Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Read Free

“What is important is that you were dismissed from your prior place of employment—and that you are a relative of Mrs. Hudson’s, so I have no reason to think you were hired for your credentials.   How can I trust you will follow my directions to the letter, which most certainly includes not using my laboratory for your personal experimentation?”
    How would he have known about her last position?   Aunt Martha would never have told him.   Mirabella felt her jaw drop in shock, which did not bode well for her powers of communication.  
    And how did he know she was Mrs. Hudson’s niece ?   Technically she was a relation by marriage and bore her aunt no resemblance.   True, they were both Scottish, but that was quite common in London.   And Martha Hudson was from the north of Scotland, while Mirabella was from Dumfries, in the south.   A keen detective such as Sherlock Holmes would easily detect the difference in their speech, not to mention their upbringing.   The former Mr. Hudson, a successful merchant seafaring man, was brother to Mirabella’s father, a curate, who had taken far more interest in education than his adventuring brother.   Mirabella’s father had educated all his children at home, even the girls.
    Suddenly her prospective employer threw himself into a full circle, narrowly avoiding knocking over jars of explosive chemicals.   He then moved to grab something on the newly cleaned wooden laboratory desk, waving it wildly in front of her nose.   “What is this?” he demanded.
    Before she could stop herself, she clutched Sherlock Holmes’ wrist to prevent him from knocking her glasses off her head.   She hoped it didn’t anger him, but she could ill afford to replace them—either her glasses or her head.   “Why it’s a . . . a . . . spatu . . .”  
    “What is wrong with you, girl, can’t you speak?”   He grew wilder and most certainly closer, and she tightened her hold despite his piercing stare which would have frightened Genghis Khan.  
    Despite his well-tailored clothing, everything about the great detective’s appearance was disturbing.   Arched angular eyebrows, dark overlong wavy hair flying everywhere, and a pronounced unshaven jaw line framed by a cut on his lip as if he had quite recently been in a bar brawl.   Could there be any doubt that he was not entirely stable mentally?
    Not to mention that when she walked into this flat she had been met with the disturbing odors of tobacco, strong chemicals, rotting food, mold, dog hair, dust, liquor, a strange floral scent, and an overall impression of decay.
    “Grrrrr! ZZZ-Zzzz-ZZzzz SNORT!”   And she had been faced with a sleeping bulldog which vacillated between snoring and growling.   As if the attack to her nose had not been enough, she had lived in fear of the dog awakening and attacking her in the flesh.   When the dog awoke from his slumber and opened his mouth to display his massive jaws, her worst fears realized, he was less frightening than the man now before her.
    “It’s a P-p-platina spatula, ” she managed to utter.   Only when she saw that he was instantly calmer did she release his wrist.   Fighting terror, her eyes were glued to the charismatic, devilishly dark man before her.   The esteemed Sherlock Holmes was a madman—and a bully.  
    And yet she would give anything in the world to work for this scientific genius .  
    She must be crazy too.
    “How did you know so much about me, Mr. Holmes?” she whispered.   “I know my aunt wouldn’t have told you.”
    “I don’t need to be told anything, my girl.   I can deduce it for myself.”  
    “Then . . . how? ” she gulped, backing away from the man.  
    “You certainly put yourself forward a great deal for someone who is asking something of me,” Sherlock glared, rubbing his left wrist and appearing to be in some degree of exalted pain—like one of those strange people who finds pleasure in pain.   Well, she didn’t mean to grab him