Read Online Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger by Suzette Hollingsworth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzette Hollingsworth
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silly! We’re in Paris !” Mirabella wanted to pinch herself.
“What are the paintings all around the circumference of the building?” Mirabella asked, glancing up some twenty feet. “Horses?”
“It must be obvious that it is the history of horsemanship depicted in pictorial form,” Sherlock replied. “As if it needed to be done. Artists appear to have a great deal of time on their hands.”
“Have a care, Holmes! We’re at the circus! Fun, excitement, entertainment!” exclaimed John Watson, echoing her thoughts, the grin returning to his face. “Can’t we enjoy ourselves for a day?”
Sigh . She returned her gaze to Dr. Watson, who looked to be closer to twenty-five than thirty. His boyish looks had never shown to better advantage, Mirabella thought as she smiled up at him, studying his blonde-streaked brown hair which was always neatly and stylishly cut. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, who ordinarily never got a haircut until it interfered with his work—and sometimes not then if he was too absorbed. There was nothing in Sherlock’s mind except his work: everything he did was to that purpose alone.
“Why are you gasping for breath, Miss Belle?” demanded Sherlock, observing her.
“I’m just so very happy, Mr. Holmes. How could I not be?”
“Now see here, Holmes,” Watson continued, “Do lighten up. There is every manner of entertainment before us!”
“It is quite astonishing!” Mirabella agreed, taking in all the posters even as she took Watson’s arm. “Jugglers, clowns, elephants, tigers—even tight-rope walkers! There are midgets, giants—and mermaids! They even shoot a lady out of a cannon!”
“Yes, it certainly speaks to the sad condition of the human race that in these times the circus vies for popularity with the music-hall and the cabaret as the most popular entertainment of the day,” Sherlock commented.
“I wouldn’t for the life of me approach life with the cold analysis you apply to everything, Holmes,” mused Watson. “Where is your emotion, old chap?”
“Literature, opera, and theatre impart every manner of emotion,” countered Sherlock. “We have the immortal Shakespeare—and you imagine that I am in need of the bearded lady?”
“You are not without your vices in the popular realm, Holmes,” Watson suggested, smoothing his tweed jacket.
“I do like a good boxing match—but it is critical to the conditioning of the body—and mind,” Sherlock replied, pushing his long, dark curls out of his eyes. Sherlock had attended to his toilette for the purposes of the mysterious assignment, and was looking rather dapper himself in an embossed blue velvet vest, silk ascot tie in navy blue, and white cotton shirt.
No doubt someone at the hotel had ironed his pants for him. Mirabella wondered why she had not been shown to her lodgings yet. Her things had been put somewhere, that was a fact in evidence since they were missing. She was not particular, she did not need a fancy hotel: a ladies’ boarding house with a private room would suit her fine.
“Must every form of entertainment be a venue to self-improvement, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mirabella. “Can you never experience the magic of the moment?”
“I assure you, Miss Belle, that I am neither entertained nor improved by this moment.”
Mirabella giggled in spite of herself. Sherlock Holmes might be the world’s most trying man, but his brain never stopped, and though he might find most experiences dull—there was never a dull moment with him .
The only thing wanting was some sense of being in a relationship with him rather than being an outsider watching a spectacle: some sense of being connected to him. She saw that connection between Sherlock and John Watson, but she herself was like a wheel on a bicycle, to be replaced when it’s usefulness had expired. It was clear that her admiration for and enjoyment of the
“What are the paintings all around the circumference of the building?” Mirabella asked, glancing up some twenty feet. “Horses?”
“It must be obvious that it is the history of horsemanship depicted in pictorial form,” Sherlock replied. “As if it needed to be done. Artists appear to have a great deal of time on their hands.”
“Have a care, Holmes! We’re at the circus! Fun, excitement, entertainment!” exclaimed John Watson, echoing her thoughts, the grin returning to his face. “Can’t we enjoy ourselves for a day?”
Sigh . She returned her gaze to Dr. Watson, who looked to be closer to twenty-five than thirty. His boyish looks had never shown to better advantage, Mirabella thought as she smiled up at him, studying his blonde-streaked brown hair which was always neatly and stylishly cut. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, who ordinarily never got a haircut until it interfered with his work—and sometimes not then if he was too absorbed. There was nothing in Sherlock’s mind except his work: everything he did was to that purpose alone.
“Why are you gasping for breath, Miss Belle?” demanded Sherlock, observing her.
“I’m just so very happy, Mr. Holmes. How could I not be?”
“Now see here, Holmes,” Watson continued, “Do lighten up. There is every manner of entertainment before us!”
“It is quite astonishing!” Mirabella agreed, taking in all the posters even as she took Watson’s arm. “Jugglers, clowns, elephants, tigers—even tight-rope walkers! There are midgets, giants—and mermaids! They even shoot a lady out of a cannon!”
“Yes, it certainly speaks to the sad condition of the human race that in these times the circus vies for popularity with the music-hall and the cabaret as the most popular entertainment of the day,” Sherlock commented.
“I wouldn’t for the life of me approach life with the cold analysis you apply to everything, Holmes,” mused Watson. “Where is your emotion, old chap?”
“Literature, opera, and theatre impart every manner of emotion,” countered Sherlock. “We have the immortal Shakespeare—and you imagine that I am in need of the bearded lady?”
“You are not without your vices in the popular realm, Holmes,” Watson suggested, smoothing his tweed jacket.
“I do like a good boxing match—but it is critical to the conditioning of the body—and mind,” Sherlock replied, pushing his long, dark curls out of his eyes. Sherlock had attended to his toilette for the purposes of the mysterious assignment, and was looking rather dapper himself in an embossed blue velvet vest, silk ascot tie in navy blue, and white cotton shirt.
No doubt someone at the hotel had ironed his pants for him. Mirabella wondered why she had not been shown to her lodgings yet. Her things had been put somewhere, that was a fact in evidence since they were missing. She was not particular, she did not need a fancy hotel: a ladies’ boarding house with a private room would suit her fine.
“Must every form of entertainment be a venue to self-improvement, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mirabella. “Can you never experience the magic of the moment?”
“I assure you, Miss Belle, that I am neither entertained nor improved by this moment.”
Mirabella giggled in spite of herself. Sherlock Holmes might be the world’s most trying man, but his brain never stopped, and though he might find most experiences dull—there was never a dull moment with him .
The only thing wanting was some sense of being in a relationship with him rather than being an outsider watching a spectacle: some sense of being connected to him. She saw that connection between Sherlock and John Watson, but she herself was like a wheel on a bicycle, to be replaced when it’s usefulness had expired. It was clear that her admiration for and enjoyment of the
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