Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (5 page)

Watson gave a low whistle.
 
“Impressive.”

“Many do not think Princess Elena is worthy of the House of Savoy,” Sherlock stated, tapping the arm of his chair.
 
“She is . . .
unusual
. . .”

“You’ve already said that, Holmes.
 
She casts a spell over men.”

“I am quite sure I never repeat myself,” Sherlock replied tersely.
 
“Except for the slow of mind.
 
May I continue, if you please?”

“By all means, Holmes.”

“Very well.
 
As I said, Princess Elena is unusual amidst royalty.
 
Her family is somewhat tribal
.
 
The so-called palace of Montenegro where she grew up along with her seven siblings is a plain white wooden residence.
 
Furthermore, Princess Elena is an excellent huntress and can ride a horse like a master.
 
When our Slavic royal was unknown and beautiful, however unconventional, she was of little importance.
 
But Elena has caught in her small net a very large prize indeed.”

“Do we know who is trying to kill the young lady?” asked Dr. Watson.

“There are endless possibilities, I should think.
 
Where there is wealth and power there are always high stakes,” considered Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at his friend.
 
“It is highly probable that Prince Victor Emmanuel’s uncle Amadeo, who is next in line for the throne, is not toasting the union.
 
And though it is most distasteful to consider, I would not expect the crown prince’s parents to be pleased, as their expectations must surely have been higher for the future Queen of Italy.”

“Surely you don’t think . . .” Watson exclaimed, his eyes widening.

“I cannot rule out any possibility at this point.
 
It is the King of Montenegro who is paying to protect his daughter at this point.
 
I have no other first hand knowledge of interest in her safety.”

“Such a beautiful girl.
 
Thrown to the wolves.”
 
Watson shook his head, an expression of disgust crossing his features.

“Frankly, outside of the star-crossed couple and King Nicholas, I can’t think of anyone who would be pleased with the match.
 
The anarchist movement is strong in Italy, which, by definition despises the monarchy and everyone associated with it.
 
There will be a racist element which does not wish the crown prince of Italy to marry someone of the Slavic nationality.
 
Possibly the attack has its roots in someone associated with one of the competing princesses for Prince
Victor Emmanuel III
’s hand.”

“So you don’t know who instigated the attack on Princess Elena’s life, Holmes, is that what you are saying?” pressed John Watson, taking a puff on his pipe.

“I have narrowed it down to the groups I discussed,” muttered Sherlock with indignation.
 

“That makes it rather difficult,” Watson considered.

“Some might say impossible,” Sherlock murmured.
 
“And we have no help from Scotland Yard on this one.
 
The case is not considered in their jurisdiction.”

“And the Foreign Office?” Watson asked.

“Mycroft?
 
He is offering what little assistance he can.”
 
Sherlock exclaimed in a sudden fury, “Which is bloody short-sighted of the queen’s government!”

“Why is that, Holmes?”

“If we do not succeed and Princess Elena Petrovi
ć
-Njegoš is murdered, there are forces at work, trouble brewing across the globe, which could potentially lead to war on a massive scale.
 
Montenegro is a small Serbian country, but She has among her allies Mother Russia.”

“God save us if we fail!”
 
Dr. Watson muttered.
 
Sherlock could tell from his friend’s expression that the good doctor understood the importance immediately.
 

 
“Somehow we must protect her—and bring the culprits to justice.”

“Right you are, Holmes!”
 
John Watson nodded vehemently, his expression determined.
 
His lips suddenly formed a mischievous smile.
 
“Where will Princess Elena be that we might keep an eye on her?”

“You, my good doctor, shall not get within a city block of the beauty.”

“How then shall I assist in protecting her?” Dr. Watson asked quite innocently.

“You and I will focus on discovering her assailants.
 
Her protection will be left to her bodyguards.”
 
Sherlock frowned.
 
Something about the plan didn’t suit him.
 
“Although I would very much like to have an inside man.
 
But our very gender makes it difficult . . .”

“Whatever are you talking about, Holmes?”

“Princess Elena will be enrolled in an exclusive finishing school for young ladies of royalty and the peerage.
 
Extremely difficult to gain entrance to . . .
 
But, no!
 
What a fool I have been!”

“What is it, Holmes?”
 
Dr. Watson placed the newspaper on the pipe rack beside his chair.

“We shall require the aid of a female.”
 
Sherlock was now resolved.

“You are the master of disguise,” Dr. Watson protested.
 
“You have been a female on many occasions.”

“A
pretty
female.”

“That
is
a bit of a sticky wicket.”
 
Dr. Watson tipped his hat to his friend.

“Your tea and tea cakes.”
 
Mirabella Hudson entered with a full tea service, whereby Dr. Watson removed his brown wool bowler hat and placed it on top of the paper.
 

“Miss Mirabella,” he nodded.
 
Holmes was forced to admit to himself that the good doctor looked particularly dashing, and it was obvious that Miss Hudson agreed with his assessment.
 
But then, Watson was always one to garner the ladies’ approval.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, but you did say you wished your tea precisely at two o’clock, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella continued, setting the tea service before them and pouring their tea.
 
“And though it’s truly
not
my job, I did promise when you hired me that I wouldn’t mention that to you.
 
So I won’t
.”

“I am savoring the silence.” Holmes glanced out the bay window looking onto the street, reassuring himself there was nothing outside of the ordinary mayhem one would expect to find in a den of iniquity which was the bustling London street below.
 

His armchair was situated so he could see Baker Street, and it was impossible not to hear Westminster clock chiming, the ringing of a bell on a carriage, the beating of feet on gravel (from the shouts, he could tell one of the Baker Street irregulars had given chase), cabbies crying (at each other.
 
Crying at customers would utilize a different vocal tonality), and paper boys blasting out the news.

Sherlock glanced at his stash of opium on his desk, while recalling the location of the morphine and laudanum.

Not needed today.
 
There is sufficient stimulation to occupy my mind.

“The laboratory is clean and all its contents labeled—and your index cards are updated and organized alphabetically, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella continued.

“I should hope so, as you appear to be leaving,” he murmured as he moved his glance to Miss Mirabella Hudson.
 
It was unnecessary as he had memorized everything about her, but it was nonetheless a pleasant exercise.
 
It also disturbed him slightly, the origin of which he had not yet been able to determine.
 

Which further disturbed him.

She wore no jewelry, and her chestnut brown hair was pulled neatly back and tied with a simple blue ribbon, her heart-shaped face exaggerated by large sensitive eyes framed by fluttery lashes.
 
Her complexion was flushed with color and she had an energetic healthiness about her.
 

Miss Mirabella Hudson wore a simple sheath cotton dress in royal blue, faded from wash.
 
The neckline was rounded and trimmed in white lace.
 
A leather corset vest worn on the outside of her dress accentuated her hourglass figure.
 

I cannot like it
.
 
He had observed the leather corset to be a common style for middle-class working girls, but her apparel made her like a barmaid in his book, worn brown leather boots adding to the effect.
 
The bottom line was that Miss Mirabella Hudson was far too shapely to be wearing . . . a leather . . . tied in such a manner . . . a vest . . .
utterly lacking in decorum
.
 

“Aunt Martha and I are off to Newgate to procure the materials to make Christmas decorations for your study.
 
Now that I have thoroughly cleaned it, decorations will look very nice in here don’t you think?
 
There is so much red and green already.
 
Mostly blood and gangrene, but one works with what one has.”

“Does one?” asked Holmes, returning his pipe to his mouth as he studied her.

“Christmas is little more than three months away, you know, and we have grand plans.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows in such a manner as generally had the effect of quieting even Chief Constables of the Yard.
 

“Much as I love science, one needs something festive to offset all the chemicals and jars of dead things,” she continued gaily.

Ah, but no such effect on Miss Mirabella Hudson.
 
He had yet to come upon the method which would quiet her.

She glanced at the skeleton head on the mantle, and though he generally took considerable pleasure in his comprehension of the unspoken thoughts of others, it frightened him that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was mentally placing a Santa Claus hat on the skull.
 

“Miss Belle, I am gravely disappointed in you,” Sherlock pronounced.

“I have no doubt of that,” she smiled, moving into the laboratory.
 
“Well, I must finish up my chores so I can be off to Newgate.”

“
Miss Hudson
!”
 
Sherlock exclaimed.
 
“Return here immediately.”

She turned to glance at him but did not move away from the door.
 
“Yes, sir?”

“I will not tolerate your impertinence.
 
Return here at once.”

She did as she was told, but her expression was brimming with impatience.
 

I am the one entitled to that sentiment and not she.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?
 
Your jars are washed, your specimens labeled, your tea served, and your flat is spotless.
 
There is no cause to use an unkind tone with me.”

“I will decide when there is cause and when there is not, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”
 
She sighed heavily.

“Where is my bearskin rug?”

“Your? . . . why . . . oh.”
 
Her eyebrows knitted into a frown as she glanced at the exquisite Persian rug in maroon, grey, and cornflower blue underneath their two mahogany Wingback chairs facing each other in front of the fireplace, a bottle of brandy visible on the sideboard.
 
The armchairs in an embossed rose satin had been out of place before the addition of the Persian rug, being the only nice pieces of furniture in the flat.
 
She smiled.
 
“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Quite elegant, I should say, Holmes,” Dr. Watson considered, stretching his legs out before him.
 
“Changes the look of the place.”

“I did not wish for a change.”
 
The Great Detective cleared his throat followed by a cough.
 
“Answer my question, Miss Hudson.”

“It was quite hideous, you know.
 
And
filthy
.
 
I moved it into your bedroom.”

“It was terribly dirty,” Dr. Watson agreed.

“And it still is,” nodded Mirabella in agreement.
 
“But Mr. Holmes’ bedroom is such a frightful place that the dirt is barely noticeable in there.”

“
Miss Hudson
. . .” Sherlock picked up his violin and began plucking on the strings.

“Every time I looked at it, it gave me the shivers,” Mirabella replied.
 
“The poor creature’s mouth open in anguish and ferocity, the last breath it took a futile attempt to save its own life.
 
Naturally, one must kill to eat, but why on earth does one see something magnificent and the first thought is, ‘I must kill it’?
 
I cannot for the life of me understand that.”

“I cannot for the life of me understand why you do not comprehend that I am the employer and you are the employee,” countered Sherlock.
 
“The fact that I give you monetary compensation and you take it should be your first clue, Miss Hudson.”

Her face was suddenly flushed with color as she bit her lip, which he found strangely pretty, before she suddenly turned to smile innocently at him, all the while backing towards the door.
 
“Is there anything else I can do for you before I depart, Mr. Holmes?”
 

“What did you say we needed, Holmes?” Dr. Watson asked, tapping his finger on his chin as he watched Miss Mirabella sway to the door.
 

“A pretty female,” muttered Sherlock, considering the young lady before him shooting angry darts from her eyes.

“I thought that was what you said.”

The two men’s eyes locked on each other, slow smiles forming on their lips in unison.