Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (8 page)

But it was never about the money for him:
 
it was the occupation.
 
And I love my country
.
 
He might not love his fellow man, but he would be on the side of right.
 
Otherwise he could easily foresee the downfall of civilization.

Sherlock took another wad of bills and placed it on the table.
 
“Will I be allowed to visit my niece—or shall I take these substantially heavy piles of currency with me and place her elsewhere?”

“Such a fine establishment as this is very expensive to run,” she murmured, eyeing the bills caressingly while shaking her head.
 

He opened his leather bag and placed both stacks of bills within.
 
“Do pardon me, Miss de Beauvais, but this is too much money to place in my wallet.
 
It simply
won’t fit
.
 
In much the same way I fear my niece will not fit in here.
 
Though I must say it was a pleasure to meet you.”
 
He winked at her, rising and reaching for his hat.

“We can make a slight exception in the case of your dear niece.
 
Mirabella . . .
Carnegie
, is it?
 
Surely your brief familial visits can be arranged so that they don’t disturb the other girls.”
 
She cleared her throat.
 
“And certainly charity work is to be commended.”

Assessing the woman before him, Sherlock was convinced she had no notion of the jewel he was placing in her care—nor cared, outside of the benefit to herself.
 
If a single hair from Miss Belle’s head is ‘disturbed’ as you put it, you shall regret the day we met, Miss de Beauvais.
 

In point of fact, Miss Hudson was the key to his future, his ticket to solving the case.
 
His ticket to . . .
everything
.
 

Miss Mirabella Hudson had done the one thing anyone rarely did—she had
surprised
him.
 
Sherlock had no notion of the girl’s usefulness when he hired her, but the fact was that he couldn’t possibly solve this without the hoyden.
 
She might be rude and boisterous—but she was also
essential
.
 
Miss Belle was a spitfire—and an intelligent one at that—a girl who was willing to work beside him and take all the risks he was willing to take.

And this assignment was his first international case.

My key to fame.

Not that he cared about money or fame, but Sherlock cared desperately, frantically about work.
 
I must have employment.
 
To be without mental stimulation was anathema to him.
 
He was a young detective, considered an eccentric, disliked by most, and though he could personally care less about whether or not anyone liked him, he knew very well that his reputation was fragile.
 
MirabellaHe was on the brink of being termed brilliant—or insane.

The laughing stock of London.

Not succeeding could destroy my career.
 
Above all, he must have an exceptional reputation to have occupation, particularly given his social standing.
 
Because this was such a high profile assignment, it had the power to make him—or to ruin him.

Sherlock nodded tersely, and returned the money to the table.
 
“I’m gratified you can see fit to accommodate us, Miss de Beauvais.”

“I see no reason why we cannot have a mutually profitable relationship,” she murmured with a smile.

Without a doubt there was an element of danger inherent to the case—particularly to Miss Hudson.
 
But his young ward knew of the danger and had chosen to proceed.
 
Naturally Sherlock hoped she would emerge unscathed—outside the fact that he wished her no harm, he would have to find a new place to live and a new assistant were any harm to come to her.
 
But most of all, he wished her to
succeed
.

“I cannot think of one, Miss de Beauvais.”

“Good morning, Officer.”
 
Mirabella nodded to a policeman wandering the halls, his silver buttons catching the light which drifted through the floor-to-ceiling Gothic arched windows.

Mirabella took a deep breath, working up all her nerve.
 
She dreaded coming here.
 
For her, it was the saddest place on earth:
 
18 Charing Cross Road.
 

She glanced up at the sign “
Lady Graham’s
Orphan Asylum for the Female Children of Deceased Officers of the Police
,
est. 1865,
18 Charing Cross Road
.”
 

“Miss.”
 
He tipped his hat to her.
 
There was always a bobby in
Lady Graham’s
—visiting the child of a murdered partner or just paying his respects.
 
With the building’s medieval stone arches, one expected to see a knight of old rather than a bobby, but both lent a false sense of protection.

She turned to glance out the arched windows.
 
Within view was the
Bank of England
, the home of Dr. Watson’s bank notes as it were, the
Charing Cross Hotel
, and across the street the telegram office utilized by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

What a different world it was, only steps away.
 
Having had a delightful childhood growing up on a farm outside Dumfries, it was difficult for her to imagine growing up at
Lady Graham’s.

Whatever her upbringing might have lacked, she never lacked for dreams.
 
Having a strong bent for science and especially a love of chemistry, her dream had always been to go to university.
 
A dream which seemed impossible as often as not, but whatever anyone took from her, she still had her greatest asset:
 
herself
.
 

When one lost one’s belief in oneself one had lost
everything.

These walls were filled with those who had lost everything.

Whenever Mirabella felt particularly sad, she offered up the thing she felt was missing in her own life to someone else.
 
Her mother had taught her that.
 
Once a week, whatever her personal disappointments, she taught science to young female orphans at
Lady Graham’s
.

Bang!
 
Crash!
 
Entering the Great Hall, where dozens of children would meet for each meal, she wondered why it was always so noisy.
 
Shouldn’t all these children meandering about aimlessly be
somewhere
?
 
Doing
something
?
 

Initially there had been a benefactress, Lady Graham, then city funds and donations had been added upon her death along with a trustee.
 
As long as there was money involved, the children had value.
 

At
Lady Graham’s
the children were fed and clothed—even minimally schooled, though no one was required to attend Mirabella’s science class.
 
She had been volunteering for some six weeks, and certain questions began to occur to her.
 

“Good afternoon, Miss Bickers.”
 
She nodded to the headmistress, whose expression never wavered from a stern frown and who only engaged in conversation with reluctance.
 

“Miss Hudson,” Miss Bickers nodded disapprovingly.
 
“Yer class is a-waitin’.”
 
The sturdy woman in her early thirties with angular features and stringy, brown greying hair tied in a bun glared at her.
 
Miss Bickers wore a brown tailored suit consisting of a full skirt and a long jacket ornamented with a voluminous brown velvet bow at the bosom which would be less unexpected on a child’s frivolous outfit than on the gown of a hardened matron.
 
But the fabric was of a fine quality.

“That is a beautiful ring,” Mirabella exclaimed, not being one to hide her thoughts.
 
On Miss Bickers’ finger she wore a sparkling ruby ring.

Miss Bickers replied defensively, “It’s a family heirloom.”

Certainly Mirabella would have thought a ring such as that to be an impossible purchase on a headmistress’ salary, but she hadn’t intended any insult, only to admire the ring.

“It is stunning,” she murmured, attempting to change the subject.
 
“I believe that you teach math class, Miss Bickers?”

“Math and art.
 
I am a painter.”
 
Miss Bickers held her head high.
 
“What’s it ‘ave to do wif’ you, miss?”
 

“I am only interested in the girls’ education, beg pardon.”
 
Mirabella curtseyed, bowing her head momentarily, wondering what on earth there was to take offense in with such an ordinary question.
 
She glanced about the Great Hall, noticing that the walls were noticeably devoid of any art work—either by children or adults.
 
She murmured, “I would love to see your paintings.”

“They’se not fer public viewing.”

The headmistress’ reaction only made Mirabella more determined, as most efforts to subdue her did.
 
“Do you teach English as well, Miss Bickers?”

“Nah.
 
It ain’t me strong suit.”

Well that is a shocking bit of news.

“Officer McLaughlin volunteers,” Miss Bickers added.
 

“Is he a good teacher?”

“I reckon’ as not.”
 
Miss Bickers shrugged indifferently, her stiff brown shift dress taking a few seconds to return to its original position once her shoulders reclined.
 
Though tall and slim, the headmistress was well-fed and somewhat muscular.
 
Her features were good and she might have been pretty had she worn her hair in a less severe manner and smiled on occasion, although that could be nothing more than speculation as it had never been observed.
 

“Miss Bickers, here is the receipt for my supplies,” she took it out of her bag.
 
“And my hansom cab ride—I would prefer to walk, but it is a distance and I have a great deal to carry.
 
You had said at the outset that, though my services are unpaid, the orphanage would reimburse me for my expenses?”

“O’course,” replied Miss Bickers, pursing her lips and tapping her foot on the stone floor.
 
“I don’t takes to extravagant spending, but we don’ deny the girls anythin’ either.”

“And how does the girls’ education progress?”
 
She had learned from the Great Detective to be direct in her questions.
 
Falling back only tended to invite others to trample.

“Well enough,” Miss Bickers looked at the younger woman over her glasses.
 

“The children, can they all read and do their figures?” Mirabella asked.

“Those what wants to can,” Miss Bickers sniffed with indifference.

“What is the plan for their future?” Mirabella pressed on, mustering her courage.
 
“That is to say, what are they being trained for?
 
I only ask so I may be of any assistance I can.”
   

“They’se gettin’ math, art, and reading, what more is there?
 
We don’t have no call for French and music here.”
 
Miss Bickers sneered, nonplussed.
 
She smoothed her hair back, but there was no need as it appeared to be lacquered to her head.
 
“I do teach ‘em watercolor, which is a fine sight better than the other orphanages.
 
We’ve run a very tight ship ‘ere these five years, ‘an the Board ‘o Trustees is very pleased wif’ our work.
 
We are always on budget.”

“I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job, Miss Bickers,” reassured Mirabella.
 
“My only concern is for the girls.
 
I do wish that you would require more of the girls to take my science class.
 
Don’t you agree that a very little math, art, and English is hardly sufficient for a governess position?
 
By your own admission, some of the girls can’t even read and do basic arithmetic.”

“A governess position?” repeated Miss Bickers, looking at Mirabella as if she had lost her mind.
 

Mirabella felt some guilt, knowing that she had just been assigned the most marvelous of positions—to assist on a case with the brilliant Sherlock Holmes!
 
Such good fortune she never could have imagined.
 
She had no idea what the assignment involved—other than the fact that she was required to have fine apparel, so it was clear that she was to have a visible part—if only for an instant and however insignificant.
 

“I agree that being a governess is unlikely to be the secret wish of any girl’s heart—being low paying and demanding—but it is a respectable position and is the highest attainment your most intelligent girls could strive for,” Mirabella replied.
 
“And yet the curriculum at
Lady Graham’s
does not prepare even your top students for such a post.
 
Neither is such a limited subject base sufficient for any girl to hope to marry well.”

“Marry well?”
 
Miss Bickers laughed.
 
Mirabella was encouraged, at least, that her companion’s indignation had been turned to merriment.
 
“A poor girl can’t ‘ope to marry well!
 
Unless she is the most beautiful of gulls.”

Miss Bickers moved her eyes along Mirabella, indicating that she had no great opinion of the younger woman’s beauty.