Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (13 page)

“You, unlike me, are not well versed in medicine, Holmes,” Dr. Watson retorted.

“Back to the matter at hand.”
 
Sherlock turned his gaze to Mirabella, now dusting the fireplace mantle.
 
“More than clothing or speech, a woman’s attitude defines her station in life.
 
I can assure you that if the Duchess of Devonshire were dressed in a barmaid’s clothing, you would know she wasn’t a barmaid.”

“So it is hopeless,” she concluded, turning to face him.
 
Sherlock’s words were the final nail in the coffin, having the effect of convincing her that she was incapable of performing this assignment.
 
“No matter what I wear, I will be unable to fool anyone.
 
Is this what you are telling me, Mr. Holmes?”

“To the contrary,” Sherlock replied.
 
“I am saying that you must also work on the manner in which you present yourself to others, Miss Belle—in addition to improving your wardrobe.”

“How can I be anyone other than who I am?
 
Oh
no
!”
 
She gasped, suddenly realizing her situation, as she dropped the duster where she stood and covered her face with her hands.
 
“I’ve already spent half of your money on apparel, Mr. Holmes!
 
Even with all the frugalities it was a huge sum!”

“Precisely.”

“I’ll have to pay it back,” she gulped.
 
“I can’t go
there.”

“Can’t go
where
?”
 
Sherlock looked up momentarily from plucking his violin.
 
His complexion was clear, healed of all wounds, and he was unusually well-groomed, his hair over-long but his face shaven.
 
He was of a calmer bent than she had seen him in recent days.
 

Unlike herself, whom he had only just ignited a fire under.

“I can’t go a finishing school.”

“Why not, pray tell?
 
From your complete lack of knowledge on how to be a proper young lady, you would seem to be the perfect candidate.”

Dr. Watson cleared his throat, sitting across from them.
 
“Now, Holmes, if she doesn’t want to . . .”
 
He tipped his brown derby hat at Holmes, running his hands along his leather suspenders, the muscles in his arms accentuated as he leaned forward in his chair.

Mirabella shook her head vehemently.
 
“Because I would be found out even before I opened my mouth, your cover would be disclosed, and it would be impossible to place someone who might be
successful
at that point in
Miss de Beauvais’
.”
 

“
Before
you open your mouth, Miss Hudson?
 
In the first place, it is not possible to measure the unit of time before you open your mouth—that moment of silence is not be detectable to the human ear,” Sherlock considered.
 
His tone was strangely consoling.
 
“But I shouldn’t regard it, my dear.
 
Fortunately we are not so foolish as to place our hopes for success on the rare instances when you are not making noise.”
 

“What Holmes means to say is that all will be well,” Watson choked in his attempt to stifle his laughter, forming a fist in front of his lips.
 
“Clearly there is a plan in place masterminded by our friend here.”
 

“If I am so stupid and have nothing to contribute to this conversation, I wonder that you should wish me to be part of your ingenious plan, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella retorted, attempting to appear sophisticated and aloof although her heart was sinking.
 
Sherlock’s rudeness had, at least, taken her mind off her devastation as she narrowed her eyes in anger at him.
 
“And besides, you only prove my point:
 
we are all in agreement that I am not sophisticated enough to enter
Miss de Beauvais’
.”

“I beg you do not concern yourself, my girl,” Sherlock replied consolingly.
 
“There will be many awkward, gangling females without polish in the institution—hence their presence alongside you.
 
The only difference between them and you is that they are awkward, gangling females
with money.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, my confidence has risen to new heights with your encouraging words.
 
I am much consoled.”
 
Her eyes moved along the mantelpiece where a wax replica of Holmes’ head proudly sat—a hole carved through the wax by a gun shot.
 
At this moment she could well understand the sentiment which caused the shooter to put it there.

“Excellent.
 
I am glad to be of service.” Sherlock pronounced.

“Neigh!”
As the sounds from the activity outside their London flat drifted through the window, Sherlock picked up his magnifying glass and began studying his violin strings through the device.
 
Almost as if in the room with them, the whinny of a horse being walked in the street and the shouts of a hansom cab driver joined the conversation.

“And now may we discuss how
you
might be of service, Miss Hudson,” murmured Sherlock, not moving his eyes from his violin.
 
“Then may we proceed to the outline of your assignment?”

“No!
 
I cannot do it!
 
Have you not been listening?
 
I am a total and utter failure at . . . at . . . being a
girl
,” she gasped, standing to move to the bay window and glance at the passers-by on Baker Street, her back to the gentlemen.
 
“And what’s more, I don’t
want
to be one!”

“At that, you have failed miserably.”
 
Dr. Watson cleared his throat, making a point to look away, selecting a teacake from the table between them while eyeing the blueberries and cream next to the tea service.

“At
everything
I have failed miserably!”
 
She spun around to face Sherlock.
 
“I want to be a scientist.
 
I have no need whatsoever to go to
finishing school.”

Dr. Watson straightened his fashionable silk tie and set his hat on the table between them, brushing his hand through his blonde-streaked hair.
 
“It might reduce the escalating turmoil, Holmes, if you were to explain to Miss Mirabella that the finishing school is not for the purpose of finishing
her
but of finishing someone else.”

“It might.”
 
Sherlock returned to playing his violin in a most annoying manner as they spoke.
 
“However, I do not know why I must explain everything to Miss Belle as if
I
were working
for
her
before it behooves her to behave in a professional capacity, or failing professionalism,
like a lady
.
 
Perhaps there would be a benefit in her attendance at the finishing school after all.”

“What is the purpose of the finishing school if not to finish me?”
 
repeated Mirabella, suddenly interested.

“We don’t know,” offered Watson.
 
“A government plot, anarchists, criminals.
 
To be quite honest, we don’t yet know.”

“
Please
please
Mr. Holmes, send someone else.”
 
It was clear that this particular role was wholly unsuited to her abilities.
 
Doomed to failure.
 
“Not me!
 
I’ll pay you back for the clothes!
 
I never wanted them anyway!”

“There aren’t enough dirty jars in all of London for you to pay me back, Miss Hudson.
 
And if there were, you might have enough money to enter university, oh . . . you’re seventeen years of age now . . . when you are thirty-five years old.”

“Egad!”
 
She gulped hard, taking the handkerchief Dr. Watson handed her to dab her eyes.
 
She was utterly shocked at the idea of being so ancient.
 
“
Even older than you
, Mr. Holmes!”

“Yes, a regular fossil,” he frowned, popping a blueberry in his mouth as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
 
“It is unlikely you shall live that long.”

“Tell her, Holmes.
 
I’ve had quite enough of this,” admonished Dr. Watson, leaning forward in his leather chair as he turned towards her.
 
“There is a certain danger, Miss Mirabella.”

“Well, naturally, Dr. Watson.
 
It is a case of some type—there must be a criminal element,” exclaimed Mirabella.
 
“Of course there is a danger!
 
That doesn’t frighten me in the least.
 
But a finishing school?
 
The very idea is utterly
terrifying
!”

“But don’t you see, Miss Belle?” Sherlock began.
 

“Don’t I see what?”

She thought she saw something approaching a smile on his lips as set down his violin—
finally!
 
Praise the heavens!
—picking up his teacup and taking a sip of tea.
 
“The finishing school is not the important part of the assignment.
 
It is something to be endured.
 
The case requires a particular type of girl, whom I believe you to be.
 
This is precisely why I have chosen you for this position.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I tested you on the first day of our meeting—did you not observe it?”

“I observed that you almost blinded me with your spatula!”

“My
platina
spatula.”

“Very well, I .
 
. .”

“I was testing your reflexes and your strength.
 
Frankly, I was astonished
.
”

“Holmes is rarely astonished,” remarked Dr. Watson, stirring a lump of sugar into his cup of tea.

“I don’t see how blinding me with your spatula should astonish you,” shrugged Mirabella, returning from the window framed by sheer white curtains to sit beside them in the wicker chair.

“Don’t slouch,” Sherlock commanded.
 
“And it taught me something of your fighting potential.”

“I don’t know how to fight!
 
Granted, I had a regular tussle with my brothers, but not a real—”

“You will learn to fight by the time we are finished with you
.
 
I’m something of a boxer myself, you know.
 
The raw material is there—that’s all we need.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” she exclaimed, suddenly indignant as she jumped from her chair to a standing position.
 
“You purposely tripped me!
 
I
knew
it!
”

“Of course I did.
 
I do everything with purpose.”
 
He sniffed defensively.
 
“I’m not wandering about willy nilly not having any idea what I am doing.”

“For shame, Mr. Holmes!”
 
She passed her finger back and forth.
 
“Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself for attacking an unsuspecting woman?”

“Naturally I don’t.
 
I meant no harm to your person:
 
it was a scientific experiment only.”

Dr. Watson broke into laughter,
 
unable to contain himself any longer.
 
“And what was the purpose of this
experiment
?”

“I wanted to see how Miss Hudson regarded her surroundings—and if she could fall.
 
I wanted to observe her instinct for survival.”

“Mr. Holmes, if I had any instinct for survival whatsoever, I would have run screaming from this place long ago.”
 
A picture of the Great Detective’s bedroom came immediately to mind, the walls of which were lined with pictures of celebrated criminals.
 
She avoided the room as much as possible, which was macabre to say the least, but it was necessary to dust on occasion.

It must be a very strange person indeed who would consider pictures of one’s enemies on one’s bedroom walls to be conducive to a good night’s sleep.
 
Dr. Watson’s bedroom, on the other hand . . . she blushed, realizing she should not be thinking about such things.

Sherlock glanced up at her without comment, and it disconcerted her that she knew the meaning of his expression:
 
their discussion would not be of a much longer duration.
 
As all of Scotland Yard knew as well, once a conversation was no longer of interest to Sherlock Holmes, he disengaged himself without apology or aplomb and regardless of whom it might offend.

She made one last attempt at reasoning with the unreasonable.
 
“But that is neither here nor there.
 
What is to the point is that survival in the midst of a mad scientist waving a spatula about is a far different thing from fighting criminals!”

“Watson and I will teach you every manner of self-defense, Miss Belle.”
 
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
 
“Then—and only then—shall you enter
Miss de Beauvais’ Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies
.”

“Now I am completely baffled!”
 
Mirabella pursued the conversation anew in a final attempt to gain more information about the proposed mission.
 
It was beginning to look as if her secondary plan, that of jumping from the London Tower had more merit under the present circumstances.

“
Sit down
, Miss Hudson!” commanded Holmes. “If you should ever cease chattering for even three seconds—I am quite certain I would explain it all to you.
 
Why is it that the less you know about a subject, the more you speak about it?”