Chapter Seven: Love's Labours Lost

As the dinner hour approached, Holmes and I found ourselves comfortably smoking by the fire in the drawing room, accompanied by none other than Mrs. Alice Thurlow. She had barely moved at all during the rest of the day, and, with the small exception of giving what could only be called dreamy smiles at the twins, she seemed simply content to gaze out the French doors into the garden -- the garden that her daughter was currently exploring, having gone to take the evening air.

"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home...your house is on fire...your children have gone..." sing-songed the woman sitting next to me, breaking the genial silence with the suddenness of her remark.

Holmes lowered his cigarette and flicked the remains into the hearth as he observed Mrs. Thurlow closely. "I wonder as to her use of rhyme and poetry, Watson. There is meaning in it more often than not, I'll warrant...but I wonder what it signifies for her herself and her mind? A childhood regression, perhaps?"

I opened my mouth to reply, only to hear the sound of a man shouting "Intruder" cutting in. Rising at once to my feet, I threw my cigarette into the fire and pulled my revolver from my jacket pocket.

"Miss Thurlow, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, aiming for the French doors and moving through them quickly. "She is alone outside!"

I raced for the door and froze, hearing Mrs. Thurlow continue to hum as if nothing were amiss. "Holmes...what about her mother?" I asked urgently, motioning to the older woman in the chair.

Holmes looked back quickly from the doorway. "You have a gun, Watson. Stay within sight of the windows and Mrs. Thurlow…give yourself a clear shot, while I search for our wandering Miss Thurlow."

Moving to the edge of the veranda and keeping an eye open both ways, Holmes left me behind at the bottom of the steps as he moved out into the large tree filled garden and the gathering gloom. Inside the house, clear pandemonium could be heard as people ran thither and yon to check on the safety of all involved, and then just as loudly if not louder than before came a booming cry.

"Ah will yez all whisht!" came the voice of Mr. Fagan. "It is nothin' more than the lads' small cat movin' with the shadows!"

As I relaxed and lowered my gun arm, my focus moved entirely to the garden as there was a rustle, and Holmes emerged with the rather bewildered Miss Thurlow.

"I believe I heard the mellifluous tones of our Mr. Fagan call the all clear, Watson?" he enquired lightly as they approached.

I nodded in confirmation. "Yes, apparently the cat spooked one of his men," I drawled, feeling rather annoyed at the whole scenario.

"Poor Mr. Beans," the young woman replied with a hint of a smile. "I suppose he got more of a fright than any of us."

"I'm not so sure you could speak for Watson here," Holmes replied to her, teasing me openly. "He was up like a startled deer." Shooting a small smirk at me, my friend moved to lead Miss Thurlow back up the steps at which I stood to the veranda proper, his eyes going to the window to check on Mrs. Thurlow when he came to a dead stop. I turned to follow his gaze, already in the process of returning my revolver to my pocket, when I too found myself stunned to silence.

Arthur Thurlow stood not four feet away from the woman who had once been his wife, his agitated anxious demeanour at odds with his frozen state...as he stood like a man torn. I glanced over to Holmes, completely unsure as to what our next move should be, and, in doing so, caught the very uncertain but vaguely hopeful light in Miss Thurlow's eyes. "Holmes?" I whispered, looking for some instruction.

Placing a finger to his lips, Holmes led us a little closer within earshot but not eye line of either of the two older Thurlows, stopping just as Arthur Thurlow seemed to gain hold of his motor functions once more and took a hesitant step towards her.

"Alice?" he asked in clearly nervous but anxious tones. "Are you well, Alice?"

He stopped immediately, his head drooping. "What am I saying?" he chastised himself quietly but audibly. "Of course you are not well..." Shaking his head, he sighed and took another step, gazing at her once more. "What I meant to say is...the alarm is over. There was nothing. They say…" he stumbled over his words, "they say I should not be here with you…but I saw the door open and you alone...and I was…was..." He halted mid sentence, and this big, brash, outspoken man sighed in defeat. "I'm sorry…it appears some things never change. I never could articulate properly around you…"

His former wife continued to stare into the fire for a moment before saying softly, "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep, and doesn't know where to find them."

He blinked a moment, her words obviously confusing him, before his face cleared in a moment of clarity. "Ah..." he exhaled with a nod. "Well, I'm sure Helen and the others will be back with you shortly...leave them alone, and they'll come home, eh?" An uncertain smile crossed his face -- a smile which faded a moment later as he watched her unflickering expression.

He was silent for what seemed like an age, his eyes holding her, taking in everything about her, until finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping, as he deflated slowly, his voice stricken. "Oh Alice...my sweet, kind Alice...what have I done to you?"

She turned her head slowly to gaze at him, but I could see her eyes were still glassy and unfocused. "A tissue a tissue we all fall down."

A moment more and the tall doughty figure of Arthur Thurlow was on his knees by her feet, looking up at her. "How did I let it come to this for you?"

He looked down at her hands, and one could clearly see from the way he flinched that he had noticed the markings on her wrist. "You were all I could've wanted in a wife. You were my confidant...my partner...my friend...my guide...and my love..." There was barely a pause, as he looked back up at her. "My sweet love...my only love...and I destroyed you."

She sighed softly above him. "The mockingbird did not sing...the mirror turned to brass..."

He took in a ragged breath at her words and nodded. "It all went so wrong, yes, I know," he agreed. "And it was my fault, all of it. I was so hurt when I thought you didn't care enough to defend me to your people...but I forgot...how could I forget?" A deep frown formed on his brow. "How could I ever forget what a soft and gentle soul you were? How much you hated to argue and fight...and never ever could hold a grudge? I was wrong to let it affect me so...to let it drive a wedge between us."

"My pride, Alice..." he continued, looking up into her eyes. "The thing you always said raised me high and made me so strong...in the end, it was the thing that ripped us apart! My damnable pride," he cursed under his breath. "I let it take over. I let it swamp my heart and drown out everything I felt for you. Let it consume me and you too…convince me you were not with me wholeheartedly, and rather than comfort you as I had done before when I saw the pain in your eyes when you could not give me the son I wanted, I turned away from you..." His tremulous hand touched her knee. "But love...my love...it was never your fault. It was God's own judgement on me for what I had done. I had taken another's child...and while you forgave me when I told you of it so long ago, God, it seemed, could not."

At first slightly startled by the revelation that Alice Thurlow had long known of and forgiven her husband's past and his misdeeds, I subsequently found myself gasping in surprise as a very shaky pale hand reached up and touched his head gently, stroking his fiery red hair as if he were a lost child at his mother's knee. However, since her head was bowed, I could not tell if she was even aware of what she was doing...but I had a strong suspicion she did. "God forgives..." she whispered.

"Does he, Alice?" he asked, looking up at her with tears in his eyes. "He gave us Helen. That was my test for forgiveness, and I failed that too," he said quietly. "She was my girl. My darling, bright girl...and it was not enough for me. I wanted more. I had money and position, a wife and child who loved me, but I wanted more…and he punished me for my arrogance, and gave us no more children, and still I did not learn to be content...and I destroyed everything we had. And I blamed you. In my stubbornness and wounded pride, I indulged my ruthlessness and blamed you...but it wasn't your fault. It was never your fault...it was always mine. Always, Alice..." Taking her hand from his head, he kissed her palm and then the white, scarred line upon her wrist before taking her other hand and doing the same.

"I called down destruction upon myself, my love...and I took you with me. In my pride and rush to ensure a legacy for myself, to make my name respected through my endeavours beyond my lifespan, I shut off my heart to every good emotion. I put it all away, all the love and softness...and sought out practicalities...what was logical, what was necessary..." he confessed, holding her hands tightly. "I walled up my heart for the longest time...and it suffocated everything good in my life."

I frowned slightly at his words and glanced over at my friend, someone I had often worried about for having pushed aside the tender, emotional side of himself in favour of his profession...of his pride for his highly logical mind. If this is the result of such a path, I only worried more now for him. Holmes, for his part, watched intently in silence but with the merest crease of his brow.

"Alice..." her former husband said in a breathy whisper we strained to hear, "though it was what hurt you, I can never regret my boys, because it was they who once again helped me break down the walls I had erected around my heart...and, as time passed, I let myself realise slowly truly what it was that I had done, what I had justified and rationalised..." Our client's voice broke, as he struggled to continue. "It means so little, my love, so very little, but I am so sorry...if you can hear me...if you can understand me…know that I beg your forgiveness now with everything in me, know that I have loved only you in my life...and that I will go to my grave loving you."

Her chestnut and grey head, indeed her entire body, began to shake as something inside her broke through the protective wall she too had built around herself, and, a moment later, I heard the undeniable sound of a woman crying.

If I had expected her daughter to rush to her side, I would have been mistaken, for as I turned to Miss Thurlow, I only saw a look of wonder on her face. Catching my eye, she shook her head in amazement. "She's crying...she never cried...never let her grief over this out…not once...not even when..." She inhaled slowly. "He got through..." she breathed.

Her father's chest heaved with the exertion of his barely repressed emotions as he looked up into her face and saw what we could not. "I will try to do right by you, Alice, and Helen in every way I can. From this point on, everything you should have had, I have promised Helen and I have seen to it...and even though you may never forgive me, would be right to hate me always, anything you ever need, will be yours." Reaching up, he touched her cheek softly. "Don't cry, my love, my angel...not for the loss of me at least. I am not worth your tears. What little worth I had disappeared the day I left you," he confessed. "But know, for the miserable and flawed thing that it is, you have my heart…you will always have that."

Leaning up and in, he pressed his lips to her bowed, shaking forehead, and held them there, his eyes shut tight, and his hand caressing her tear stained cheek, before he dropped back to his knees and took her hands once more, kissing the backs of them softly and laying his cheek against them. "I will love you always, Alice…my wife," he assured her before wrenching himself away, releasing her, tears coursing down his face as he walked from the room.

As soon as he had departed, Miss Thurlow pushed past me and Holmes and dashed into the room, immediately filling the space her father had just left in front of her mother, and wrapped her arms around the still sobbing woman. "Shhh, Mama," she whispered. "I'm here..."

Holmes walked to the window and stopped to wait for me. "Hopefully, now," he said quietly, "Mrs. Thurlow can let go of what she's been holding in inside of her all this time."

I nodded silently, watching the two women for a moment, before propriety remembered itself and I turned away. "We should let them be, old man," I suggested gently.

He nodded and turned away with me. "Yes, we have seen more than our fair share of family trauma on this case, Watson," he agreed, reaching for his cigarette case and offering me one from within.

Taking it gratefully and placing it between my lips, I reached into my pocket, and, after finding my matches, lit his and mine before gazing out over the garden at the setting sun to still my thoughts and prepare me for what was soon to come.


Dinner at the Thurlow household, before we departed, was a strange affair, in that in a house bustling with people, the large beautifully appointed dining room with its magnificent inlaid walnut dining table and room for twenty without the wings being unfolded was populated by exactly three of us -- I, Holmes, and the cold and solitary figure of Ellen Thurlow, who was seated at the far end of the table in her customary silent protest at our presence, unyielding towards those who had brought her perceived 'enemies' into her house.

With the boys in bed, it seemed as if Arthur Thurlow had shut himself in his study, ostensibly to dine alone while doing some work, but as Mr. Hant had not yet returned from the further errands he had been sent on, it seemed more likely that he was still recovering from his emotionally turbulent encounter with his first wife.

A tragic affair, Holmes and I had finally agreed in the aftermath of our client's impassioned and sincere declaration, and I was left to wonder once more on the complexity of the human make up as embodied by our client, a man I had in so short a time gone from despising to genuinely pitying.

Of course neither of us were at all surprised when Helen Thurlow had not emerged to see her brothers off to bed at the appointed time; so shaken, no doubt, was her mother that she would not leave her side for a moment. I had no idea how any of this case would play out, but I could only hope that the cloud that had covered Alice Thurlow would contain a silver lining for her at least.

After dinner, we moved to the foyer where Goodwin helped us with our coats, only for the front door to be rapped on in the manner of the evening code that Mr. Fagan had given his men, and the burly fellow seated by the door folded his paper and opened it, allowing Harold Hant access on his return. On seeing us, a slight smile touched his face.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, off to see the Rajah?" he inquired as he approached us, a briefcase in one hand and bulky envelope in the other.

"Indeed, Mr. Hant," Holmes replied, doing up his light overcoat. "His Highness awaits."

"And hopefully a beginning to a resolution of this dreadful business," the young man returned. "I hope that your theory about the Rajah's sense of honour plays out in our favour, and that you can turn this omission by his champion into a way of halting all this."

Holmes gave the butler a quick nod as he took his cane from him. "I share your hopes, Mr. Hant, and have even made a head start on negotiations to that effect…is that for me?" he asked the young man, looking directly at him, while referring to the thick sealed envelope in Mr Thurlow's assistant's gloved hands.

Hant blinked at Holmes's sudden and rapid shift in topics. "Umm…yes, sir. It seems I caught you just in time, sir, for a courier arrived just as I did," he replied, offering Holmes the thick sealed envelope in his gloved hand. Holmes took it quickly.

"Splendid, Mr. Hant!" he exclaimed brightly, his eyes glittering at it. "Thank you."

The young man acknowledged Holmes's gratitude, while his cobalt eyes looked at Holmes inquisitively. "Pardon my curiosity, sir, but you said you have begun negotiations with the Rajah? How so?" As his gaze moved from one of us to the other, I was, I must admit, as lost as he was, and looked at my friend in a similar fashion.

"I took the liberty this afternoon of absenting myself from the Thurlow family to write a short letter to the Rajah, informing His Highness of the state of play with regards to his 'honourable war,' and sent it off to be delivered once he had returned to his suite this evening following his dinner engagement," Holmes explained as he checked the grandfather clock in the hall. "With any luck, he should be reading it now, and will have had time to absorb my words before our arrival, expediting matters somewhat."

I nodded in approval as I put my hat on. "Good idea, Holmes. With any luck, he'll call off his man immediately. The sooner Miss Thurlow and her family are out of danger, the better for my taste."

"Indeed, indeed." Mr. Hant nodded in thoughtful agreement before, hefting his briefcase, he looked around and enquired of me, "Is Mr. Thurlow still at dinner, Doctor?"

"No," I replied, my eyes firmly on the envelope in Holmes hands, noting what oddly appeared to be handwriting very similar to his own on the front and eager to know what was inside. "I believe he is in his study, Mr. Hant."

"And…" He hesitated, glancing at the double doors to the drawing room. "Is, umm…Miss Thurlow still with her mother?"

I lowered my head and hid a small smile at the pleasant young man's ill concealed interest in his employer's newly restored daughter.

"Yes, indeed," I answered with a nod, while gazing back at him. "And though I believe she is recovered from her brothers' unexpected betrothal of her to you…" I joked, garnering a nervous flush from him, "I would ask you not to disturb her this evening, Mr. Hant. Her mother is much in need of her tonight."

"Of course, Doctor, of course," he agreed readily. With a nod of thanks, he moved away and to the door, knocking gently as Holmes and I, with the help of our giant of a doorman, moved out and into the Square where Mr. Hant's cab had been thoughtfully retained for us by one of the Baker Street Irregulars, who were now at every corner and nook and cranny of the place.

Tossing the lad a shilling for his quick thinking, Holmes and I climbed into the hansom cab and took off for Claridges, heading out of Belgrave Square via Grosvenor Crescent and the corner of Hyde Park, the lights of the Palace burning in the distance off to our right, while Holmes opened his letter.

"Addressing letters to yourself, Holmes?" I asked, taking in the handwriting.

As he glanced down at the discarded envelope on the seat, the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. "No," he replied rather enigmatically, "but it does somewhat resemble mine, I grant you."

Holding it up to the cab light, he nodded slowly and tapped the pages of the copious letter with his cane here and there for a full five minutes of the journey through Mayfair, as I waited with barely contained expectancy.

"It is precisely as I thought, Watson," he said, just as we approached Grosvenor Square. "Sir Richard Maddesley was, ironically like Mr Thurlow, a young captain in the army, albeit the British rather than Indian Army at the same time as our client. And…he was assigned to the court of His Highness Annand Mahindra as Her Majesty's government liaison to advise of her government's pleasure, and, of course, to keep the government advised of what was going on in the bitter dispute Mahindra was involved in with his neighbour Shurapak." He glanced on down through the notes his source had compiled for him.

"By all accounts, young Captain Maddesley, as he was called then, was very taken with the Rajah, calling him…" He gave me a small vindicated smile, as he quoted it to me, "'One of the noblest and most honourable men of either race I have had the good fortune to meet.' He also castigated Rajah Shurapak for his behaviour and attempts to unjustly lay claim to and conquer Mahindra's lands as well as his use of devious means, including slave trading to raise money."

He flipped over another page. "Apparently, eventually Maddesley wrote to the Queen herself about the Rajah, exhorting her to champion him in his struggle and speaking in glowing terms about Mahindra…his letter so moving, it appears, that Her Majesty did indeed take a personal interest in the matter and became a friend to the Rajah himself."

"Does it say anything about the Princess and Maddesley?" I asked curiously.

"In military and political dispatches, Watson? No," he replied with a shake of his head. "However, my source, in his usual encyclopaedic way, has written a few notes of his own." He tapped the letter once more before continuing, "According to Maddesley's personnel records at the Foreign Office, while the still Captain Maddesley was attached to the Rajah's court, he was admonished several times by his military superiors for…" He paused almost for dramatic effect. "'Losing his detached perspective and allowing himself to become involved in native affairs.' "

I sat back against the seat and sighed softly, my former army career having prepared me well for reading between such lines. "It sounds like you might have been right on the money again, Holmes," I agreed with a wry nod. "I've heard those terms used before many times as a slap on the wrist to officers who had become personally involved with local women, and had even fathered children on them. Still," I continued, glancing out the window at our surroundings, "it seems to me unlikely that Sir Richard himself could be the man out to avenge himself on our client. A man with a position like his would surely be recognised skulking around and…"

I trailed off slowly as I realised that Holmes was staring at me as I spoke, and I frowned, recognising all too well the spark of connection his brain had just made.

"What is it, old chap?" I asked my friend quickly, as, turning onto Brook Street, we approached Claridges.

Before I knew it, Holmes had tugged open his overcoat and was unceremoniously pulling out a small book from his inside pocket that I recognised as one of the reference books he had been studying earlier in the day.

"Hades take me! How could I have been so infernally blind?" he cursed himself as he flipped to the back of the book and thumbed through the pages rapidly.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, my frown deepening. "What is it?"

"What is it?" he growled, shaking his head and glancing up at me. "What it is, Watson, is you. You, my good friend…revealing to me to not one, but two pieces of this puzzle at the one time. Pieces, which had they had teeth, would have surely bitten me on the nose, so close to it were they!" he declared, making a strangled sound of outrage at his own perceived incompetence.

Simultaneously rather taken aback and pleased, I allowed myself a small smile at my unwitting assistance in the case before returning to the matter at hand, namely what on earth it was I had said that had gotten him in such an uproar. Something which Holmes thankfully illuminated for me without any further embarrassing probing on my part.

"No one out of place or exotic was seen skulking, as you so colourfully say, around the offices of Thurlow & Balfour, Watson, because no one was out of place!" Slowing his turning of the pages, his finger took to running down over a list of words.

"It was never any of the Rajah's men, who would, of course, have been instantly singled out due to their appearance. Nor was it a mere hired man, for the rules of engagement were deliberately changed, and a hired man has no personal interest in changing the rules. He would have followed his instructions to the letter, informing Thurlow of the precise nature of the Rajah's traditional challenge," he informed me quickly.

"Sir Richard Maddesley would, indeed, have been too obvious as he made his way through to Thurlow's office in the middle of the day to deliver the dagger…" His finger stopped hovering over what he had sought, and he exhaled slowly.

"No, Watson, our man is indeed walking a tightrope between carrying out the Rajah's orders and his own personal and very Westernised 'Eye for an Eye' style desire for revenge. A man caught between two worlds, like Sir Richard. But he is not the still grieving lover or widower of the Princess Mahindra that Richard Maddesley is." He tapped his finger on the page, and showed me the book, saying, "Rather, he is the vengeful son of both."

Looking down in the dim cab light, I peered at the word he bade me see. "Arihant," I read the Hindi word aloud, scanning across to its English translation. "Destroyer of His Enemies...from the Triptii challenge." As I remembered what he had explained to me of that, I felt a frown from on my brow. "Arihant…" I repeated, before my eyes widened and shot up to meet his as I breathed aloud, my tone aghast, "Harry Hant."

With a nod of his head and leaning forward off his seat, Holmes hammered with his cane on the ceiling of the cab. "Cabbie!" he called urgently for the man's attention.

A moment later the driver's peephole was flipped open, and the man peered down at us. "Yes, sir?" he enquired.

"Your last fare…the fare you brought to Belgrave Square before we engaged you? Where did you start out from?" he asked directly.

The cabbie blinked, before raising an eyebrow at the question. "Why…from here as it happens, sir…Claridges."

"Turn us around, man!" Holmes barked urgently. "Take us back to Belgrave Square as fast as you possibly can!"


Authors' Notes: Thank you again for all the kind words! BaskervilleBeauty...your review made both our days...a very deep and sincere thank you to you for your words. Only one chapter and an epilogue to go...we hope that all who have read are enjoying the mystery, and please feel free to review and let us know your thoughts. Aeryn (or aerynfire)