Chapter Three: Family Reunion

About twenty minutes later, with Miss Thurlow on one side and I on the other, we led the trembling, vacant eyed Mrs. Alice Thurlow down the narrow flight of stairs to the waiting cab below. She had barely made any move to protest. In fact, when we arrived, she barely had moved at all, remaining at her chair by the window as she looked into the increasingly darkening street.

It was only after Miss Thurlow had finished packing for herself and her mother, which, truth be told, only took her about ten minutes, and we attempted to coax the older woman from her chair, that I was shown just how she felt about strangers.

She had gone, to all intents and purposes, hysterical, screaming incoherently until her daughter had managed to assuage her fear that she would be sent away and assure her that all would be well. The young woman had then turned and asked if I did not mind taking the three bags down first, to which to I immediately acquiesced, sensing she needed a private moment with her mother to explain fully what was to come.

Leaving the luggage at the bottom of the stairs, I climbed the four floors back to their rooms to find the younger Thurlow leading her mother into the sitting room. To say I was stunned at the transformation in front of me would have been an understatement. The lady had gone from quiet and disconnected to sobbing and fearful and back to disconnected once more, and there was a slackness and vacancy to her expression that was most disconcerting, as if she had totally retreated into her own mind.

As we reached the bottom of the stairway, Miss Thurlow's eyes again turned to me with a look of gratitude tinged with a deep sadness. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she whispered softly, as I let go of her mother's arm to open the outer door for them. I merely gave her a reassuring nod as she slowly drew her mother outside into the warm August night and the waiting carriage, while I darted back inside to retrieve the bags.

Holmes turned as the door opened and took a step back on seeing the Thurlows emerge, before moving to hold the door open for the women while they entered the carriage, staying silent, aware of the distress the older woman was obviously in.

The cabbie looked down from up on top of the carriage, also quick to catch Mrs. Thurlow's state. "Where are we 'eading to, sir?"

"To Belgrave Square, number 12," Holmes replied, catching the look of surprise on the driver's face, who had at first most certainly expected to be heading to some kind of sanatorium given the condition of his latest passenger, and secondly, little experience of going from somewhere like a ramshackle building in Camden Town to the plushest of surroundings in Belgrave Square.

"Right you are, sir," he voiced with a nod.

"Watson!" Holmes called out. "Do you need a hand with those bags?"

I shook my head as I joined him at the carriage. "No, Holmes," I replied, placing the three large carpet bags inside the transport with a glance at our two charges, one who continued to stare vacantly into space, while the other helped me manoeuvre the luggage to the far side so that Holmes and I would be able to enter unfettered. Glancing back at my companion, I too entered the carriage and took my seat.

Taking in the street one last time, Holmes tapped the side of the growler to indicate to the cabbie to take off, as he too moved inside and took up his former position opposite Helen Thurlow, his eyes going to her mother. He scrutinised the hold she had on her daughter, her shivering form and blank eyed look, before turning back to our younger charge. "I am sorry to have to do this to her, Miss Thurlow, but there is little option, I'm afraid," he said quietly, his gentle tone at odds with his earlier brusqueness with the young woman.

For her part, she merely looked over at my companion for a moment, her gaze seeming to soften as she judged his sincerity. "We both understand it needs to be done," she replied, glancing quickly at her mother, who was staring at the space between Holmes's and my heads as if we were not even present. "I think she is protecting herself in some way from having to see him again...which if I may request, we keep to an absolute minimum, if at all." I glanced down to where she was gently stroking her mother's hand to see a flash of a line white scar tissue just above her glove line, the evidence of her deep seated melancholy.

"We shall make the request of Mr. Thurlow, you may be sure," Holmes replied, folding his hands around the top of his cane. "But living in such close quarters in his home may prove problematic for achieving absolute apartheid. I shall request that you be allowed to share a room with your mother to make sure she is as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you," she replied with utter sincerity before turning her gaze out the window, while my eyes moved back to her mother to find, to my shock, she was staring directly at me.

Her eyes were almost amber in hue, and, for a moment I could have sworn an oath that I saw a flash of awareness in them before they wandered almost lazily away to fix on my companion.

Holmes returned her gaze with a softness not often seen in his hawkish, hazel eyes. There was nothing as condescending as pity there, merely a strange personal sort of understanding at the depths to which depression could drive a human being and something that looked like encouragement...even though the chances of it reaching her were slim.

After a moment, as expected, with no sign of recognition or even that she even noticed he was there, she turned her head back to her previous position and did not move again for the rest of the journey.

It was deepest twilight by the time the carriage pulled up outside number 12 Belgrave Square. The beautiful sandstone buildings were lit by the myriad of lamplights outside, the central park in the square quiet and serene. The lights in the homes of some of the most vaunted of English society were just beginning to come on in earnest when Holmes opened the carriage door and dismounted, to turn back to us inside. "Watson and I shall go in to prepare the way, Miss Thurlow. You remain here to prepare your mother as best you can. Cabbie?" he called up. "Remove the ladies' bags, and I shall pay you directly after."

"Right, sir," the cab driver returned before climbing down to follow my colleague's instructions.

"Watson?" Holmes summoned me, as he turned and moved to the wide steps of the huge edifice. In fact, it most certainly dwarfed the one in which Miss Thurlow and her mother shared one small flat.

I nodded, and, after reaching over and giving Miss Thurlow's hand a quick squeeze, exited the carriage and followed my companion up the stairs.

Ringing the door bell, Holmes exhaled and turned slightly. "This shall undoubtedly be fraught on many levels, Watson," he stated, and I shot him a quick look of affirmation as I struggled to keep my face composed.

The door opened, and a tall, angular looking butler stood there. He had a receding hairline and the usual firm yet enquiring expression, but rather wide, gentle brown eyes. "Gentlemen...ah..." He stopped. "Of course, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?" he quizzed.

"Yes," Holmes agreed with a nod.

The butler stepped back. "I am Goodwin, the butler. Come in, gentlemen. The Master left instructions that you were to be admitted as soon as you arrived."

"Goodwin," Holmes said, "we have not arrived alone. It is most urgent that I speak with Mr. Thurlow and his wife directly...in the meantime, come with me." He beckoned to the butler, who looked rather startled and mystified as Holmes led the man out and down to the carriage. "Might there be somewhere private you can place these ladies while Dr. Watson and I speak with your master?"

Goodwin looked into the carriage and blinked, before his eyes widened incredulously. "Miss Helen?" he asked in breathy surprise, his look turning slightly to that of shock. "Mrs. Thurlow?"

Gently extraditing herself from her mother's hand, the younger woman stepped quietly out of the carriage. "Hello, Goodwin," she greeted the butler. "I am pleased to see you well."

Goodwin looked her over, shaking his head, before remembering himself. "Forgive me, Miss. It's just the last time I saw you, you were only beginning your journey into young womanhood." He paused, a smiled playing lightly on his mouth. "If you'll pardon the impertinence, Miss, you achieved the transition most charmingly," he complimented, inclining his head politely.

She gave him a very genuine and heartfelt smile in return. "Not at all, Goodwin...and thank you," she replied, the gentle softness of her voice strengthening.

His gaze moved behind her and back, concern flooding his face. "And Mrs. Thurlow, Miss?" he enquired tentatively, fully aware even from his brief glance that she was unwell.

Our younger charge's face struggled to remain level, though her eyes spoke volumes. "My mother...has been better," she answered gravely.

Goodwin nodded, his look growing solemn and determined. "I shall see to it she is not disturbed."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Thank you," she returned with a tone of deep gratitude.

Behind and onto the front door's steps stepped a massive, chiselled mountain of a man who was six feet seven inches if he was an inch, his tweed suit and dove grey vest stretched tight against the broad expanse of his chest. "Mr. Holmes!" he called out in a strong west of Ireland brogue. "Ye've arrived at last, I see."

Holmes turned and raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Fagan," he replied, and moved back over towards him. "How goes it?"

Fagan stuck his shovel sized hands in his suit pockets and rocked a little back and forth. "If you'll be excusin' the expression giving the context…it's as quiet as the grave, Mr. Holmes. Quiet as the grave. If they're out there, then they're surely bidin' their time." He took in the area around him. "I've a man stationed out of sight watching the house from the park...and men at every entrance and one on the roof. The place is well covered, I assure ye."

"Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Fagan, thank you." Holmes agreed, stepping inside into the hallway as he continued to talk with the big Irishman.

"Miss?" Goodwin gently asked Miss Thurlow, after watching the cabbie bring the bags to the door. "May I help you with your mother?"

She turned to glance back at lady in the carriage, only to find the older woman already on her feet, and before any of us could restrain our surprise, she had glided out of the growler and up the steps and into the house. A moment later, I and my companions rushed into the house after her.

Holmes, for his part, merely watched enigmatically as Mrs. Thurlow moved towards and past him. Reaching into his pocket, he paid the curious cabbie and took in the bags, closing the door as soon as everyone had entered after the older woman, whom we found standing in the foyer, gazing calmly at a potted plant.

A door at the side of the hallway opened and an all too familiar voice spoke out as it exited what appeared to be the study. "Goodwin, who was at the..." our client began, before coming to a dead stop in the now crowded hallway, having come face to face with his past. "Alice?" he whispered, staring at the woman who had been his wife for sixteen years.

"This fern requires water," she whispered. "It's drying in the desert." Her voice had a cracked quality, as if it was rarely used...which was very likely the case.

Mr. Thurlow took a step towards her almost involuntarily. "Alice?" he repeated, his eyes taking her in with the most peculiar expression in them.

"It'll be dark soon...best find Helen...likely up a tree again," she sing-songed.

He exhaled as the realization overtook him as to the nature of her state, and, to my surprise, his eyes could not hide what seemed to me to be the sudden rush of sadness and a startlingly deep regret. Drawing himself up, he moved closer still, his voice so soft and gentle that it seemed incapable of coming from the harsh, demanding, arrogant man I had encountered previously. "Yes...the tree at the end of the garden, her favourite place to hide...the one with the swing I built you."

At that, Miss Thurlow seemed to shake herself out of her stupor and crossed quickly to her mother, taking her hand in her own and distinctly ignoring the man she was speaking with. "Come, Mother," she whispered.

Arthur blinked, and then murmured, "Helen."

The older woman's eyes turned to her daughter, the glassy, far away look very apparent. "Is it time for tea?"

Goodwin crossed to the far side of the foyer and opened two sliding double doors. "Miss Helen, you can wait in here undisturbed if you wish," he informed her quietly.

She glanced over and nodded at the butler. "Come, Mother...let us go sit. It's been a busy evening," she coaxed, and I watched the lucidity again seep out of the older woman's eyes as her daughter sighed and led her away from us to the relative safety of the drawing room.

Holmes turned to the rather staggered looking master of the house. "Mr. Thurlow, as you can see, we have been successful in finding your daughter and her mother. I think you, I, Watson, and your wife...your current wife...should speak," he instructed him, and without further preamble marched right past the red-headed man, who was still staring at the doors that Goodwin was now drawing closed, and into the study.

After another moment, Mr. Thurlow swallowed and nodded. "Goodwin..." he told the butler rather hoarsely, "please go and fetch Mrs…" He paused for barely a moment. "Your mistress."

Goodwin gave a short bow and moved towards the stairs, while I followed my colleague into the study. Our client walked in afterwards and closed the door, pausing a moment before walking across the room slowly, still looking rather like a train had hit him at full speed, before he sat down across the desk from where my friend was already seated.

"Mr. Thurlow," Holmes started briskly, "I shall come straight to the point, and pull no punches in doing so. As you can see, Alice Thurlow is not a well woman. Her illness is directly attributable to your leaving her, and, needless to say, she is in no fit state for stress of any kind. Uprooting her from her home, such as it is, would, I would say, already constitute far too much stress for a woman in her condition..."

"I had no idea," the businessman muttered, staring at his desk.

Holmes continued without pause. "Needless to say, your daughter is not favourably disposed towards you, both on her mother's and her own behalf...and has made a strong request that you stay away from her mother at all times."

"As a physician, I would also concur with your daughter's request. She needs to be treated with great care and sensitivity," I added, moving from the bookcase near where I had been standing to a closer position to the pair.

Mr. Thurlow blinked as if the words were only now permeating his brain. "Not speak with her?" he repeated, looking up with a most bewildered face.

"No," I reinforced strongly. "Beside the fact that it is highly unlikely she will even register your words...if she were to notice your presence, it would only confuse and exacerbate matters. Her grip on reality is tenuous at best, and one wrong word or tone could send her permanently into dementia."

I shot a look over at Holmes, knowing he guessed I was leaning to the more extreme of possibilities, but I felt a rather protective surge toward the woman and her mother, as I had promised to them to make this as painless as possible, and I meant to keep my word.

Holmes's eyes moved back to Arthur Thurlow, who had returned to staring at his desk, and my friend's look became contemplative. "However," he considered, sitting back in his chair, "your daughter is an entirely different matter, Mr. Thurlow. This situation is by any standards a disaster, but it does offer some opportunity, as most moments of crisis do. I don't pretend to know much about family life, Mr. Thurlow, but I would strongly suggest that you grasp that opportunity while you may." After a moment, he rose to his feet. "A room for her and her mother both would be a beginning to make them both feel more comfortable in uncomfortable surroundings..."

Thurlow nodded without looking up. "Of course...certainly..." Clearing his throat, his head rose up, as he continued, "I...will...I will have the twins move to a guest room. They may share a bed for the duration. Their room has twin beds, both more than large enough for Helen and...and...Alice." His voice dropped again.

"They most certainly will not!" rang a furious, feminine voice from the doorway.

I turned to see a petite woman with black hair and delicate pale features stride into the room, almost slamming the door behind her. "My children will not be bundled out of their beds for...them!" she thundered, as she turned her irate gaze fully on her husband.

Mr. Thurlow stood slowly, his face hardening with each inch he rose. "Ellen, this is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," he forcefully reminded her of her position as hostess, "and Helen and Alice are our guests. The boys will only be discommoded for a few nights hopefully, and they won't mind."

She turned and gave Holmes and I the most disdainful glance I had ever been on the receiving end of, her nose wrinkling as if she smelling something particularly poor, before returning her flashing ice blue eyes to her husband. "No...they will not. Not for a few nights...not for any nights. I want them out, Arthur. You swore to me once that they would never step foot in this house again...but now you have reneged and insisted. Fine...but they will not displace any of the actual residents of this home!"

I found myself glancing over at my colleague and wondering if Thurlow had not perhaps given up more than he bargained for in seeking to secure his hard built empire. However, Holmes, for his part, was idly tapping one finger against his lips, attempting to hide a smile before he turned away and glanced out the window.

"Ellen..." her husband informed her, leaning on his desk and pressing a button, "they will go where I say they will, and you will follow my will in this matter."

She straightened a little higher, which I barely thought was possible as she was already almost ramrod in her stature. "If you move my sons for...them..." She seemed to spit out the word. "I hope you are prepared to live with your decision," she shot back, her voice thick with cold rage.

If I had closed my eyes at that point, I could almost have imagined myself to be back in some kind of struggle for succession, and it occurred to me that Miss Thurlow's allusion to her father as an almost Henry the Eighth type figure was more accurate than I had thought. While his earlier crimes still rested heavily on his head, his obvious gentility with his first wife, and the fact that there seemed little love lost between him and his current spouse resulted in my regarding him as a possibly more complex individual than, till lately, I had thought.

A moment later, Goodwin entered the room. "Yes, sir?" he enquired.

Thurlow dragged his grey eyes from his wife to his butler. "Goodwin, send the boys to me, will you?"

"Yes, sir," the butler agreed with a nod, and exited.

As soon as he was gone, Thurlow turned back to his wife. "We shall ask the boys. If they do not wish to move, then I will leave them where they are. If, on the other hand, they are willing to share their room with their guests, then that will be an end to it." His voice was flat, icy, and absolutely final in tone as he sat back down and looked at Holmes. "Is there anything else you need to discuss with my...wife...Mr. Holmes?"

My friend turned back from the window. "Yes...with regards to the first Mrs. Thurlow," he said, seeming to emphasise the word first deliberately, "we have already suggested that it would be best if your husband refrained from as much contact with her as possible. We would make the same request of you, Mrs. Thurlow...in addition to your husband's daughter, Helen. I realise complete avoidance will be impossible, but it would seem wise to limit it as much as possible."

She raised her chin and turned to stare at Holmes with pure scorn. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. They are only even here at my husband's insistence. I care not a jot for either of them. Do what needs to be done, and get them out of my house," she spat.

Holmes inclined his head, that same small, amused smile touching his lips once more. "Of course, Mrs. Thurlow. I would not wish any further inconvenience to so charming and gracious a hostess."

She sniffed and turned away from him as if he had the significance of a flea, his sarcastic comment bouncing off as if he had not spoken, and I found myself glancing again at Holmes and sharing his amused look.

Following a short knock, the door to the study opened again, and Goodwin stepped inside. "Your sons, sir," the butler announced, looking a little frazzled, and, a second later, two small red-haired twins with matching impudent, scampish looks on their faces trotted in. The change in Thurlow's face was instantaneous as a wide smile wreathed his face. "Boys!" he called to them, beckoning them with open arms.

The two boys broke into a scamper and ran around their father's desk and into his arms, where they were promptly placed one on each knee.

One turned and immediately took in the company. "Hello!" he greeted with unabashed enthusiasm, while the second took a moment longer to scrutinise and evaluate before following his brother's lead. "How do you do?" he inquired.

"Mr. Holmes...Dr. Watson," Arthur Thurlow introduced proudly, "these are my sons...Andrew..." He indicated the chirpy one. "And Matthew." He placed a hand on the second, more cautious boy.

I could not help but warm to the twin sets of wide grins, bright brown eyes, and a virtual sea of freckles. "How do you do," I replied to the small, friendly versions of their father, and returned the smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"Are you friends of Papa's? Have you come to stay? Do you like cards?" Andrew asked brightly in almost a single breath.

"You don't look like Mr. Fagan's other men," Matthew noted, looking at us closely, something which garnered him an almost approving look from Holmes.

Thurlow encircled both boys with his arms and drew them back against him. "Hush boys," he admonished softly. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are not guests in the strict sense of the word. They are here to help our family...as I explained to you."

"Oh," Matthew remembered with a nod, "you are the detec...detec..." He frowned at his brother.

"Detective," Andrew finished for him, wriggling to be put down.

"Stay where you are, Andrew," his father said firmly but softly to him. "Your mother and I have something we need to ask you and your brother."

I glanced over at Mrs. Thurlow, who had not spoken a word since they appeared, nor, I had also noticed, had they said a word to her.

Matthew looked at his father curiously. "What is it? It's not about the broken credenza is it?" he asked quietly, looking more than a little guilty all of a sudden.

Their father blinked. "What broken credenza?"

Freezing in mid wriggle, the grin wavered on the more chattier boy's face as his eyes met his mother's, before he deliberately looked away and shot his brother a peeved look at the slip of his tongue. "It's not important, Papa," Andrew assured him.

"We'll talk about that later," their father said to them quietly. "But right now, we need to talk about something else." He glanced at his wife briefly, before continuing, "We have two new guests, not Mr Holmes and Dr. Watson...but two ladies..."

"Are they pretty?" asked Andrew, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Are they friends of yours? Do they like to play cards?"

He inhaled gently. "Yes, Andrew, they are pretty..." He paused for a moment. "And yes, they did like to play cards, both of them...once…" he said quietly to himself, before shaking his head slightly. "You must listen to me carefully, boys. One of them your Papa was married to before your Mama...a lady named Alice. The other is her daughter, Helen." He paused again to allow that to sink in a little. "Helen is also my daughter...and your sister."

Matthew blinked. "Our sister?"

Andrew's eyes met his brother's as both sets widened simultaneously. "We have a sister?" the other breathed at the same time.

"Can we meet her?" Matthew pulled on his father's waistcoat urgently. "Please, Papa?"

Andrew nodded enthusiastically. "Oh please!" he chorused. "Does she look like us?"

Mrs. Thurlow seemed to tense visibly. "No," she returned flatly. "They will not be staying long."

Thurlow shot her a hard look before smiling at them indulgently. "Yes, you will meet her," he promised them. "And yes, she does look like you...a little...all though her hair is a deeper red, and her eyes are more like mine."

Both boys, who had flinched at their mother's words and tone, relaxed once more and grinned at each other.

"But first, we have a problem that you must sort out for us," he said seriously to his sons.

"Can we meet her now?" Andrew interrupted.

"Andrew," his father admonished, as he raised an eyebrow.

"Please?" the boy begged.

Matthew kicked his brother lightly and made a hush noise. "You'll ruin it!" he whispered, and glanced towards his mother and back at his brother meaningfully. Andrew followed his glance and nodded solemnly.

"Later on," Thurlow said firmly. "Your sister and her mother need to settle in...which is what we want to talk to you about." Matthew nodded seriously, listening closely, as his father continued, "Your sister has asked that she room with her mother as she is in a house that is not hers. Your room has twin beds that would suit them. Would you be willing to let them sleep there while you sleep together in the same bed in another room?" As he waited for their response, he glanced briefly at his wife before turning back to his sons.

I watched them both as they appeared to take only seconds to think it over, though I did note that Andrew took in the sour, fuming look on his mother's face. "Yes!" they chorused as one, their faces splitting wide with happy grins.

"They can stay ages!" Andrew enthused. "And I can show her how to make model ships!"

"And she can look through my telescope at the moon if she likes," Matthew added.

"Good boys," Thurlow responded with a pleased tone, and placed quick kisses to both their foreheads before letting them down.

"And we can play pirates!" Andrew continued.

Matthew frowned at his brother. "Girls don't play pirates!"

"This is intolerable!" growled Mrs. Thurlow from the spot she'd been rooted to by the bookshelf, and stormed from the room, giving her husband a look that would have felled even Mr. Fagan.

Andrew flinched at the slamming door before sighing with almost relief and shooting his brother a haughty look. "'Course they do! Who else is going to be the captive?"

Matthew, however, looked more chastened by his mother's departure. "Did we do something, Papa?"

Thurlow put his arm around the quieter boy and shook his head. "No, Matthew. It's not you boys."

Matthew nodded slowly, and looked at Andrew. "Well, who is going to rescue her then?" He picked up where they left off in the resilient manner of most children.

Andrew glanced at the door for a moment before shrugging at his brother's question. "Mr. Beans!" he told him, as if it was obvious, and referring to the personage that I would later discover to be a cat.

"Mr. Beans can't rescue her! That's silly! He's too small. I shall have to rescue her," Matthew sniffed. "I shall be a Captain in Her Majesty's Navy, and hang you from the yardarm!"

Andrew snorted, "That is what you always say."

Thurlow's smile was warm and intense as he listened to his sons, and his eyes drifted over the table to his more grown up guests. Holmes returned to his seat and nodded at Thurlow.

"I know what you both think of me," our client said quietly while his boys argued, "and I know you think that whatever happens to me would be just. And today has driven home to me just how just that might be...but they don't know that." He glanced at the boys, before continuing, "For all my sins, they love me and I them, and I have no wish to leave them...as I did their sister."

He sat back with a pensive expression on his face. "It has taken me a long time to realise a lot of things about myself. I am a selfish man, spiteful...and driven...but these past few days have given me time for reflection and taking stock. I have done things I can never be forgiven for...and would never ask forgiveness for. But even though I have done dreadful wrongs, I did love those women you brought here tonight as much as I love these boys. You may not comprehend how that may reconcile itself with my actions, but it is the truth, and whether you believe it or not, it needed to be said." He rose to his feet, and turned his attention to his young children.

"Boys," he interrupted them, "go and gather your things. Ask Goodwin to help you. Once you are moved, wash yourselves and change your clothes, and I will see if perhaps your sister might be willing to meet with you young scallywags."

The boys stopped immediately in mid-plan, and, flashing their father another set of wide grins, dashed from the room.

"Perhaps I might take your advice now, and take that opportunity that has presented itself to me," the businessman mused, taking a deep breath, and turned back to us. "Would one of you gentlemen kindly consent to intercede on my behalf with my daughter and play mediator between us when she has her mother settled? If she will speak with me, that is?"

"That sounds like a suitable enough job for Watson...if he's willing," Holmes suggested, turning to me with a quirked eyebrow.

The look on my face showed that I was not the least bit pleased to be volunteered into such a role. "I will speak to Miss Thurlow, but I would not hold out much hope on her agreement."

"I understand," our client replied gratefully. "Thank you for the attempt, Doctor."

Silently nodding, I turned back to Holmes, who inhaled slowly. "Now that we have your family gathered under one roof, Mr. Thurlow. It is Watson's and my contention to make representation to Rajah Mahindra for an audience."

Thurlow sank back down into his chair. "You will meet with him?" he breathed.

"If he will meet with us...yes," Holmes affirmed. "We will see if we can broach the subject and appeal to him...or at the least find some way to make restitution or a clue to stopping this. We will make an application tomorrow, but it may take a day or two before we can be seen. In the meantime, you and your family are to stay indoors at all times."

Thurlow nodded in acquiescence. "I have it organised so Harry...Mr. Hant, my secretary, whom you met last night, Doctor, is living here with us. He is running the business for me while I am confined here. In fact, he is the only one coming or going at the moment, so I have no need to leave."

"Good," my companion approved with a nod. "Then while you and Watson attempt to approach Miss Thurlow, I shall consult further with Mr. Fagan."

Thurlow ordered tea, and we bided our time until Goodwin came and gave word that the boys had been moved and were in their evening baths, and that Mrs. and Miss Thurlow had been settled into their room.

"It would appear, Watson, that your time has come," Holmes said, finishing his tea.

I shot him a quick look, as I was still unclear about which reason to present to Miss Thurlow that she would find acceptable for speaking with her estranged father.

"If you'll excuse us, Mr. Thurlow," Holmes said, rising to his feet, and leading the way out. Once in the hall and alone, my friend turned to me. "Miss Thurlow is an eminently practical woman it seems to me," he stated factually. "She knows what needs to be done and does it without complaint. She is living in his house, and she will know there is no way she can constantly avoid him. Better that things be conducted in a controlled environment with a third party. Secondly, there is a part of her that wants to confront him...wants to speak to him. You must have heard her, Watson. She is hurt and bewildered as any child would be when she feels a parent who loved them, as she said he did her, just up and leaves. She has questions...she must have...again, better she deal with them in a controlled environment," he advised.

"I realize that," I replied, feeling rather defensive as I crossed my arms against my chest. "However, she may not yet be ready to...and though I will do what I can, it's most hard to find exactly the right words to say in this situation."

Holmes glanced towards the study door briefly before returning his attention to me. "It will not have escaped your notice the different aspects of the personality of our client that we have witnessed since our arrival, Watson," he noted. "He is not quite the hard man he painted for us previously. He put a lot aside in his attempt to make something of himself, to make a mark on the world that ignored and derided him. I think he is only now realising how very much he lost in doing so…too late, as always."

My eyes widened at his words, "Too late?" I asked, wondering if he felt that protecting Thurlow might prove beyond our powers.

Holmes looked back at me with grave eyes when he finally qualified his answer, "For him…for Alice Thurlow…but maybe not for his children." He laid a hand on my shoulder encouragingly. "I think he may yet make some atonement of worth. He is not an evil man, and what he has done is, sadly, merely a reflection of something that our society has long condoned. All throughout history there have been those who have suffered for great men to become great. We admire the Caesars and the Tudors and even the Bonapartes of this world, but their personal lives are littered with wreckage…the kind of wreckage we are witnessing now."

I nodded slowly in acceptance of his assessment. Arthur Thurlow had created a great empire of sorts. He was an employer of vast numbers and a bulwark of British business, as well as a philanthropist with a charitable foundation. It was almost inconceivable that he could hurt those he purported to love so…and yet…as Holmes said, he would not have been the first man to do so. It just seemed so…disconnected. I wondered then if maybe the personality of Arthur Thurlow himself was a divided one. Whether there was something else at work. However, Holmes snapped me from my thoughts with another pat on my shoulder as he walked away from me.

"Every man, no matter who, also has the right to at least try to atone. Let us see, Watson, if Arthur Thurlow can at last truly be as great a man as he wants to be. That is, in spirit as well as fortune," he called back, before opening the door and disappearing outside.

I watched my friend go with no small amount of trepidation. Being a mediator was nothing new to me. In fact, there was many a time that I had had to not only keep the peace between Holmes and the investigator in charge of a case or perhaps between two clients...but to play the role to bring together a father and daughter who had not even spoken in ten years, and he had behaved so grievously to her... Still, perhaps what Holmes had said was true. She was confused and hurt still, even after all this time…and she would be seeking answers to her questions; perhaps in that there would be a way forward.

Holmes was right. I had to try. Though, were she to laugh in my face at the prospect, I would not blame her.


Authors' Notes: Just a couple of quickie notes. Thank you all again for the wonderful and indepth reviews! Especially with chapter two...those are always the best when people say what they liked or have questions. Just to address the one concern that we found - Holmes being rude to Miss Thurlow. Actually, he wasn't being rude to just be rude. As he indicates to Watson at the end, it was simply his way of diverting her attention...giving her something to chew on instead of the current situation and such. He's still respectful to women, though I agree distrustful and has no time for them personally. Hope this clears up any missunderstanding. :)

Thank you all again for reading, and we hoped you enjoyed meeting the rest of the Thurlows! Kind wishes to all, and as always feel free to review. We love hearing from you! Aeryn (of aerynfire)