Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (19 page)

“But you could not flush a lavatory without science.”

“Hee hee hee hee!” Bethany giggled uncontrollably.

“Mademoiselle Carnegie!” exclaimed Jacqueline, but she was also giggling.
 
“
Vous êtes tellement naughty
!
 
You should not say such things!”

“And chemistry is most useful,” Mirabella insisted.
 
“Surely that very beautiful rouge that Lady Jacqueline is wearing was concocted by a chemist.”

“
Moi?
 
Wear paint on my face?” Jacqueline protested.
 
“I would never do so!”

“Pardon me.
 
I forgot that we are never to admit that we paint our faces—although we
all
do,” Mirabella murmured.

“You see, Miss Carnegie!
 
Always the last word!”
 
Lady Alexandra interjected.
 

At least I provide fodder for the slaughter.
 
No doubt the minute my back is turned the gossip runs rampant.
 
At least Lady Alexandra was nasty to her face.

“Oh,
my
, have you seen Hugh Fortescue from Devon?
 
So
handsome,” exclaimed Bethany, distracting Mirabella from her thoughts.

“Hugh is only a viscount!” replied Alexandra.
 
“He wouldn’t do at
all
!”

“Viscount Ebrington is in line to inherit an earldom,” Bethany countered.

Alexandra rolled her eyes.

“Which shall put Fortescue in the House of Lords,” murmured Jacqueline.
 
“I think he is divine.
 
My papa says he is quite the sportsman in the hunt.”
 

“Do not become too attached to Hugh,” stated Princess Elena quietly, almost in a whisper.

“Oh?” all of the ladies present with the exception of Mirabella turned to the princess with interest.

“He favors his cousin, Emily,” Elena replied succinctly, as was her custom.

“What do you think of the viscount, Miss Carnegie?” Alexandra asked.

“I couldn’t say.”
 
Mirabella looked up from her embroidery to smile sweetly.
 
But not too sweetly.
 
She knew that she often went so far as to
entertain the horrible transgression of expressing too much emotion—even delight, on occasion.
 
Worst of all, gossip did not interest her on any level, but particularly about the marriageable young men in high society.

I have already heard enough on that subject to last a lifetime.
 

“I see you are properly attired, Miss Belle.”
 
It was Sunday, but there was no rest for Mirabella.
 
Her lessons continued.

Mirabella felt anything but proper
or
attired in the wire mask, padded buckskin plastron across her chest, and the buckskin gauntlet, but she had an idea that she was going to need the protection before she left this room.
 
Sherlock Holmes never did anything short of pushing her to her limit.
 

And usually beyond
.

Speaking of the devil, Holmes was similarly dressed except that he wore no mask over his Corinthian features.
 
No doubt the moment she was given a sword he would wear a veritable barricade.
 
The Great Detective might be exceedingly brave, but she had learned that Sherlock Holmes was a man who took his personal protection seriously.
 

And he was a man who consistently underestimated her abilities—and her aim.

“Miss Mirabella.”
 
Holding his mask, Dr. Watson bowed to her, ever respectful and kind.
 

She could not manage to suppress a giggle.

“What is it, Miss Mirabella?” he asked, returning to an upright position.
 
A strand of blonde hair remained across his forehead, and his blue-turquoise eyes were sparkling despite his unwavering gentlemanly demeanor.
 
“Is something amiss?”

“It’s just that . . . well, I . . .”

“Yes?”

“Are you wearing a three-piece suit underneath your fencing garb, Dr. Watson?” she giggled.
 
“I have rarely seen you waver from your formal attire, night or day.
 
I must admit I find it difficult to picture you in anything else.”

“You would have it so, Miss Mirabella,” he chuckled.
 
“A plaid tweed of a most high quality wool blend.”

“Do not lie to me, Dr. Watson!”
 
She smiled, wishing for all the world to straighten the lock of hair on his forehead.
 
He was the dearest, not to mention the handsomest man imaginable.
 
She had sorely missed having someone in her midst who was kind to her.
 

“I do wish you would call me
John
, Miss Mirabella,” he murmured softly, his aqua blue eyes transfixed upon her.

She felt herself blush, smiling up at him.
 
“I should like to call you by your first name, Dr. Watson.”

“Then why don’t you?” He smiled broadly.

“Hmmm . . .” She studied him.
 
“It just doesn’t fit you.
 
John is simply too plain for you.
 
What is your middle name?”

“Hamish,” he replied.

“I can’t call you that!” she protested.

“I should hope not!” Dr. Watson laughed.

“
Hamish
means ‘James’ in Scottish Gaelic.” She considered.
 
“I should like to call you James.
 
It fits you so much better than John, don’t you think?”

“Uh-hmmm.” Sherlock cleared his throat, and Mirabella spun around to see that her employer was standing not three feet from her!
 
She had been so absorbed in her conversation with the charming Dr. Watson that she hadn’t even known Sherlock was there!
 

Much like a plague which had not yet expressed itself in symptoms.
 
The difference being that ordinarily
everyone
was aware of the Great Detective’s presence from a ten-kilometer distance.

“If we have all been properly introduced and amply amused, do let us get down to business,” Sherlock continued, his expression unusually harsh, adding, “Miss Hudson’s life could well depend upon it.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” John’s soft gaze which had been like bathing in a turquoise waterfall turned suddenly serious and unrevealing.

“And besides, you are neither ‘James’ nor ‘John,’ you are simply Watson!” corrected Sherlock absolutely.

Sigh.
 
Time for work
.
 
Although she doubted she would be in any danger whatsoever, Mirabella resolved to do her best, as this was the part of the case which interested her the most.
 
Especially now that she had met all the debutantes.

They had begun a course in rudimentary fencing, and even she was surprised at how quickly she was comprehending the art—particularly in light of the continuous barrage of insults from her ever-impatient employer.

“Keep your eye on your opponent
at all times
, Miss Belle!”

“A strong strike, Miss Hudson; however, it was accomplished by swinging almost your entire body to the point of impact.”

“
Faster!
 
Faster!
 
Never hesitate or you are dead!”

“I am not your employer today—
I am your enemy!”

Today and every day.

“
Lunge,
Miss Belle!
 
You
must
develop your strength!”

Finally she could endure it no more.
 
“I’ll show you just how strong a country girl is, Mr. Holmes, growing up with three obnoxious brothers.”
 

Between the girls at the school who tolerated her at best, and treated her like the dirt underneath their feet at their worst moments, and a demanding employer who never once praised her for her efforts, she had just about had all she could endure!

“I am terrified, I am sure.”
 
She could picture Sherlock yawning from behind his mask as he easily deflected her onslaught.
 

“There is some truth in what you say, however.
 
Rather than spending your time corseting yourself and breaking your ribs—you were out slopping the hogs.
 
It bodes well for your strength—but not your waistline.”

“If I were you, Mr. Holmes, I would not insult a lady with a sword who is only just learning to control it!”
 
She saw her opening and took it, lunging forward.

“Very true, Holmes,” Dr. Watson exclaimed from the sidelines.
 
“Sometimes the most dangerous fighters are the beginners—those who are utterly lacking in control.”

“A very good effort, but not good enough,” Sherlock pronounced, evading her sword and returning his own.
 
“At this time I am more interested in inflaming her than in controlling her.”

“You may live to regret that decision, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella replied, thrusting her sword towards him.

“
Touché,
Miss Belle,” Sherlock replied in the instant he was struck by her sword.
 
“And now, you shall take your turn with Dr. Watson.”

***

“You have excellent hand-to-eye coordination, Miss Mirabella,” Watson remarked, beginning to breathe more rapidly.

“And excellent stamina,” added Holmes, hovering nearby as he kept pace with them from a distance of about two meters.
 
“She is not even winded.”
 

“I shall not be able to show my face having lost to a novice—and a woman.”
 
Dr. Watson smiled even as sweat began formulating on his face, visible through the mesh of his fencing mask.

“I did not say that you are losing—merely that she has surpassed your stamina, Watson.”

“I am accustomed to being run all over London,” replied Dr. Watson.
 
“And yet, possibly you work Miss Mirabella even harder than you work me, Holmes.”

“Well, let’s be certain of that, Watson.
 
Miss Hudson, let us take a short break for a glass of lemonade, then you will fight the both of us.”

“At once?
 
I know I have done well for a beginner, but
both
. . ?”

“Have you?
 
Did I say that?
 
At any rate it is a scenario you may come against.”

“Yes, but I am not likely to have a sword with me,” she argued as she took off her mask and shook her damp hair.
 
She was excessively tired and uncomfortable, but she would never admit it.

“That is where you are wrong, Miss Belle.” Sherlock returned to the sidelines to retrieve a cane of sorts:
 
long, sleek, and white.

“Ever since an unfortunate incident with a large Russian gentleman, Holmes has kept one of these nearby whenever he is on a case,” Watson confided in her.

Handing her an elaborate ladies’ white walking stick, Holmes added softly, it seemed with almost tenderness in his eyes, “You don’t think that we would send you to the wolves ill-prepared, do you, Miss Belle?”

“You already did.
 
I’ve been there two weeks,” she murmured.
 

“Ah, but you weren’t ready then.
 
A weapon in the hand of someone who doesn’t know how to use it is more dangerous than no weapon at all.”

She studied the polished white walking stick before pulling at the handle, guessing his intent.
 
To be sure a beautifully sharp blade some sixteen inches in length emerged.
 

But there was more to come.

“You shall have an arsenal of weapons at your disposal.
 
This will fit nicely in your reticule,” Sherlock added.
 
As she sat drinking her lemonade, he held up a six-inch metal cylinder, approximately the size of a cigar, with a small brass sphere on one end and an even tinier one on the opposing end.
 

Crack!
 
Suddenly he snapped his arm straight down to his left side.
 
Even as she jumped, some of her lemonade splashing on her suit, eight inches became eighteen.

“This is a little invention of my own,” Holmes continued.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, awestruck and confused at the same time, as she set down her glass and reached for the peculiar object.

“I call it the
telescoping truncheon
.
 
You may call it
life or death.
”

“Oh, I see,” she murmured, even as she studied the object.
 
“The sections of steel friction-lock together.”

“Very good, Miss Hudson.”

“But what is its purpose?” she asked, returning her gaze to him.

“To increase one’s strength, I should say,” considered Dr. Watson.
 
“Similar to the concept of the police baton or the eastern nunchakus—capable of killing a man.”

“
Precisely
.”
 
Sherlock nodded.
 
“The ball on the end is a force-multiplier.
 
Having a weapon to multiply the force of a strike will do much for ensuring success in a confrontation, particularly for a woman of questionable strength.”

“It is a question you might not wish to have answered, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted.

“In addition, the small snap-out guard enables one to deflect and possibly even trap a blade,” Sherlock added, illustrating the point.

She studied the weapon, entranced, immediately seeing the implement’s advantages if dealing with a stronger opponent.
 
“Whatever inspired you to produce this object?”

“On a recent visit to Japan, I was fortunate enough to train in a truncheon martial art called
Jutte-do
, the rudiments of which I shall be teaching you over the coming week.”