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

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