Chapter Two: A Prize Catch

I returned home to Baker Street shortly after one in the morning, and after some considerable trouble hailing another cab for the journey home from Watford. I had left Mr. Thurlow and his secretary, Harry, an exceptionally handsome young man of around thirty with raven black hair and remarkably piercing blue eyes, and as affable and mannerly as his employer was gruff and ill tempered, in the company of five of the biggest men I had ever witnessed gathered together in one place. I would venture to say their collective strength would've been enough to pull the carriage I travelled home in at an even quicker pace than the horses that did the job.

In addition, the vast array of billy clubs, knuckle dusters, knives, and pistols they carried would have scared a regiment of dragoons, never mind me. Mr. William Fagan, a Kerryman and heavyweight boxer of no small renown in his time, however, had drilled them all in relatively courteous behaviour, knowing that gentlemen -- while wanting a man of thuggish brutality as a bodyguard -- did not want one of thuggish mentality around their homes. As a result, I feared not for the reaction of Mr. Thurlow's current wife and children.

It would take a brave man to take on any of these men, I thought. Thurlow, though he hardly deserved it, should sleep peaceably in his bed that night.

I was all set for such a fate myself on returning to Baker Street, only to find the light still burning in the study and Holmes still wide awake, having returned to examining the knife and torn Bible page left to him by Thurlow.

"Ah, Watson," he greeted me without turning, as I entered to check on him. "I trust Mr. Fagan provided what we required."

"Indeed," I responded, removing my gloves and hat, "and more. His coterie of friends is quite impressive." I exhaled with wide eyes and a shake of my head as a small chuckle escaped my friend as he turned.

"Very true, my dear Doctor…very true. However, Bill Fagan is, in his own way, a remarkable force for good in this city, despite his standing army. By rehabilitating thugs and offering employment to aging boxers and bare knuckle fighters, he has kept many a man from the criminal path and put them onto a better living. His men are highly trained and, most crucially, have been taught to use their heads rather than their fists…something I think we shall need in this case." He stood and stretched, moving from his desk. "You will find, too, that I have not been idle while you have been out protecting our client."

"Odious man," I responded, flopping rather unceremoniously down on the couch.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Yes…it is unsurprising, given his behaviour, that it has come to this. If the world we lived in were more just, he would already be behind bars for his activity…but for the sake of his children and his wives, both present and past, we must pursue this case."

Yawning broadly, I nodded in agreement.

"To that end, I have already begun the search for the erstwhile Mrs. and current Miss Thurlow," he announced, as he stood near the embers of the fire.

"You have?" I looked up at him with a touch of surprise. "At this hour of night?"

"The members of our fourth estate are generally accessible, like physicians, at all hours," he replied, picking up the poker and stirring the last few flames into life.

"You contacted the press?" I asked, my eyes blinking in amazement. "Isn't that a little risky given what you said earlier about them searching for her too?"

"I have no intention of using the newspapers…just their manpower. The City Room of the major metropolitan newspapers, such as The Times, The Express, and The Star are always open, and considering what good press I have given them, the gentlemen of the press have agreed to use their not inconsiderable connections to trace the current members of the Pembridge family in London, and on finding them, pass along a message about an inheritance and the urgent need to contact myself here."

"An inheritance?" I queried, as my brow furrowed in confusion.

"What else would you call the sins of your father being visited upon you?" he returned, looking over at me wryly.

"Ah…" I agreed with a rueful smile, "I see your point."

"Tomorrow, I shall send out the Irregulars…if the Pembridges are as impoverished as Thurlow has led us to believe, then no doubt some debts will have been accrued, and knowing the tendency towards their use by the down at heel upper classes, the local pawn shops will probably have leads…our doughty lads will no doubt sniff them out." He put the poker down. "You and I shall stay in case our quarry comes to us…and research both the society pages and something more about the culture and history of Northern India to see what we can expect."

I yawned again. "Very good, Holmes…but now I think I shall retire to my bed; tonight turned out to be longer than I thought."

"Yes, probably best that you be at your sharpest, Watson. We shall have an interesting day tomorrow," he ventured, that sparkle that had been absent in his eye earlier this evening having fully returned. His gaze turned towards the papers I had been working on earlier. "Don't forget to take your latest foray into purple prose with you…" he sniffed, shaking his head. "Honestly, Watson, A Scandal in Bohemia?" He raised his eyebrow at the title before turning away.

Hiding a smile and a chuckle at his latest protestation, I headed up to bed.


The following evening, after another round of subtle inquiries had been launched just after breakfast for the whereabouts of Thurlow's daughter via the sending out of the Baker Street Irregulars and society articles, and the rest of the day had been spent both in research into both Hindustani culture and any other vital facts that may have eluded us in this case, I found myself eating a well earned meal of roast chicken and potatoes.

Holmes, on the other hand, had taken up residence once more in his favourite chair by the fireplace, knees brought up to his chin, and his calabash pipe firmly set between his teeth as he puffed regularly on it.

"I say, Holmes," I said, breaking the silence, "Mrs. Hudson has really outdone herself this evening. You must try this fowl...most delicious." It always worried me that when on a case, he often either ate heartily or refused to eat at all. It was no wonder that after a particularly gruelling investigation, he would be levelled to the point of exhaustion.

"Please," my friend returned, wrinkling his nose at the smell, "I could not stomach a bite." He paused as he glanced across. "Not that there'll be much left when you're done, I'll warrant."

With a short huff, I turned back to my plate. "You should really eat, Holmes. It will do you no good to stretch yourself too thin this early in the investigation."

"I'll eat when I'm hungry, Watson, and not before; now concentrate on your food rather than behaving like a nagging wife, will you man?" He continued to puff on his pipe with a frown and distant eyes.

Knowing it was useless to argue with him, I had set about carving my breast of chicken when there was a quick rap at the door.

Taking his pipe out, Holmes looked at the source of the unexpected interruption. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

The door opened quietly to reveal our landlady, who took one look at the empty plate on the table and turned to my companion with a disapproving eyebrow. "There's a lady to see you, Mr. Holmes," she informed him with a peeved note in her voice, clearly due to his lack of eating.

"A lady you say...young or old, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked quickly, sitting forward.

"Young, I should think...well...mid twenties?" she replied. "Impeccable manners...a real lady, I should think, though her clothes don't quite reflect affluence."

Holmes looked across the room. "Watson, I believe we may have landed ourselves the one that got away..." he enthused, and rose to his feet. "Show her up, Mrs. Hudson! Show her up at once!"

The older woman gave him a quick nod and disappeared back through the door, while I, for my part, hurriedly stood and made my way to my writing desk so as to record any relevant facts.

A moment later, there was another quick knock at the door, which opened swiftly after to find Mrs. Hudson leading a young woman into our sitting room.

She was young, but no child -- despite her youthful looks, tempered by an air of worldliness the young do not possess, and though simply dressed in a simple dusky blue skirt and jacket and high collared cream coloured blouse, she possessed a gracefulness that was rarely found in a woman who was not, as Mrs. Hudson had put it, a lady.

She was a handsome woman. If not quite a raving beauty, she would still easily catch a man's eye. Her hair was a shade of deep auburn, such that light, even in the dimming sunlight that entered our room, made it almost glow with a dazzling reddish hue...but that was not the most astounding thing about her. For in truth, it was her eyes. They were a deep shade of grey, and had an almost calming look to them which hid a profoundly perceptive quality that flashed as she took in her surroundings. She was clearly her father's daughter, but whereas our client's eyes had been full of resentment and arrogance, hers merely took you in and analyzed you without judgment.

It was those eyes that were regarding both me and my companion by the fireplace. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she asked; her voice soft but with a faint musical lilt to it.

"Yes," Holmes replied, his hazel eyes scrutinizing her closely. "That is I...Miss?" he queried.

She turned and held out her gloved hand to him. "My name is Helen Thurlow. I believe you wished to see me?" she inquired.

"Ah!" Holmes's face became slightly smug as he moved across the room and took her hand. "Yes indeed, you are quite correct, Miss Thurlow. May I present my esteemed friend and colleague Dr. John Watson. Watson, Miss Helen Thurlow." His eyes twinkled at me victoriously.

"How do you do, Miss Thurlow," I managed to greet her, as she inclined her head to me in return before turning back to Holmes.

"It is a pleasure, I'm sure," she returned, her tone polite and gentle. "I am most curious as to the reason you wished to see me. As far as I am aware, given my circumstances and of those of others that I know, I could hardly be the recipient of any inheritance...especially one that would require handling from two such esteemed gentlemen as yourselves. I am intensely puzzled as to what this could be about. However, I'm afraid I must hasten this meeting...the hour is growing late, and I misjudged how long it would take me to arrive here. My mother is not well, and will worry if I am gone too long."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," Holmes assured her quickly. "We will be returning to your mother together once this short meeting is over." He ushered her towards a chair by the fire. "Have you eaten, Miss Thurlow?" he asked, sitting down opposite her.

She shook her head, as she seated herself. "No, but do not concern yourself with that...my meal awaits me at home."

"Tea, then?" he inquired, sitting back in his chair.

She seemed to be evaluating him as surely as he was scrutinizing her. "No, thank you," she demurred.

"Very well," he said quickly. "Then, let us get down to business." He tapped his pipe against his hand and threw the ash into the fire. "Miss Thurlow, we must apologize to you, as we have brought you here under false pretences. You are quite correct…there is no inheritance...at least not in the strictest sense of the word."

She gave a short nod. "I thought as much. However, as I said before, my curiosity has won out in this case."

Holmes nodded, reseating himself in his chair. "And just as well, Miss Thurlow, for in this case it may have well proven your saviour."

A most inquisitive light shone in her eyes. "My saviour?" she queried, glancing at me for confirmation, and after I gave her a quick nod, her eyes moved back to my companion once more.

"When I said inheritance, it was not in the strictest sense true...however it remains an unfortunate fact that you, as your father's daughter, have inherited something of his making." He crossed his feet and stretched out his legs, still watching her closely. "Miss Thurlow, I am afraid that due to the dealings of your father in the past, your life, and perhaps that of your mother, are now in danger, and we have been requested by your father to find you and bring you and your mother to safety."

She stared at him a full minute with a look of utter disbelief before repeating, "My father?"

Holmes nodded, moving his pipe to his mouth once more.

I watched as the young woman straightened in her chair and narrowed her eyes. "My father...requested...I be brought to safety...my mother too? I find that rather hard to believe, Mr. Holmes, since I have not seen the man in ten years."

Holmes removed his pipe but held it close to his mouth. "That's as may be, Miss Thurlow, but when it comes to matters of life and death, even an estranged father might be prompted to make his way back into the life of his child again."

She gazed at him steadily for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "Life and death? Now, he chooses to be concerned? He wasn't very concerned when he expelled us from our home without a penny to our names...nor concerned when my mother nearly died soon after." She stood and moved over to the window, her body seeming to shake with barely suppressed anger. "So, he has done something that is now affecting us all...I am not the least bit surprised."

She turned back to us, her eyes flickering over each of us briefly. "It has always been that way with him...a rash decision here...a moment without thinking there. Some of which, I am sure, paid off. The rest..." she paused, turning to gaze out into the street, "were left to other people to deal with the mess."

Holmes tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against his upper lip. "Ah…you refer, of course, to your father's divorcing of your mother and remarrying in search of a son and heir?"

She turned back and gazed at him with what would have been an almost bemused expression if not for the hint of anger in her eyes. "I see you encouraged him to confess his role in that matter...but search? No...that was one of the main factors of the divorce...his mistress was already with child."

I inhaled sharply at the new revelation, even as she continued, "Ellen...a woman from a good family, though she herself was not of their ilk...is a woman who gets what she wants, and will scheme and plot in order to get it." She paused and inhaled deeply. "And she wanted my father, or rather the money my father possesses and the power and prestige that goes with it. She knew he wanted a son, and my mother was incapable of having another child...in fact, ordered by the doctors to not even attempt to do so after her eighth miscarriage. So, Ellen saw her chance."

Holmes remained still for a moment, and then questioned of her, "And yet your mother did not contest the divorce? She allowed herself to be divorced...rather than divorce your father and keep her good name?"

The young woman sighed, the anger draining out of her, and shook her head. "No one is completely evil, and I have never thought that of Arthur Thurlow either. Even though he has done things I cannot forgive, I cannot wholly hate him either. He is overly prideful, perhaps because of his harsh childhood and struggles to be accepted, but he is deeply flawed with a strong divide in his personality." She sighed quietly. "In a way, he reminds me always of Henry the Eighth -- many admirable qualities, but many pitiless and hateful. My father is an odd man, capable of unthinking cruelty and incredible selfishness, but…also of a great generosity of spirit as well as largesse. If I remember rightly, he supports the arts and has a very generous charitable foundation, and is sincere in his patronage."

She sighed once more, a small frown creasing her brow. "He was, strange as it is to say now, a very good father until the day he left. All of which made it all the crueller, I feel. And my parents were well suited…for a time at least. He gave her strength, and she gave him gentility and calmness. My mother...she loved him deeply, and hoped, foolishly in my opinion, that he would see the error of his ways. Thanks to his wounded pride, however, he hired the best lawyers money could buy...and we had none to spare. In the end...it broke her." Her last words came out almost as a whisper.

I stood up to help her, but she waved me back to my chair. Re-gathering herself, she continued, "My mother hasn't been the same since. She suffers from a state of deep melancholy...I believe it is called a depression. Most days, it is hard just to get her out of bed, let alone for her to speak to another soul. She's retreated inside herself..." The young woman swallowed and moved over to the couch, sitting slowly as she seemed to again focus on gathering her thoughts. "A couple of months after the divorce was final, I found my mother in the bathtub...she...she'd..." She trailed off, staring at her wrists, before resuming. "She almost died...but we had no money to spare to pay for a doctor, so after she was released from the hospital...I had to find a way to work from home so as to care for her."

I closed my eyes as my heart bled with sympathy for this poor woman and her mother, all they had gone through, and all because her detestable father refused to part with a shilling just to spite relations that seemed to hardly factor in the picture at all.

Holmes nodded slowly, his expression enigmatic and unfathomable. "You have my sympathies, Miss Thurlow. However, your father's actions, while undoubtedly reprehensible in the extreme towards you and your mother, Miss Thurlow, are mild in comparison to what you are about to hear, I'm afraid. I would ask you to steel yourself in that regard as well as for the possible consequences."

Her head rose, her eyes shifting from her hands to his eyes once more, and, with a nod, seemed to gather an inner strength I found astounding in one who had gone through so much already. Her back straight, hands folded, and her face set, she merely said, "Very well, what have you to tell me?"

Over the course of the next few minutes, Holmes recounted, in as much detail as her father had given us, the gruesome details of her father's former profession and his hand in the death of the Princess Mahindra, sparing her nothing, and stopping only after outlining the arrival of her father in London and the discovery of the Khukuri knife and the warning extract from the Bible, leaving us all in no doubt that a like for like revenge was being planned. "And so," he concluded, sitting back once more, "it is, I'm afraid, crucial for your protection in particular but also that of your mother, that you be brought in for protective purposes to somewhere safe where you can be watched over." Slipping his pipe back to his mouth, Holmes watched and waited for her reaction to the near avalanche of information he had just bombarded her with.

Miss Thurlow just sat for a moment, and I could almost hear her mind analysing each part, resolving it, and filing it away, until finally, she swallowed lightly and stood. "Very well, Mr. Holmes...it seems that I find myself and my life in your hands. However, in the instance of my mother...I do not think it wise to move her. Is there a way she can be guarded at our home? I do not think she is in as much, if any, danger. What would be the point of harming her? This Rajah wants revenge, and there can be little meaning in killing an ex-wife who is no longer even thought of by his victim."

Holmes shook his head determinedly in reply. "I am sorry, Miss Thurlow, but it is impossible. We cannot take the chance on dividing our attentions. You would be loathe to leave her behind, and it would mean offering our culprits two targets rather than one. And even if you were to leave her, we cannot say for sure that they wouldn't target her just to cause mental anguish...or...to flush you out for her funeral," he pointed out bluntly, as he stood and refilled his pipe. "She, like you, must come with us tonight...to your father's home in Belgravia."

Her eyes widened. "Go...to his home?"

Packing his pipe loosely, he picked up a tapir, and lit it from the fire. "Yes," he agreed with a nod. "It is where he and his household are currently under armed guard." Holmes put flame to tobacco, and began to draw on it slowly until white fragrant smoke began to waft through the air once more. "I wish I could give you better news, Miss Thurlow, but I cannot...the best I can say is that your father is genuinely concerned for your welfare, as much as he is for his own on this occasion."

"I...I must trust your judgment, I fear," she acquiesced, turning away from him a little, but I could see she was very troubled by the evening's revelations. "I will hurry home and pack, and try and explain this to my mother."

"Would you like me to hail you a cab?" I offered.

"No." Holmes cut across me quickly. "We will be accompanying you."

She blinked in surprise, but her brow quickly slipped into a frown. "Please, Mr. Holmes, I really feel it is best if you perhaps meet me there. My mother does not do well at all around people she does not know...and she will be most unsettled as it is. I beg you, give me a short period...please," she entreated. "Let me at least give her a chance to prepare."

I found myself nodding at the sense in her words. "Holmes, it may be wise to acquiesce to her request. If her mother is disturbed, it may be worth the short time for the extra speed it will create in the long run."

"I am sorry, Miss Thurlow." He glanced at me with a firm look. "We cannot let you travel alone from this point on. You must understand something clearly..." he explained, turning his eyes back to her. "Your father has been watched carefully. That is the only way someone could have breached his offices to leave so brazen a warning. You may rest assured that he was probably watched on coming here...and we are, even now, probably being watched to see if we can retrieve you." He put his pipe down, as he paused. "Having done so successfully, and identified you, we cannot now let you or your mother out of protective custody until this matter is resolved. I am sorry for your mother's state...but it must be this way. Watson is a physician and may help in this regard, but we will both be going with you." His tone was final as he turned away from her.

Crossing over to her side, I took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I promise to do what I can for your mother to make this as easy on her as possible," I vowed gallantly, and was gifted with a grateful smile in return.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," she replied, her voice trembling slightly as she struggled to remain calm. "But if we are to go, then we should go soon. I have been away for longer than I intended, and she will be growing anxious."

"Then let us go," Holmes said curtly, tapping his pipe out over the fire. "The more haste the better, for my liking." Moving to the small coat rack by the door, he gazed at it for a moment before turning in my direction. "Watson, do you have your pistol?"

Releasing her hand, I moved over to my desk drawer and retrieved my revolver and bullets. Loading it quickly, I gave him a quick nod.

"Good -- go inform Mrs. Hudson we shall be gone for the better part of the evening, and flag down a cab, there's a good chap. I shall remain with Miss Thurlow until you have done so." Moving to put on his overcoat and hat, he withdrew a cane from the umbrella stand as I moved to the door, shrugged on my coat, and placed my bowler hat on my head.

"Cab?" she inquired with a frown.

"Yes..." he replied absently as he drew on his coat. "Something large enough for four and trunks, Watson," he mused, before turning his head to her. "Do you have a difficulty with that, Miss Thurlow?"

I gave a quick nod and turned to go, only be stopped by her explaining with extreme nervousness, "But, Mr. Holmes...I'm afraid I can't afford a cab..."

Holmes blinked in surprise. "Miss Thurlow...you shall not be paying."

I, for my part, tried to not look astounded at her revelation. Considering how many cabs Holmes and I utilized in a day, the expense never seemed to occur to either of us...to be so impoverished that a cab would be considered unaffordable…

She seemed to look a little relieved, but still unsure. "I do not live too far...only a fifteen-minute walk..."

Holmes waved off her worries as he buttoned his coat. "If it helps assuage your fears, neither Watson nor I shall be paying either...in the long run at least. You may rest assured that every expense accrued on this case will be coming from the purse of one Mr. Arthur Wendell Thurlow...as part of our rather exorbitant case fee." A small smirk played around his lips as he looked at her. "You may even tip the cabbie most heavily if you wish."

A faint blush spread over her cheeks. "I apologize...it is just...well...I haven't been in a cab in eight years," she explained with embarrassment.

"Then, Miss Thurlow, it's high time that was rectified. Watson?" Holmes exclaimed expectantly.

Meeting my friend's eyes for a moment, sure that utter sympathy was in mine, I nodded and rushed down the stairs to the street to hail one of the largest cabs I could find. If that poor woman had not had the chance to travel off her own feet in eight years, then, by Jove, I was going to make sure she travelled home in style.

A hansom cab, too small for our purposes with room with only for two, passed by, but was soon followed by a luxurious looking 'Growler' with four wheels to the hansom's two, trundling noisily over the city streets and pulled by two fine ebony horses. Hailing down the cab, I was pleased to see a plush, roomy, well maintained interior with velvet lined walls and curtains. There was plenty of room on the back and top for trunks; in all, it was eminently suitable for our purposes.

Asking the cab driver to wait, I darted back inside and called up the stairs to Holmes and our charge that our cab was waiting out front, before going to Mrs. Hudson to explain our absence for the rest of the evening.

Holmes escorted Miss Thurlow down and out the front door, moving her quickly into the cab, and stopping only to give directions to 45 Bayham Street in Camden Town before climbing in after to sit opposite her.

Checking the street quickly, I too climbed in and took a seat next to Holmes, trying to keep a pleased grin off my face as our charge took in our transport with wide eyes, while it headed speedily out of Baker Street and along Marylebone Road before turning north towards Camden Town.

"What are you looking so smug for, man?" Holmes questioned me with a frown. As Miss Thurlow ran her fingers over the seat, her eyes on the plush fabric, I gestured over to her with my head in answer.

My friend's eyes moved to her and watched her for a long moment, before he drew in and released a deep breath and turned his eyes back to the street without any perceptible change in expression.

After a fashion, her eyes looked over and met mine, a shy smile pulling on her lips at being caught out. "I must look rather foolish," she murmured.

"Not at all," I assured her, returning her smile.

Her gaze ran over the interior of the cab and rested on Holmes for a brief moment before turning back to me. "It is just the little things, I think, that you learn to appreciate when they are no longer available to you," she mused. "I have been walking, even when carrying the dresses I stitch, for many, many years...this..." She gestured to the cab. "Even in the middle of winter, I did not dare...not when by doing so meant we would not have enough wood for the fire or even have a roof over our heads."

Again, I felt my heart break in sympathy.

"Yes..." Holmes muttered, "and if it's bad to have these things and lose them, think what it must be like never to have them at all." His eyes lit on a beggar girl standing on a corner, as the carriage headed north beyond the refinement of Regents Park and into the more tumbledown environs of Camden Town.

She turned and followed his gaze, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I did not say that to make you pity me, Mr. Holmes," she replied, feeling, I'm sure, a little stung by the chastising remark. "I only wished to thank you both for the one luxury I can appreciate in this entire mess."

Holmes turned his eyes back to her. "There is no need to thank us for this...or anything. We are merely doing our job."

She held his eyes for a moment, and I, again, could tell that she was re-evaluating her judgment of him, before she turned away with a nod to gaze out the window opposite his. "Of course," she replied, her tone more blank than previously, and my brow creased a little at his, in my opinion, overly brusque manner with her.

"Watson," my companion continued, "when we reach Miss Thurlow's home and you enter with her, go and check the back entrance before attending with her on her mother. I will stand guard at the front." He returned his attention to her. "Miss Thurlow, pack only what you need for now...we can return if needs be to fetch more of your things. There is no need of frippery and other women's foolishness." When he received no immediate response, he tapped his cane on the carriage floor irritably. "Miss Thurlow, are you heeding what I say?" he demanded.

She turned her head back to him and nodded. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I own no such...frippery. But, I shall, of course, make haste."

"I am pleased to hear it," he responded, "but I believe I shall have Watson ensure that speed is made paramount. Women and time keeping, when packing is concerned, are a bad mix."

Her eyes narrowed and her chin rose, as she sat back straight against the seat. "That, I believe, is a generalization, Mr. Holmes. Not all women are alike. It would be good for you to keep that in mind," she returned, and I sensed she had indeed inherited something else from her father...forthrightness as well as a temper, though she was doing a much more admirable job reigning it in than he had.

"I shall," Holmes assured her, "as soon as I find a woman who escapes that general observation."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "It is the specific idiosyncrasies that make up an individual, Mr. Holmes. If you focus too greatly on the generalities, then you will only be causing a disservice to yourself. Instead of automatically searching for the fault, try seeing the reasons behind the behaviour."

"The reasons behind women's idiosyncrasies and behaviours are easily named, Miss Thurlow," he replied, as the carriage turned onto Bayham Road. "Women are, quite simply, scatterbrained. Their minds jump and flit from one item to another without pause, and their capacity for rational, linear thinking is for the most part non existent. Their brains were made for other things. This is a natural occurrence and not a mere generality, as you would wish it to be."

I had opened my mouth to try and cease any impending hostilities when, a moment later, the carriage slid to a halt outside a tiny brick residence. Opening the door, Holmes stepped out and looked around before turning and offering her his hand.

I sighed inwardly, still surprised at Holmes' attitude towards her, as I watched her face retain its careful composure when she placed her hand in his.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes...if that is what you truly believe, though I, for one, cannot agree with you," she returned, stepping down from the carriage, her eyes sweeping the street quickly. "I would suggest a debate, but you seem to have made your mind up in the matter." She released his hand and strode over the pavement to a door, pulling out a set of keys from her pocket as she reached it.

Holmes looked around the street carefully before turning to look back inside the carriage, and, to my surprise, he had a noticeable smile playing about his features, his eyes positively dancing. "Well, Watson..." he said in hushed tones, "at least she's not dwelling on her circumstances, her father, those revelations, or the death threat hanging over her anymore, eh?" Composing his features once more, he stepped away from the carriage, taking in the area with a serious expression.

Blinking and stepping out of the carriage, I shot him a bemused look. "I believe you enjoyed provoking her," I asserted lightly, my own eyes sweeping over the buildings and street.

"Distracting, Watson...distracting. With what lies ahead, better she be annoyed with me than afraid or morose, and enjoyment had nothing to do with it," he sniffed. "Now inside, and check the back quickly."

Casting him a look which clearly showed I didn't believe the latter part of his assertion for a second, I darted inside after her, heading toward the back of the building, to make sure that there was no one up to any foul play. Spying not a soul, I returned inside and headed up the stairs to the fourth floor where Miss Thurlow and her mother resided.


Authors' Note: Just a note to say a huge thank you to all that have reviewed thus far, and those who may later. We appreciate all your kind words and enthusiastic comments. :) Just, as a side comment, our Watson does sound a bit Edward Hardwicke-ish…I never really realized it till it was pointed out, but I can see why. He was the first Watson I saw with Brett, and though I loved David Burke's portrayal as well, Hardwicke has always stayed with me. I would also like to point out a huge kudos to my co-writer LFire, who is responsible for all the details and research into Indian side of this story and makes Mr. Thurlow not completely evil and one-sided. She has really sunk her teeth into this, and it shows. :) Thanks again, and most kind wishes to all! Aeryn (of aerynfire)