Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (8 page)

“There is a certain logic to that,” Dr. Watson agreed.

“Even madmen consider themselves to be brilliant,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock nodded, his eyes alighting on her.
 
For the first time in their acquaintance, she perceived a strange longing in those dark, intense eyes which pierced everything they alighted on.
 
With a sudden uncharacteristic sensuality, he added, “Miss Belle is a girl who would leave no stone unturned were she decided.”

She looked away, wanting so badly to be angry that Sherlock sometimes understood her better than she understood herself—wishing that she might turn that stone over and throw it at his head—and instead she felt . . . she felt . . . she didn’t know what she felt.
 
Intimate and violated at the same time
.
 

So she did what she always did when she felt uncomfortable and confused:
 
she talked.
 
“If I might interrupt your tirade, Mr. Holmes, only that I might pack the appropriate things so as to better serve you—what clothing will I need for Paris?”

“Very little,” replied Sherlock, closing his eyes as he relaxed further into his chair.
 
“And what you will need would fit in a purse.”

She opened her mouth in shock, but in a mere instant in time the Great Detective had tuned her out completely, as was his inclination.
 
His eyes were now fixated on the last embers of the fire, as if he were no longer aware that she was in the room.

Mirabella found that she wished Sherlock’s fiercely impassioned gaze was still absorbed with her.

She passed through the door, possibly closing it a bit more loudly than was entirely necessary.

“It’s much more complicated than that, isn’t it?” asked Mycroft Holmes, mid-level official in the Foreign Office, who was repeatedly asked to assume a higher level position—and who repeatedly refused.
 
Some said Mr. Mycroft Holmes, though only thirty-five years old, might have been the most rapidly promoted man in the history of the British government if he had not been so utterly disinterested in personal advancement.

“More complicated than a ring of spies in Paris determined to kill the Czar?” asked Spencer Cavendish.
 
The War Secretary, the 8
th
Duke of Devonshire and the Marquis of Hartington laughed, but he was clearly not amused.

“My little department has long known that the anti-Czarist movement is strong in Paris,” considered Mycroft, who momentarily wondered that Cavendish was having this conversation with him rather than with the Foreign Secretary.
 
“Stronger even than in Russia.”

“Naturally.
 
No one dares breath a word against the Czar in Russia.”
 
Cavendish frowned.
 
“That would mean sudden death.”

“Not sudden,” Mycroft corrected the War Secretary without hesitation.
 
“Death would come after torture.”

“At any rate,” Cavendish leaned back in his chair.
 
“You did an excellent job, Holmes, of pin-pointing the Cirque d’Hiver as the location of a known nest of spies.”

“Indeed.
 
The
Winter Circus
, situated in Paris.”
 
Mycroft nodded distractedly.
 
“We were getting very close to identifying the ring of spies when one of our most valuable operatives, Beckham, was found mauled to death by a tiger.”

“You don’t think it was an accident?”

“No.”
 
Mycroft shook his head.
 
“Proof that we were getting close, I should say.”
 

“The Queen is as mad as hornets over the dead agent, I can tell you,” Cavendish said.
 

“I don’t believe Beckham was too thrilled with the outcome either,” Mycroft added, untroubled at the news of the Queen of England being in a tether over the functioning of his department.
 
He was considerably more distressed at the loss of a man.
 
Her royal highness had been upset before, and would likely be again.

“And now, with everything in utter chaos, Prince George wanders into the web of spies, cavorting with a circus bare-backed rider,” Cavendish exclaimed, shutting his eyes momentarily.

“The Commander-in-Chief of the British Army,” Mycroft repeated, whistling under his breath.
 
“In the middle of a spy ring.”

“Prince George is a good soldier—but a bit of a muffin where women are concerned.”

“As many have been before him.” Mycroft shrugged, himself indifferent to females outside of the amusement they offered, but aware of the weaknesses of his gender.
 
“I should think the Queen could dissuade him from this course.”

“She is his cousin, Holmes, and reluctant to do so.
 
I fear she has left the resolution to us.”
 
Cavendish shook his head.
 
“I’d say we have an emergency on our hands, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’d say we do, Cavendish.
 
I don’t think it can be overstated:
 
if we’re not careful, we could have another dead Czar on our hands—and an international altercation.”
 
Mycroft frowned.
 
“And though we might be friends with the Czar’s government in theory, I can’t think we’d want the Russians knowing British military secrets.
 
If this bare-backed rider is a spy for the Russian Czar and Prince George is loose-lipped in a moment of weakness—”

“
Damnation
!
 
Let’s hand over our secrets to a country with thirty million soldiers, shall we?”
 
Cavendish swallowed hard.
 
“I know you hate to leave the office, Holmes, but I fear you’re going to have to travel to Paris.
 
There’s no one else we can trust to see that the thing is handled.
 
Very delicate situation.”

“I fear it as well.”
 
Mycroft sighed heavily.
 
“But shouldn’t the job fall to the Foreign Secretary?
 
I don’t wish to step on anyone’s toes.
 
It is very disruptive to one’s digestion, you know.”
 

“I shall handle the Foreign Secretary,” Cavendish replied sternly.
 
“There is too much at stake to let politics get in the way.
 
The peace of the world is at stake!”

“If you insist,” Mycroft agreed reluctantly, sighing heavily.
 
“But I won’t be going alone.
 
Naturally I won’t be involved in any undercover work.
 
Doesn’t suit me in the least.
 
There is a little boutique hotel I like in Paris—the Hotel Pont Royal—excellent food.
 
I’ll reside there while my operatives attend to the matter of the espionage—under my supervision, of course.”

Cavendish raised his eyebrows, well aware of the expense of such a fine establishment, but he offered no objection.
 
“Certainly you must be comfortable, Holmes.”

“I wouldn’t think of being anything else.”

Cavendish cleared his throat.
 
“Who are you going to take with you, Holmes, to unravel this mess, identify the spies and the persons responsible, and to disengage the Chief?”

“
The best
, Cavendish.
 
Nothing less than the best.”

Paris, France

“By Jove!
 
We’re at the circus!”
 
Dr. John Watson whistled as he stood outside the
Cirque d’Hiver
at the juncture of rue Amelot and rue des Filles Calvaires.

“So, we’re at the crossroad between Amelot street and . . . the street of Calvary Girls?”
 
Staring at the street signs, Mirabella attempted to make the translation in her mind, ‘rue’ being the French word for ‘street’, she knew.

“Although the translation is technically accurate, the inference is significantly misleading,” Sherlock said.
 
“I believe the reference is to the Congregation of Our Lady of Calvary.”
 

“Calvary being Golgotha, where Jesus was crucified,” Dr. Watson stated.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Sherlock muttered.

“The crucifixion was not gloomy or foreboding at all.
 
It was an act of intense love,” Mirabella murmured.
 

Sherlock was never superstitious, or religious for that matter, but he was consistently serious and usually somber.
 
His expression turned even darker than usual.
 
“I do not see much evidence of love in this world.
 
Only darkness and destruction.”

“And the fun begins,” Dr. Watson muttered.
 

From where Mirabella stood, she could see numerous horse drawn carriages, a stylish lady of quality walking her poodle alongside her lady’s maid, a milliner’s shop displaying every manner of color and feather in elaborately fashionable hats, French soldiers walking together, a horse-drawn subway bus with customers swaying back and forth atop the bus, and a man pulling a cart of vegetables while watching a young lady dressed in black mourning attire.
 

“Sherlock Holmes, I dare you to feel something,” Mirabella stated under her breath.
 
“How can you not?
 
Isn’t it sweet to see that older gentleman feeding the pigeons?
 
Or the girl selling flowers?
 
Each of them has a life, with people they love and care for.
 
Every person is a magnificent universe unto himself.
 
Look at that beautiful young woman in mourning, such a becoming sheer black veil she is wearing, doesn’t it touch your heart to see her longing for her love, Mr. Holmes?”

“She is a lady of the night selling her wares,” Sherlock stated.
 
“It is a disguise.”

Mirabella gasped, placing her hand on her mouth.
 
“You don’t mean it, Mr. Holmes!”

“I wish that I did not,” Sherlock replied.
 
“Most morbid.
 
But the costume is apparently stimulating to some men—clearly it is to the fellow pulling the vegetables.
 
As for the older gentleman feeding the pigeons, he is homeless and has very little to eat, and yet he spends what little he has to feed his only friends.”

Mirabella bit her lip, making a mental note to buy a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese for the gentleman seated on the bench.
 
The birds would have no use for the cheese, so at least the old man might eat that.

“See here, Holmes!” Dr. Watson interjected, apparently attempting to divert his friend even as he forcibly turned Mirabella to face the building.
 
He was never one to approve of ungentlemanly conversation in her presence.
 
“Consider the Cirque d’Hiver, if you will.
 
What you see here is a twenty-sided masterpiece of architecture, a Corinthian column at each of the twenty sides so as not to obstruct the views of the central circle.
 
And it holds
four thousand people
!
 
I know architecture to be an interest of yours, Holmes.”

Sherlock bestowed an expression of disdain upon the structure before them.
 
“The Cathedral of Notre Dame is a masterpiece.
 
This building before us, however, is the effort of one who did not know when to stop.
 
Simply because one exerts effort does not mean that the effort is useful or worthwhile.
 
Take Scotland Yard, for example.”

Giggle.
 
Mirabella was finding Sherlock’s sarcasm surprisingly amusing today.
 
But then, anyone could please her today!
 

I’m in Paris!
 
Mirabella had thought she could not be more impressed when she first saw London, but she had never seen such a beautiful city in her life or with more fashionable people than Paris.

She smoothed her beautiful peach silk crepe de chine gown, feeling very attractive, a most unusual feeling for her to have.
 
She was, after all, too shapely for the fashion of the day, added to the fact that she had plain brown hair and plain brown eyes—and was too tall.
 

But if one were lucky enough to be here, how could one not be gay in
Gay Paree
?

And what a thrilling trip it had been!
 
The three of them along with her Aunt Martha had taken a train from London Charing Cross to the Dover Priory station.
 
The train had boarded a ferry at Dover—it was astonishing!
 
They never even left the train!—then the ferry took the train to Calais where she entered France for the first time in her life.
 
From there the train brought them to Paris.
 
Once they had landed here at the
Cirque d’Hiver
, Aunt Martha had left to visit a friend before her return trip to London.
 
Although Mirabella didn’t expect to have a ladies maid at her Paris lodgings, presumably she would have a companion.
 
Being a domestic in a gentleman’s home was one thing, but travelling with two gentleman unchaperoned was another.

“I never saw so many columns,” Mirabella exclaimed, returning her eyes to the home of the Parisian circus.
 
“And look at the statues of the Roman soldiers!”
 
The soldiers stood on podiums guarding the entrance, a green marble sign above the massive doorway embellished with gold.
 
A wrought iron fence surrounded the astonishing structure.

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” Dr. Watson stated, taking Mirabella’s arm and leading her towards the entrance.