Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (33 page)

“And your body guard—why did he not stand outside the door while you were visiting?” asked Inspector Bertillon, until now only watching and observing.

“Excellent question,” murmured Sherlock.

“Kazimir goes wherever he needs to be.
 
He’s not one of your bloody lapdogs!” replied Prince George curtly.
 
“If he thinks he needs to be outside the door, that’s where he’ll be.
 
If he needs to be watching the building, that’s where he’ll be.
 
And because he does what is needed is why I’m still alive talking to you bloody fools!”

Sherlock turned to Kazimir.
 
“And where were you, sir, while Prince George was visiting Miss Janvier and until the murder was committed?”

The Cossack glared at the Great Detective as a wolverine might study its prey.
 
Sherlock held his ground, envisioning all possible manner of defense were such a response to prove necessary.
 

Studying the formidable man before him, Sherlock concluded that the Cossacks’ reputation as a pirate-gypsy race, renowned for their raids against the Ottoman Empire, was no doubt deserved.
 
When Napoleon invaded Russia, the French troops feared the Cossacks above all others, who were famous for guerrilla warfare, their specialty being scouting, reconnaissance, and ambush attacks, in part the basis for today’s special operations.

Kazimir turned his piercing stare to Prince George who nodded.
 
“As commander said, outside building watching entrances and exits.”

“Where, precisely?” asked Sherlock, undeterred.

“In hallway, then in street, then in courtyard, then in hallway.”

“The courtyard outside Miss Janvier’s window?”
 
Bertillon pressed.

“Yes,” said Kazimir.

“
Pourquoi?
 
And why were you there, Monsieur?” asked Dubuque.

“Because his highness was inside room,” Kazimir stated succinctly in his deep, baritone voice.
 
He placed his massive hands on his waist.
 
“It is best place to observe.
 
And if there is someone suspicious, I wish to see before they approach, not after.”
 

Prince George chuckled at the absurdity of the questions.

“And who did you see, my good man, while you stood outside the window?” asked Sherlock of the Cossack.
 
The bodyguard was a wealth of information, having observed all, with the added advantage of being able to confirm or deny everyone else’s account.
 
Sherlock was not sure that the police understood his importance.

“I saw dark girl in the courtyard, leaving as I arrived.”

“And what was she doing?” Dubuque asked.

Kazimir raised his eyebrows.
 
“Leaving the courtyard.”

“He just said that, you idiot,” Prince George muttered, giving everyone a taste of that which constituted polite conversation in the military.

“Describe her, s'il vous plaît,” the lieutenant insisted.
 
Sherlock gave the lieutenant credit that, regardless of the abuse hurled upon him, he went forward.
 

“She had whip in her hand,” Kazimir stated.

“Was she practicing?”
 
Bertillon asked.

Kazimir shrugged.
 

“You bloody fools!” snarled Prince George.
 
“Kazimir doesn’t know what she was doing, he only saw what she was carrying.
 
Ask him what he was doing!
 
How could he know what she was doing before he arrived?”

“We will ask ze questions,
s’il vous plaît!
” the lieutenant reprimanded angrily before turning to Kazimir.
 
“Is this correct?
 
Mademoiselle Van Horn’s activities they were not evident?”

“She was carrying whip,” Kazimir repeated.

“Did you see her use it?” Dubuque insisted.

“No.”

“Was Miss Janvier still alive when Miss Van Horn left the courtyard?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”
 
Kazimir nodded.
 
“As long as his highness was there, French girl was alive.
 
When the commander left, I left the courtyard to meet him in hallway.”

“Did you see anyone else while you moved to meet Prince George, Mr. Kazimir?” Sherlock asked, moving between the two men.

“I saw tiger girl leave building,” He replied.

“Miss Mirabella?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”
 
Kazimir shrugged, indifferent.

“Anyone else?”
 
Sherlock asked.

“Russian was in courtyard with me.”

“Monsieur Stanislav Afanasy?” Dubuque asked.

Kazimir nodded.

“And when did you see Mr. Stanislav leave the courtyard?” Inspector Bertillon asked.

“At time his highness left Russian girl’s room.”
 
He spit on the ground.
 
“Afanasy saw commander in window which caused him anger.
 
Went in building as if headed for girl’s room.”

“However—you only saw Mr. Afanasy leave, you did not see him reach Miss Janvier’s room, did you Mr. Kazimir?” Sherlock asked.
 

Kazimir nodded agreement.

“And was Miss Janvier alive when Mr. Afanasy left?”

“Yes, I saw her through window.
 
Then I left courtyard.”

“
Merci beaucoup
,
Monsieur
, you’ve been very helpful,” Inspector Bertillon stated.

“Can we damn well get on with it now?” demanded Prince George.

Sherlock thought of the handkerchief found on the floor with the letters “SF” embroidered on them.
 
“Your highness, your wife, is she visiting Paris?”

“Sarah?”

“How many wives do you have?”
 
Lieutenant Dubuque raised his eyebrows.

The Royal George’s expression revealed that he considered himself to have none.
 
Sherlock reflected that, though Prince George’s devotion to his troops was well known, being called ‘The Soldier’s friend’, he was seemingly undeserving of Sarah Fairbrother’s continued devotion.

“When a man through some ill-fated accident makes a great mistake, he must abide by it,” Prince George muttered.

“I take it that the great mistake was your marriage, your highness?” Mycroft asked.

The commander-in-chief of the British army suddenly became indignant.
 
“I’ll tell you something, you young whippersnapper, when I came into my post, pay was about three pence a day for a common soldier, and the army’s idea of discipline was branding and flogging.”

“You don’t hold to that, sir?
“Damn straight, I don’t.
 
The death rate in the
non-active duty
army was five times higher than in civilian life!
 
That tells you something about the food and the conditions.
 
The bloody Parliament treats convicts better than they do the soldiers who serve Her.”

Sherlock appreciated the sentiment.
 
The man before him might have been born a prince, but he knew a working soldier’s life, and he had a great deal of empathy and a sense of justice.
 
From the depth of feeling in Prince George’s eyes, Sherlock had not been surprised to learn that Prince George cried for days after a battle.
 
His stormy temperament hid a deep emotion.

“And Sarah Fairbrother.
 
Is she a jealous woman?”

Prince George suddenly burst into laughter.
 
“Jealous?
 
I should say so.”

“And your sons?
 
Is it possible they would avenge their mother’s honor?”

“George, Adolphus, and Augustus?” Prince George stopped laughing abruptly.
 
“Too busy gambling and skirting it themselves to be concerned.”

In contrast to the words spoken, Sherlock concluded that the sons were quite devoted to their father.
 
The pride he observed in Prince George’s eyes did not lie:
 
a father’s devotion was almost always returned by sons.
 
All three had promising military careers—which must be due to the Duke of Cambridge’s connections.
 

“I’ll tell you now, as I’m not one to beat around the bush,” Prince George continued.
 
“When I married Sarah, I was young and foolish.
 
The love of my life was one Mrs. Louisa Beauclerk, and when she died on December twenty-eighth, it was the sad day which ended the happiness in this world for me.
 
We were together some thirty years.”

“And how did Mrs. Beauclerk die?” asked Sherlock without wasting any time on the niceties.
 

Prince George frowned.
 
“Some claimed it was poisoning, but that’s all twaddle!
 
It was a natural death.
 
She hadn’t felt well for some time.”
 

“How did some believe she was poisoned?”

“Chocolates they found in the house.
 
But I know for a fact Louisa never touched chocolates.”

“It has been my observance that the food women eat in view of men is sometimes different from that which their stomachs reveal to have been consumed,” Mycroft murmured.
 

Sherlock thought of the candy beside Miss Janvier’s bed which was even now being tested for poison.

“Was your wife visiting you during your sojourn in Paris?” Mycroft asked.

“And what business is it of yours?
 
I don’t like your tone.
 
And you nothin’ but a bloomin’ civilian!”

“I am a civilian conducting a murder investigation at the crown’s insistence, if you please.
 
I’ll ask you again, your highness.
 
Was your wife visiting you during your sojourn in Paris?”

“Sarah?
 
Humph!
 
She ain’t here.
 
Never travels.”

Sherlock considered that a visit to Piccadilly was in order.

Russian Imperial Consulate

97 Rue de Grenelle, Paris

“It is a fact that Miss Janvier was one of our agents,” Arkadiy Mikhailovich Harting, head of the Russian Imperialist Police in Paris, better known as the
Okhrana
, murmured.
 
Mr. Harting, having much the serious appearance of a professor, leaned back in his chair.
 
He was of medium build, muscular, sporting a goatee and slicked back hair, handsome in a meticulous sort of way.
 
He added, “She spied on revolutionary activity, reported it to us and we, in turn, reported it to the Czar.”

“We had only just uncovered this information when we called Watson off the case,” Mycroft explained.
 
The elder of the Holmes brothers languidly sipped on the tea which had been offered to him, heavily dolloped with cream.
 
Mycroft sighed, his cup momentarily suspended in mid-air, “The next thing we knew she was dead.”

“Was she a good agent?” Sherlock asked bluntly.
 
Certainly he had his own assessment of Miss Janvier, but he wanted to hear Arkadiy Harting’s.
 

“One of the best,” Mr. Harting replied simply, leaning back in his chair.
 
Through the window behind Harting’s desk one could see the Seine River.

“The best . . . in what way?” pressed Sherlock.

“Nothing would stop her,” Mr. Harting replied without hesitation.
 
“She knew no limits or boundaries.
 
She was fearless.”
 

“No doubt she will be greatly missed,” murmured Mycroft, studying Harting over the rim of his cup.

“The organization will be significantly impacted by her absence, beyond a doubt,” Mr. Harting nodded somberly.

“What were some of Miss Janvier’s successes?” asked Sherlock.

“She had immense success in pinpointing and communicating arms sales and supply dumps.”
 
Mr. Harting inadvertently rearranged the papers on his massive oak desk, sparkling clean, not often seen in government offices.
 
LeStrade’s office came to mind.

“Ah, yes,” murmured Mycroft, seeming deep in thought.
 
“I recall a store owner by the name of Loewenthal?”

“Precisely,” nodded Mr. Harting, his expression suddenly suspicious as his eyes alighted on Mycroft, as if he were displeased that someone outside of his organization should have access to this clearly confidential information.
 
“One of Miss Janvier’s greatest successes was discovering and infiltrating a counterfeit operation to fund the revolutionaries.
 
Robert Loewenthal, a Russian émigré, had a small sort of shop which served as a front for the operation.
 
The entire ring was caught red-handed and brought to justice.”

“Her convictions must have run deep,” said Sherlock, scrutinizing Harting.

Harting raised his eyebrows.
 
He was so polished and practiced that only the slightest disagreement was visible.

“I can see that you do not agree, Mr. Harting?” pressed Mycroft.

Harting patted his lips with his handkerchief, clearly annoyed that he had revealed his opinion.
 
“Among our agents, there are those whose motivation is an abhorrence for revolutionary activity of any kind.
 
There are those for whom loyalty to the Czar is a religion.
 
Then there are those . . . with purely mercenary motives.”

“And Miss Janvier fell within the last group,” Sherlock murmured.

“Quite so.” Mr. Harting nodded.

“And no doubt there are those who are attracted by the excitement and glamour of the life of espionage,” Sherlock added with a slight smile.

“You have an excellent command of both the details and the greater concepts of our organization, Mr. Holmes,” stated Mr. Harting with both appreciation and apparent discomfort.