Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger by Suzette Hollingsworth Read Free Book Online

shook his head.   “No thank you.   I’ll manage.”
    As she returned the jar to Sherlock, a ringlet of her hair fell forward.  
    “I see you’ve tried a new shampoo, Miss Belle.”
    “W-w-why, yes.”
    “From your expression, it is not clear to you how I know.”
    During this interchange, Dr. Watson handed her a bottle of aspirin, from which she took a tablet.
    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but you needn’t trouble yourself.”   She felt a grave apprehension rising.
    “It’s no trouble at all, Miss, Belle, I assure you.   For one thing, your hair is curlier, as if it is less encumbered,” Holmes continued, undeterred.   “You now have curled wisps about your face.   I certainly hope none of that hair finds its way into my specimens.”
    “I am ever watchful, Mr. Holmes.   And now, if you have no further need of me—”   All of her instincts told her it was time to retire for the evening.
    “And for another,” he continued, “I am accustomed to the smell of tar about you, which I presume would not be your perfume.   And I am acquainted with the smell of your laundry soap as it is my own.”
    “Tar?” she repeated indignantly.   “Well, I never!   I’ll have you know that I finish every rinse with rose water.   Of all the rude remarks you have made to me, Mr. Holmes, which are innumerable—”
    “Yes, the rose was the overall scent, no doubt contrived to hide the smell of the tar.   You went to great pains, and most would never have noted it.”
    “I never detected it,” remarked John.
    “It was very faint,” agreed Sherlock.   “Therefore, I must conclude it is your prior hair shampoo for the purpose of controlling the flaking of the scalp, which I can assure you is a problem you do not have.   Probably a long standing habit from childhood initiated by your well-meaning country mother.”  
    “My mother is a very intelligent woman with a wide range of helpful remedies.”   Mirabella raised her chin.   “Why, everyone in the Dumfries parish went to her when they were sick—“
    “She also has outmoded ideas of feminine behavior, surprising since your curate father is obviously very forward-thinking in educating his girls.   I must say, I put your being spoiled and brash at his door.   But that is a different topic to be sure.”
    Thank the heavens for small miracles.
    To her dismay, Sherlock continued.   “The lavender shampoo you are now utilizing is a decided improvement over the tar shampoo, Miss Hudson.   Which I presume was also chosen to help you sleep.   If you would but take the Barbituric acid . . .”
    “I can’t sleep because you’re playing the violin at 3:00 a.m., Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Mirabella, wincing as she managed to swallow the aspirin with her hot tea, the bitter taste dissolving in her mouth.
    “Playing helps me sleep,” remarked Sherlock in surprise, looking up from placing the tobacco in his pipe.
    “And wakes everyone else up!” chimed in Watson.
    “Do accept my apologies, Watson.   I didn’t realize.”
    “How can someone be so observant and yet so oblivious?” asked Mirabella.
    “An interesting question,” considered Sherlock, taking a puff on his pipe.   “And one which deserves reflection.   But first, there is another matter which concerns me.”   His eyes rested on Mirabella.
    Heaven help me.   She had completed the lighting and moved to stand beside the door.   What was keeping her from running for her life?   A full day in Sherlock’s company had long since grated on her nerves.   She asked reluctantly, “Yes?”
    “It appears that you have taken up drink, Miss Belle.”
    Dr. Watson stared at her in alarm.
    “I certainly have not!”
    “There is a certain melancholy to your personality of late and a tendency towards being annoyed.”
    “I assure you I had no such tendency before meeting you, Mr. Holmes.”
    “To drink or to annoyance?” he asked innocently.
    “I do not drink spirits!” she