Three days later:

It was late. Facing the end of the week, London merely prepared for a new frenzy of celebration. Instead of suffering through it all, Clea willfully chose to become a part of it by hosting a charity buffet to demonstrate her students' new skills. The times might yet be a-changing, for Clea was slightly surprised—and encouraged—by the number of proud fathers.

It was over eight hours of whirl, frill, lace, flowers, tablecloths, starch, brief periods of hysteria at the sight of a microscopic smudge or smear, and of course prayers. Lots of prayers. Clea learned much about the many variations of Protestantism as well as the rival factions…

All good things must come to an end, and the Charity's ended with a gradual whimper.

Tired out, her feet aching, Clea leaned against a table (why did they always have to make tables for big people?) and tried not to think about the layer of dampness between her skin and her clothing. The evening air coming from the half-open windows was just as damp and unpleasant to the touch. Her feet throbbed like hot horseshoes as she sipped the last of the cool switchel.1 Several of the girls remained; they would finish the cleaning and spend the night at the school itself, where the appointed matron would keep a gimlet eye on the beholdings.

She sighed as the tangy liquid seeped through her dry tissues, and wiped a stray lock off her moist forehead.

"Shall I take the rest of the glasses, ma'am?"

"Thank you, but leave that one out, Anna-Lies." A click of hooves and a slightly-squeaky growler from the street anticipated her next sentence. "I do believe my escort has just arrived."

Her husband carefully shut the door behind his back and waited for her to descend the steps. He was wearing—actually wearing—his coat with both arms in the sleeves. She smiled. Yes, his arm was out of that sling! What a relief! But his face was wearing the strangest of expressions…

"Did Dr. Watson give his blessings, love?" Clea picked up the left-behind glass and held it like a banner. As his fingers closed on the cool drink and around her hand, she stretched up so she could pop a kiss on his forehead.

"That, and more…I suppose." Was his slow reply. "He was a bit in a hurry…something about Mr. Holmes wanting to meet him at Marcini's for something."

"Is something wrong?"

"I've no idea." He confessed. "By any chance, dear, did you encounter anyone unusual at your banquet this evening?"

"Hmn? Can't say I did, dear. It was the usual lot of them…whatever for?"

"Oh, nothing I suppose." Geoffrey didn't take his face off her for one second as he spoke. "I was about to head home to pick you up when I'm all but shanghaied by one of the secretaries for the Home Office." If anything, his stare grew more intense. "It seems we've been given a…vacation to Surrey."

"Why, that's wonderful!" Clea exclaimed. "I don't think we've ever had a vacation without going back to my parents' country home…and I know Cheathams wear thin fairly early on a body."

"Clea…I don't know how you did it, but I'm certain you did something." Geoffrey lifted a warning finger in the air. "The odds are a bit on the long side. For one thing, the Home Office's usual idea of a vacation has rather to do with an extended work-period far away from the Thames when the wind is blowing."

"Dearest, what could I possibly do that a lobbyist couldn't?" Clea looked the picture of perfect innocence and bewilderment.

It might have fooled a complete stranger, or perhaps Mr. Holmes—for all of three seconds. It didn't work at all on her husband. Suspicion was never so rampant. "Clea, you are a woman. You are already a lobbyist."

Clea didn't blink. "Guilty as charged, but I still didn't do anything."

"If you say so, dear." Geoffrey let the matter drop. He might claim to be "below-genius" grade, but he knew when to save his strength for the times that he needed it. "How soon do you think we can pack?"

"Well…I don't know, Geoffrey. What part of Surrey are we headed to?"

"You mean you don't know?" The skepticism fell out of him like a pair of false teeth.

"Dear, Surrey is a large territory. With more boroughs than I have fingers!"

"I can't help you there." Geoffrey pulled out a small envelope with official-looking stamping on it. "Have you ever heard of a place called the Arbor Vitae?"

Clea had to think about it. "No…I don't think I have." She caught his new expression. "Dearest, I'm a bit of an expert on anything that has to do with Lancashire…but there is just a slight bit of distance between there and that."

"And that I'll grant you…" He looked at the gift with doubt, and a germinating sense of concern. "I don't know." Were his next words. "I'm not accustomed to this sort of problem."

"It's a problem when someone gives you something?"

She got "the look" she deserved. "Didn't we just go through this with you and Mr. Holmes?" He asked wryly.

Clea had the grace to blush.

"Well." Still troubled, he returned the envelope to his pocket. "I don't understand it, so that makes it difficult to like…the nearest I can figure is this is from the Home Office in order to make up for the weeks without any pay."

Clea frowned lightly. "If you're not comfortable with it, dear, we can always…"

He was already shaking his head, no. "You don't quarrel with the Home Office." He told her firmly. "That is, not if you want to keep your job…we're stuck with this, so we might as well make the most of it…whatever it means to be a guest at the Arbor Vitae."

"We can look it up when we get home." Clea suggested brightly. "And with that in mind…what say you that we do get home? The childer are waiting for us, and we do need to plan out some things…some things besides packing and boxing."

It was her last word on the subject, and it was good enough. Geoffrey still had his suspicions--various and sundry, truth to tell. Whilst he disliked knowing he was in the position of believing without evidence...he still couldn't shake the bone-deep knowledge that somewhere, Clea had manipulated the dice of Fate and come into this particular windfall. He also knew just as intangibly that Mr. Holmes was involved in it somehow.

Which led to his last, and strongest private conclusion. That there was little he could do about it anyway, and if he wanted to stop living in fear of the unknown, he'd best face the fact that his "vacation" was going to be within the wallowing-grounds of one particular Surrey Inspector.

Paranoid, he reminded himself in the privacy of his thoughts in the dark of the growler. Just because you're going to some strange-sounding place on the map, doesn't mean you're going to collide with Baynes...or even Mr. Holmes. No, it doesn't mean a thing.

Perhaps he could even convince himself of that by the time they left the train station...

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