that is what you prefer.”

She slammed the door shut and turned to face him.
 
“I would prefer that you minded your own business, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

“I will tell you how I know, my dear Watson, that the charming Miss Hudson is not so very much in love,” murmured Sherlock, leaning towards his friend as if to whisper.
 
“She is wearing the perfume,
Jacinthe Blanche
.
 
I went down to Harrods’ perfume counter, which has an extensive collection, to verify the scent.
 
Most revealing.”

Both Watson and Mirabella stared at him in an obvious state of disturbance.

“And?” ventured Watson after some moments, his expression one of some concern.
 
“Is
Jacinthe Blanche
a perfume which is only worn by girls who are not so very much in love?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Watson!”
 
Sherlock lit his pipe.
 

“I would certainly wish not to be.
 
I was only repeating your words, Holmes.”

“Tell me this, Miss Belle.
 
Are you, in fact, wearing
Jacinthe Blanche
?”

“I am,” she glared at him.
 
And you should be wearing a straight jacket
.
 
She knew full well there was positively nothing Sherlock could deduce from the perfume she was wearing, however arrogant he might be.

“But don’t you see, Watson?” pressed Sherlock, turning to his friend.

“I do not,” sighed Watson, tapping his finger on the stand beside him.

“An expensive perfume purchased by a girl who won’t part with her funds for anything:
 
everything must go to her savings for her college education.
 
Quite illuminating.”

“Then why do you say she is not in love?” asked Watson.

“Tsk! Tsk!
 
I did not say that she is not in love.”
 
Strangely, his pronouncement gave her some comfort.
 
“I said that she is not so very much in love.
 
One must be accurate in one’s speech as well as in one’s observations.”

“Dr. Watson!
 
How revolting that you encourage him!”
 
Mirabella balanced herself against the door, somehow managing not to fall, though she could not quite will herself through it.
 
Not until she had heard the entirety of her employer’s insanity.

“There is no complexity to the scent,” stated Sherlock, snapping his fingers in the air as if revealing one of the mysteries of the universe.
 
“It smells of violets with no undertones.
 
Miss Belle is a multifaceted young woman deserving of a complex fragrance—a mosaic, if you will.
 
And she must surely be attracted to such a one.
 
She has changed her shampoo and her perfume, that is all.
 
The fact that she has selected a simple scent tells me that she is unsure of her course and is second guessing herself.
 
My conclusion:
 
her heart is not fully engaged.”