Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (6 page)

“What do you mean I must have new clothes?
 
How can anyone afford new clothes on the salary you pay me?” demanded Mirabella, staring at Mr. Holmes, who had the nerve to insult her clothing in front of the oh-so-kind (and handsome!) Dr. John H. Watson.
 
And it wasn’t the first time the great man had humiliated her in front of the exquisitely eligible doctor.
 

Mirabella was scurrying about the flat doing everything she could to escape from her captors that she might begin decorating the flat with the items she and Aunt Martha had procured in Newgate the day before.
 
Sherlock was detaining her with one of his hair-brained schemes—involving
her
no less!

Why does he care what I am wearing?
 
And what is wrong with my dress?

Hmphh!
 
She had never in her life encountered anyone as rude as Sherlock Holmes!

“You live with your aunt downstairs—how many laboratory assistants are given free room and board?” demanded Holmes, looking over his copy of the
Pall Mall Gazette
while enjoying his morning tea only just poured by the object of his consternation.
 
“That should make your salary sufficient.”

“May I remind you, Mr. Holmes, that the building belongs to my Aunt Martha,” Mirabella replied while dusting.
 

“And your point is?” Holmes persisted.

“You, most certainly, have not given me free room and board, so it cannot be calculated as a deduction to the salary you pay me.”
 
She dusted Sherlock’s library shelves with an extra flourish.

“Bravo, Miss Mirabella!” exclaimed Watson, without taking his eyes from his paper.
 
He and Holmes were on such easy terms it was difficult to believe they had only known each other some nine months.
 
It was as if they had become friends from the moment of their meeting.

Mirabella could well understand how anyone would befriend John Watson, but befriending Sherlock Holmes was taking one’s life into one’s hands.

Although Dr. John Watson had his demons and his sleepless nights as well when the nightmares from the war revisited him.
 
On such days John Watson was distracted and sad—but never arrogant and unkind as was Sherlock Holmes.
 

And
never
as intense.

“If you feel that is relevant to our discussion, Miss Belle, I suppose it must be admitted,” Holmes muttered with a nonchalant note of indifference as he snapped his newspaper.

“Only if you have no objection to my interjecting reason into the conversation, sir.”
 

“Reason?
 
Ha!
” Sherlock laughed, almost sputtering out his tea.
 
“From you, Miss Belle?”

“I certainly appreciate your kindness in allowing me to live in the building owned by my Aunt.”
 
And for all you know, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I may be the owner of the building someday and able to throw you out on your ear
.
 

What a delightful thought,
she giggled to herself.

Dr. Watson looked up from reading
The Financial Times
long enough to mutter, “How odd that you overlooked such a significant point, Holmes.”

She smiled sweetly at Dr. Watson.
 
Sigh
.
 
How difficult it was to tear one’s gaze away from twinkling turquoise blue eyes and blonde-streaked brown hair.

But tear she did, forcibly fixing a glare on the handsome doctor’s illustrious companion, who repaid her deeply felt sacrifice by looking away as if he had heard nothing which had transpired.
 

She would not be deprived of beauty in vain.

“May I be allowed to remind you, Mr. Holmes, that I come to work every day, on time, clean and pressed, I have almost single-handedly classified your fingerprint collection, and I do an excellent job in your laboratory.”
 
She brushed a lock of her chestnut brown hair out of her eyes, her long hair kept tied at the nape of her neck as Mr. Holmes did not like hairs in his experiments destroying the evidence.

“Yes, you do, that is not at issue.
 
Nor is your cleanliness.”

“There, there, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson offered, straightening the vest of his three-piece brown tweed suit, turquoise threads running through-out the material.
 

He is positively dreamy.
 
Did anyone else of her acquaintance have such a turn for fashion?
 
A gold watch chain dangled from his vest, and his brown leather gloves and bowler hat sat beside him on the table, allowing one the privilege of enjoying the good doctor’s always neatly cut dark blonde hair.
 
She best liked to view it in the sunlight or the firelight where the streaks of blonde shown to advantage.
 

“Sherlock is not criticizing your appearance,” Dr. Watson continued.
 
“It is precisely because you are so pretty that your clothing has come into interest.”

“Me?
 
Pretty?”
 
She looked at Dr. Watson and almost melted.
 
How could anyone be
so
handsome and yet so
nice?
 
Nice.
 
Sherlock, though very handsome in his own dark, demented way and more likely to turn heads of the two, did not know the meaning of the word
nice.

And she knew very well she was not at all pretty:
 
she was the plainest of girls, with thick brown hair, even browner eyes—though her mother had said they were large and expressive and lush with lashes.
 
Of course one could not trust one’s mother on such matters.
 

She supposed that her skin and features were well enough, but she was not a thin, frail girl as was the style.
 
Though Aunt Martha had pronounced her undernourished upon her arrival.
 
(who had the time or blunt to eat?)
 
She had certainly filled out under her Aunt Martha’s care, requiring that she let out the seams on her blouses!
 
Her legs were her best feature, long and shapely (which no one saw!).
 
Her height was slightly above average, some would say too tall.
 
And she wore thick black glasses—and thoroughly grateful to have them, she was!
 

All in all, she was the plainest, most background, most
average
, perhaps even gangly, girl imaginable.
 
She was barely noticeable—and hardly worth noticing.

“Of course you are pretty, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson muttered shyly, clearing his throat.
 
“Sherlock and I are both in agreement on that.”

She glanced at each of them with apprehension.
 
What horrible manner of joke is this?
 
She had never known Dr. Watson to be cruel.

“That is very kind of you to say,” she murmured, “but I certainly am not going to spend my
hard-earned
money on clothing.”
 
She threw a spiteful glance at Sherlock Holmes, crossing her arms in front of her.
 
“I am saving it for university.”

“Which university shall you be attending, Miss Mirabella?” Dr. Watson asked.

“Naturally it would be the University of London, as this would be the only university which currently offers a degree to women,” Sherlock stated with indifference.
 
“Certainly Oxford and Cambridge do not.”

Mirabella could barely contain her excitement.
 
“Yes, you are correct!”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock murmured.

“Last year four women received a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of London,” Mirabella continued.
 
“The first women ever to do so!”

“Ah, my alma mater, from which I obtained my degree in medicine,” Dr. Watson pronounced proudly.”
 
And what shall your degree be in, Miss Hudson?”

“Chemistry.
 
Or Biology.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Sherlock stated.
 
“Women are almost universally excluded from studying medicine.
 
And no woman has ever been granted a Bachelor of Science degree.”

“Things are changing quickly, Mr. Holmes,” she replied indignantly.
 
“You wouldn’t have thought ten years ago a woman would be allowed to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree.”
 
Having arrived at Sherlock’s desk, Mirabella picked up the handcuffs, wondering, not for the first time if they had been used—and when?
 

“Don’t touch those,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Do forgive me.”
 
She returned the handcuffs to their shrine amongst his papers and below his photographs hung on the wall.
 
I didn’t know they had a personal meaning
.

How she would love to lounge about and sip tea while reading.
 
Mirabella picked up the duster and moved to apply it to the fireplace mantle, paying particular attention to the bust of Sherlock with the bullet hole through the head.
 

“It’s all for the best.” Sherlock remarked, taking a sip of his tea as he turned to Dr. Watson.
 

“What’s all for the best?” she turned on Sherlock.

“We couldn’t trust Miss Hudson to keep her tongue in her head anyway,” Holmes replied, his gaze remaining on Watson.
 
“Which is critical to the case.”

“Trust me?
 
What is this about?
 
Are you . . .”
 
She gulped, moving towards them as she flung her duster about, releasing dust into the air.
 
“Mr. Holmes, are you going to allow me to go on one of your cases?
 
Are you serious?
 
What do I need to do?
 
When do we start?”

“It is dangerous work, Miss Mirabella,” Dr. Watson cautioned.
 
“It was an ill-conceived notion.
 
Upon further reflection, I seriously don’t think . . .”

“Dangerous for whom?” laughed Sherlock.
 
“Miss Hudson or the criminal?
 
Personally, my pity goes out to the criminal.”

“Oh, I have dreamed of this ever since first hearing my aunt speak of your detective and forensic work,” Mirabella twirled in the middle of the room, her duster clutched to her chest.
 
“I am very good at taking and preserving the integrity of specimens.
 
And, as you know, the sight of blood—even cadavers—doesn’t bother me at all.
 
Well, maybe a little, I’m not without a heart
like some people.
”

“Ah, and how does your solitary heart cope with the vile and wicked things we see, Miss Hudson?” Sherlock asked with interest.

“The horrible things we see only fuels the desire to see justice done,” she replied without hesitation, lunging her duster into the air.
 
“At that point what can one do except avenge the innocent and protect others?”

“It is a lofty sentiment, but Miss Hudson has not been
trained
for this type of work,” Watson insisted, his expression more concerned than ever.
 
“I’m quite serious, Holmes.”

“As am I,” replied Holmes, pulling his pipe from his pocket.
 
“And she will be.
 
Thoroughly
trained.”

 
“Never fear on that subject, Dr. Watson,” she nodded adamantly.
 
“I can shoot a gun—and even wield a punch on occasion!
 
My brothers were the best boxers in the county.”

“Take my word for it, Watson,” Sherlock nodded, “Miss Hudson is surprisingly strong.”
 
He rubbed his wrist absently.

“I might not know an awful lot about ladies’ things, but Aunt Martha can sew.
 
She has long offered to make a new wardrobe for me—but of course I can’t afford the material as I must save every penny for university.
 
Although it’s not
that
expensive if you know where to shop.
 
And I
do.
 
Why . . .”

Why indeed?
 
Why on earth would she need elegant clothing to work on a case, anyway?
 
The whole idea was peculiar.
 
Probably another of Sherlock’s misguided ideas.
 
She had to keep an eye on him or he was likely to blow up the London flat or possibly kill himself with the chemicals and drugs he kept hanging about.
 
The man was far too removed from the world at times.
 
But if it meant she would be included on the mission, she would wear a burlap bag if Sherlock commanded it!

Her heart was pounding as she clutched the duster.
 
Mirabella had no idea she wished to be on a criminal case so much.

I must be out of my mind.

Holmes tapped his index finger on his unshaven cheek.
 
“In the first place, Miss Hudson, you have to focus on playing your part and keep your mouth closed.
 
It can’t be done
.
 
And you would have to make a visit with my optometrist and get those new glass lenses to put in the eye.”

“Do you think so, Holmes?”
 
asked Dr. Watson.
 
“I like her glasses.
 
They give her a very intellectual, sort of
modern
look.”

“Now wait just a moment, Mr. Holmes, I am
not
sticking a piece of glass in my eye!”
 
The burlap bag, yes.
 
Glass in the eye, no.
 
She intended to use these eyes for a while.
 
“If you think I’ll do that, you’ve got another thing coming!”