Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

"It is very kind of you."

"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in this place than was visible to me."

My mind strayed back through the rooms of Stoke Moran, led by the elegant and obviously terrified Miss Helen Stoner, over the convoluted facts, and her sister's whispered warning of the speckled band.

"No," Holmes smiled, "but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did."

"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But what harm can there be in that?"

"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?"

"I cannot as yet see any connection."

"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

"No."

"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful."

This said, Holmes fished his briarwood out of his pocket and began to pack it absently, sparing the occasional glance out the inn window towards the lit rooms of Stoke Moran, visible through the nearby tree-line.

I did the same, watching my companion out of the corner of my eye. The dark settled. We did not light a lamp. Holmes puffed thoughtfully, and I watched a myriad of unnamed emotions run across his face. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me, and I hazarded a question that I had been holding in for some time. Almost a month to be quite precise about it. Ever since Holmes had revealed to me his very ill-handled courtship of a woman named Katherine Rushford.

A woman who had occupied a fond spot in my imagination ever since.

I had considered bringing the matter up several times since then, but the timing never seemed right, or my dear friend, in his aloof and certain way, had indicated that the questions would be unwelcome.

Despite his many rebuffs, I had promised myself that I would get to the bottom of this mystery, and so, emboldened by the lack of light, I cleared my throat.

"Watson?" My friend had a smile in his voice.

"Holmes, I've been wondering…."

"Excellent. It's good to stay in practice."

"I was hoping, rather, that you might continue with your narrative of Miss Rushford."

"Hmmm. What exactly were you hoping to glean?"

"Firstly, whether she agreed to accompany you to America."

"What do you deduce?"

"That she turned you down flat, old man."

His head twisted towards me. I heard the brush of his chin against the front of his coat. His frown was just as imposing in moonlight it seemed, as it was by cold light of day. "Settle in Watson. Your deductive reasoning leaves something to be desired, once again."

I relaxed back in my chair, willing to let the stinging comment go as soon as my friends voice began, conjuring a scene of chaos and exuberance, a ship of machine-beaten steel, eagerly awaiting its turn to put out of the port of Liverpool.

The White Star Liner Empress Queen sailed for the United States on November 23rd 1879. She was a screw steamer, with more than a few Atlantic crossings behind her.

Her Captain was a man named Ogilvy, of medium height and temperament, with a strong wide nose and wind-scoured cheeks. The embarkation of passengers onto his boat was something he bore stoically. Something to be endured, before the more satisfying act of sailing could take place. One thing he did have in spades though, was an absolute intolerance for the dramatic proclivities of thespians.

So as soon as the Sasanoff Shakespearean Company came aboard, with their full compliment of trunks and colorful fabrics and jovial actors, they were instantly banished by the Third Mate to their cramped sleeping quarters, far, far below decks. As far away from decent, normative, subdued people as possible.

Kit Rushford oversaw the installment of men and bags into the third class open berths. Crammed in forward and aft of the first class baggage compartment at the stern of the lower deck, heat from the boiler uptake caused the air to be moist and hot. It was lit low with a meager gas light, most of the illumination coming from the portholes. It was sooty from the sifting air of the coal bunkers that escaped every time another load was fetched. Slim berths lined the walls, and trunks of personal items, costumes, and props were lashed in piles against the walls or tucked under the metal bunks.

It was very clear, she mused with a grim smile on her usually pleasant face, that the captain had no time or affection for the more sordid aspects of the arts. The actual people who labored in them, for example. That would certainly not make her job any easier, since she knew the company was relying on his generosity for rehearsal space. Still. One thing at a time. At least they hadn't been relegated to steerage.

Sasanoff himself oversaw the settling of his troupe as well, not yet ready to completely trust the new Stage Manager.

Kit tried to give him a reassuring smile whenever she caught his eye, but he was focused single-mindedly on finding fault. She had met all twelve in the troupe very briefly. There were eight men and four women, not including herself and Sasanoff, plus one more elderly lady named Mrs. Starrett, the props mistress, costumer, laundry lady and all-around actors nursemaid. She was some distant relation of Sasanoff's, and therefore had been convinced to accompany them on half-pay.

Somehow unsurprisingly, Holmes had revealed to her that he already knew one of the company, a dandy named Langdale Pike, who had immediately tried to ingratiate himself to Kit.

Unfortunately, he was still at it today, and had already tried to impress her by carrying several of the trunks at one time, dropping all of them, cracking one of their plaster boxes used as the gold, silver and lead props in The Merchant of Venice, and at the top of the gangplank, nearly tripped her, sending her plummeting to a watery landing over the side. Sasanoff was furious with him, and Kit was on guard for her safety.

She was therefore disturbed when he slid up to her in the hall, leaning one arm against the wall and peering over her shoulder at the little notebook she was jotting lists into.

"And where will you be billeting yours truly?" He teased.

"I have the men in the larger of the open berths, Mr. Pike, behind the first class luggage."

"Oh, no, we mustn't stand on ceremony, Miss Rushford. Pike is my stage name; my real name is Lord Peter…oh, hold on." His smile trickled away for a moment. "Lord anything is just a teensy bit more ceremonial when you stop to think about it, isn't it? Uh…"

"Perhaps Mr. Pike would be best after all?"

"Well…"

"I have the ladies in the smaller room in front of the baggage, closer to the post office," she jumped in, hoping to cut him off before things got any worse. "That's where the props trunks are going, if you'd be so kind."

He glanced at the mid-sized trunk standing beside them in the hall.

"Brill." He elbowed her good-naturedly and stooped to heft it onto his shoulder. "So I understand you and Sherls are in matrimonial bondage now."

Kit ducked to avoid getting hit by the end of the trunk as it swung through the air as he turned.

"Sherls?"

"Holmes. Sherlock. We were at school together, you know. He was dreadfully exclusive, but we had a few run-ins between classes."

"Ah, yes, I see. Well…does he know you call him Sherls?"

"Oh, God, no. And, actually, by the by, would you mind not telling him I called him that? He may take it into his head to sword me to death or slip some as-yet non-existent poison into my nightcap, or something just as awful."

"You have my word."

"Pike!" Sasanoff came into the hallway and caught sight of the swinging trunk. "Gently with that! I can do without you, but how and I to do without the pitcher and flagons! How will Sir Toby get drunk with nothing to drink from? Think man!"

Langdale smiled, that slow quiescent smile that showed very little more than a spoonful of brains at work, but a great deal of affability.

"Steady, old chap, I'm sure that flagons have survived worse, what?" He winked at Kit, who blushed for his sake. She could feel Sasanoff stiffening with indignation as Pike ambled off down the hall towards the women's rooms.

Sasanoff came up beside her, stray grey hairs plastered to his forehead with sweat. The Director's usually jaunty scarf hung limply across his throat. "The real question," he growled low enough for only her to hear, "is will the rest of us?"

She gave him a fortifying smile, and he captured one of her hands in one of his own gloved paws, patted it gently, and then released it. "Tell them all to meet in the third class dining room in thirty minutes. We must discuss the rehearsal schedule. Is everyone accounted for?"

"All but one."

His eyes narrowed. "Who's missing?"

Kit winced. "I have yet to see Sherlock Holmes."

"Holmes!" He barked, storming down the hall towards the men's berth. "Find him!"

Kit stood in the room that she was to share with Holmes. It was a third class double berth on the middle deck, farther down the same hall as Sasanoff's second class tourist berth.

The room was small and tight, with a lackluster area rug and a single armchair under one of the portholes. It also had a small closet and a wash-stand.

Kit knew instantly that Holmes had been there. The scent of his aftershave and that certain bookish waft that seemed to follow him everywhere filled the room, awaiting her entrance patiently. She took a deep breath and felt it down to her toes. His things were stored in the closet, but there were no other signs of his presence. Not even a ticket or handbill thrown onto one of the berths to claim it as his own. Good. He would not be staying.

There was definitely a strange feel to the room, perhaps because it was here that she was expected to spend the next ten days of her erroneously married life. She tried to imagine Holmes asleep in one of the berths, but could not. Which would he prefer? Did he run hot or cold in his sleep? Thrash around, or loose all outward signs of life? The only time she had ever seen him asleep he had been deliriously ill. Hardly indicative of his usual habits. She shook her head. No, even if she had to move them both down to the communal berths, she would do anything necessary to avoid spending a single night behind closed doors with Sherlock Holmes. Their previous private dealings with each other had taught her the danger of that.

The thought led her to consider her decision to accompany him on this trip, still unsure what exactly it was that had made up her mind. Despite all her saner instincts she had found herself at the telegram office the morning after her last encounter with Holmes. It had been an entirely sleepless night.

She made her reply short and to the point.

I will accompany you. I have conditions.

She sent it just in time to catch the morning post, and was unsurprised when less than an hour later there was loud knock on her door. She opened it to find Holmes standing there, without his overcoat, obviously at the end of his own sleepless night. These signs of haste did nothing to calm her own sense of excitement at seeing him.

"Which are?" He said, apropos of nothing.

She blinked at him. "Pardon me?"

"Your conditions. What are they?"

"You couldn't try "Hello" first?"

He rolled his eyes. "Woman, don't be so exasperating."

She drummed her fingers against the door jamb.

"Fine," he huffed. "Invite me in."

"I didn't say anything about you coming in."

"Katherine!"

She smiled at him, and opened the door wider. He glared at her on the way past her into her small sitting room, pulling the smell of tobacco and the wet streets in after him.

He tossed his frock tails behind him before perching on one of the wooden chairs near the fire. His index finger came to rest against his lips. She paused at the door, wary.

"Conditions?" He asked.

"Tea?" She answered.

He closed his eyes. Then took a very deep breath. She decided not to push too far. Life only entitled one so much joy from abusing others. She sat across from him, surprised to find herself so nervous. She had known she would have to face him to do this. She had practiced for the entire hour between the time she sent the telegram and his arrival, but she was still unnerved.

His eyes stayed firmly locked on her face, and she briefly considered asking him to tell her what she had eaten for breakfast, how long it had taken her to dress, anything to distract him from that penetrating stare.

It would do no good, she knew. She had eaten nothing since last night, and she didn't even know herself how long it had taken her to dress. She had not noticed anything at all until after she had sent her telegram, and even then the streets of London were a blur, it's people smudges, it's sights and sounds far away and folded in cotton.

She cleared her throat. "My conditions are these: first, the truth. Under all circumstances. You can choose not to answer if my questions are too personal or invasive, but if you do tell me something, it must be the truth."

He continued to stare at her for a moment, the lips behind the single finger pursing. "What is the second?"

"No regrets. If you make a decision and carry it out, you can't act like it didn't happen the next day. Those are my two conditions. They are not small, and if it's too much, then I understand. But I won't move forward unless I have your word. Agreed?"

He stood, crossing to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. After a moment he turned to look at her.

"Will you hear my conditions?"

"I will."

"Only one. That you will never try to turn me from my course as a detective, and this includes the acquisition of knowledge gathered to hone my craft, wherever it may be found. Agreed?"

She considered him just as seriously as he did her. It was a foolish thing to allow, considering how much leeway she knew he would take. Still, she was also wise enough to know that to try to change him was useless at best, destructive at worst. If she truly wanted him, then it would be worth it, but only if she was sure. The same could be said for her conditions though, and the unmistakable thrill she was feeling just from being in the same room as him again was intoxicating.

She concluded that she must be a glutton for punishment, because a moment later she said: "Agreed."

"Excellent. I agree to your terms as well."

"Then you have my permission to call on me."

She saw his chest rise and fall once, and realized that he had been holding his breath. So had she. She smiled and stood, holding out her hand to him. He crossed the room and took it with care. His hand was warm and dry, and she felt inexplicably shy.

"What now?" She couldn't help ask.

He looked startled. "I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps…well, perhaps lunch? I will arrange for you to meet Sasanoff later this afternoon so that you two can discuss your duties for the tour...but I suppose that doesn't leave much time for eating…?"

She nodded, looking around her cozy home, suddenly sad at having to leave it so soon. Holmes' hand tightened on hers. She traced his line of vision to the violin he had given her, still laying out on her writing desk.

"Will you play it for me?" His index finger traced across her palm. It was a small gesture, but it sent her heart racing. She considered that she would have to do her own study someday, on the effect of Sherlock Holmes on one's blood pressure.

"As soon as I can, I would love to."

"Excellent. I shall call for you later this afternoon with a cab. And, ah, perhaps a short walk after?"

"That would be wonderful."

His smile was brilliant. "Perfect. There are some blood and stomach samples I wanted to pick up from St. Bart's. It promises to be a pleasant afternoon for an amble of that distance."

He bent and kissed the palm of her hand, cutting off her cry of protest.

The violin was among her things now, stowed in the trunk she had left on the lower deck with the others. Her practice continued. Her hands healed, perhaps soon she would be able to make good on the promise. However, the most important issue right now was tracing down the missing detective before his director had an aneurysm.

Kit cleared her mind and concentrated on the problem at hand. He was here somewhere, on board, let loose to roam around of his own accord.

Setting her shoulders, she followed a hunch towards the largest, grandest, most exclusive part of the boat. The first class lounge.