Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess by Suzette Hollingsworth Page B

cover would be disclosed, and it would be impossible to place someone who might be successful at that point in Miss de Beauvais’ .”  
    “ Before you open your mouth, Miss Hudson?   In the first place, it is not possible to measure the unit of time before you open your mouth—that moment of silence is not be detectable to the human ear,” Sherlock considered.   His tone was strangely consoling.   “But I shouldn’t regard it, my dear.   Fortunately we are not so foolish as to place our hopes for success on the rare instances when you are not making noise.”  
    “What Holmes means to say is that all will be well,” Watson choked in his attempt to stifle his laughter, forming a fist in front of his lips.   “Clearly there is a plan in place masterminded by our friend here.”  
    “If I am so stupid and have nothing to contribute to this conversation, I wonder that you should wish me to be part of your ingenious plan, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella retorted, attempting to appear sophisticated and aloof although her heart was sinking.   Sherlock’s rudeness had, at least, taken her mind off her devastation as she narrowed her eyes in anger at him.   “And besides, you only prove my point:   we are all in agreement that I am not sophisticated enough to enter Miss de Beauvais’ .”
    “I beg you do not concern yourself, my girl,” Sherlock replied consolingly.   “There will be many awkward, gangling females without polish in the institution—hence their presence alongside you.   The only difference between them and you is that they are awkward, gangling females with money.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, my confidence has risen to new heights with your encouraging words.   I am much consoled.”   Her eyes moved along the mantelpiece where a wax replica of Holmes’ head proudly sat—a hole carved through the wax by a gun shot.   At this moment she could well understand the sentiment which caused the shooter to put it there.
    “Excellent.   I am glad to be of service.” Sherlock pronounced.
    “Neigh!” As the sounds from the activity outside their London flat drifted through the window, Sherlock picked up his magnifying glass and began studying his violin strings through the device.   Almost as if in the room with them, the whinny of a horse being walked in the street and the shouts of a hansom cab driver joined the conversation.
    “And now may we discuss how you might be of service, Miss Hudson,” murmured Sherlock, not moving his eyes from his violin.   “Then may we proceed to the outline of your assignment?”
    “No!   I cannot do it!   Have you not been listening?   I am a total and utter failure at . . . at . . . being a girl ,” she gasped, standing to move to the bay window and glance at the passers-by on Baker Street, her back to the gentlemen.   “And what’s more, I don’t want to be one!”
    “At that, you have failed miserably.”   Dr. Watson cleared his throat, making a point to look away, selecting a teacake from the table between them while eyeing the blueberries and cream next to the tea service.
    “At everything I have failed miserably!”   She spun around to face Sherlock.   “I want to be a scientist.   I have no need whatsoever to go to finishing school.”
    Dr. Watson straightened his fashionable silk tie and set his hat on the table between them, brushing his hand through his blonde-streaked hair.   “It might reduce the escalating turmoil, Holmes, if you were to explain to Miss Mirabella that the finishing school is not for the purpose of finishing her but of finishing someone else.”
    “It might.”   Sherlock returned to playing his violin in a most annoying manner as they spoke.   “However, I do not know why I must explain everything to Miss Belle as if I were working for her before it behooves her to behave in a professional capacity, or failing professionalism, like a lady .   Perhaps there would be a benefit in her attendance at the