Chapter Four: A Recipe for Disaster
January 26, 1889
It was a cool crisp January afternoon. The snow that had fallen the previous day was in the process of hardening, and any slush that had accumulated due to traffic over the previous night and day was in the process of firming and solidifying into little caverns and valleys in the cobbled streets. As a result, the cab driver of the black hansom carriage was taking great care to get his charge to her destination quickly but carefully. It would not do to have one of his trusted horses injured due to over-haste.
So, it was with a sigh of relief when he pulled the reigns up and moved the carriage to the side of the busy street right in front of an innocuous black door, one of many on Baker Street. However, this one was famous, even to him, despite the rather plain numbers painted on the glass window over the door that read 221b.
"That will be a shillin' ma'm," he called down, as a rather pretty young woman dressed all in black with a black fur lined hat and coat emerged from the carriage, and looked up at him with a pair of, what he thought were, fetching deep grey eyes.
"Yes, of course," she replied, handing him the money plus some with a kind smile. "Thank you, sir."
Shaking his head and flashing her a grateful smile at her generosity, the driver tipped his hat to her, and pulled his cab back onto the street.
Helen watched him leave for a moment, inwardly a little nervous about meeting Watson again at his home, especially since it had not gone well at all the time previously. However, after her and his lodging and work partner had spoken and gotten along so amicably at the Christmas party, she had hope that this time all would proceed much more smoothly. Though inwardly, she promised herself to restrain her more frank comments.
Glancing quickly up at the window, and finding it vacant, she moved swiftly to the door and rang the bell.
It took a few moments for there to be any indication that anyone had heard her call. Silence was followed by the rather audible sound of rapidly approaching feet in a pattern that clearly indicated someone descending a stairs, and a moment later there was a hasty scrabbling sound of the latch being pulled back, until the door finally opened to reveal the extremely harassed visage of Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh!" she exclaimed on seeing who stood on the doorstep, whatever sharp words she had planned to utter dying on her lips. "Miss Thurlow! I quite forgot you were expected!" She glanced nervously over her shoulder towards the stairs and then back at her before opening the door a little wider. "I'm afraid the doctor isn't here yet...he's been delayed at his surgery." She stepped back a little, so as to allow the other woman passage. "There's been an outbreak of Influenza in the area, and he's been there since very early this morning."
Helen gazed at the older woman with an expression between concern and surprise, before finally entering the house, simply glad the out of the brisk air. "Oh my...well, perhaps I should just reschedule with him," she replied, having quickly noted the rather exasperated air around the landlady.
"No...no..." the older woman insisted, all though not with any great conviction. In fact, she appeared rather ill at ease at her presence. "The doctor did say he would be back around now...I failed to connect the reason in my mind until you rang. I'm afraid I've been rather..."
"Mrs. Hudson!" the unmistakeable booming voice of Sherlock Holmes barrelled down the stairs at them. "I said I required that fertiliser this instant!"
The poor woman jumped quite noticeably, her hands grasping at her apron and twisting it a little. "Right away, Mr. Holmes! I'm just with..." she went to reply before the door above slammed shut.
Helen's eyes widened, as the pieces were rather rapidly assembled in front of her. Mrs. Hudson's behaviour, her anxiety and nervousness, combined with Holmes's sudden demand and tone...it did not bode this visit well at all, she decided.
"Fertiliser? Oh my," she breathed out loud. "Is he in...um...what did Dr. Watson call it? A black mood?"
Mrs. Hudson's look was apologetic in the extreme as she nodded. "Yes...and never was there a more apt description," she confirmed with a sigh. "He's been in a near frenzy for the last three days. Poor man, he's not had a case worth his time for over six weeks now," she empathised despite his behaviour, "and he's itching badly." The older woman glanced again up the stairs. "He's exhausted all his usual avenues of relaxation, few as they are. And now, he's taking to his experiments once more. Twice in the last five days I have had to air out the rooms thoroughly due to mistakes." A rather sour expression formed on her face, as she continued, "Such smells as even Hades might balk at. And now…" She paused, her nervousness returning. "Now, this morning he announced to me that he is attempting to make an explosive...from household items!" She swallowed as the more precise reason for her extreme anxiety made itself known. "And in the mood he is in, I don't think he cares too much about whether he blows himself up in doing so."
For a brief moment, Helen considered very strongly making some excuse and leaving the house as swiftly as her feet could carry her. However, running from uncomfortable situations was simply not how she lived her life, and after again taking in the poor landlady's rather stressed state, she knew she could not abandon her to the irked lodger upstairs.
"Would it help," she asked softly, "if I took the fertiliser upstairs?"
"Oh no..." Mrs. Hudson shook her head quickly. "I could not possibly ask you to, Miss Thurlow. The doctor did tell me he was irritable when you were here before, but it is nothing to what he can be like. I would not for the life of me wish to put you in an uncomfortable position."
The door above flew open, and footsteps pounded a step or two across the landing. "Mrs. Hudson! Where are you?" he bellowed.
"It is quite all right," the young woman assured her. "I do not mind...and you look as though you could use an escape from..." She paused, barely refraining from wincing as the door slammed above them. "Well, from any more aggravation."
Mrs. Hudson looked at her anxiously, half afraid to let her go up there, half afraid not to, knowing she was in dire need of respite from her much beloved but highly demanding lodger. "Only if...if you are quite sure?" she hedged slowly.
Helen laid a gentle hand on the other woman's arm. "Yes, quite sure."
The older woman breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Very well. Thank you. Thank you indeed..." she almost gushed, as she led her into the kitchen area to fetch the tin of garden fertiliser she used for the small kitchen garden she maintained at the back, drawing it out from under the sink.
"But please, Miss Thurlow," she said almost with the soft pleading air of a mother as she turned back to her. "Do not take anything he says too much to heart. Mr. Holmes is a gentleman through and through...it's just that sometimes..." She paused at a cupboard, before turning with the tin in her hands back to Helen. "When he's like this, it takes such a grip of him that he doesn't really know what he's saying. It's almost like a small brainstorm goes off in his head...and he's lost inside of it," she explained, handing her the tin. "Don't judge him too harshly."
The young woman patted her hand reassuringly, as she took the needed ingredient. "I have no wish to irritate him further. I promise I will take nothing to heart," she replied, before with another soft, if ever so slightly nervous smile, she turned and headed back to the entryway. Pausing long enough to remove her gloves, and hang her hat and coat up on the peg by the door, she took a deep breath, and moved briskly up the stairs, not stopping until she was facing the door to the sitting room, and only then to knock quietly yet firmly on the wooden door.
"Don't stand on ceremony, come in! Come in!" the baritone voice barked through the wood of the door.
Arching an eyebrow at his gruff tone, she shook her head, the flicker of a thought again crossing her mind that she was rather mad to be doing this, before opening the door and moving inside, immediately glancing around for its dweller.
Holmes stood hunched over his workbench with his back to the door and oblivious to who had entered. "Here! Here!" he snapped irritably, his left hand reaching out and tapping a space beside him on the bench.
Giving him a stoically tolerant look, she moved swiftly to his side, silent but for the rustle of her skirts, and placed the tin gently on the indicated spot on the table.
"And not a moment too soon," he muttered without glancing away for one second from his measuring and mixing. "How many times must I tell you that this is a precise business? That I must maintain my concentration, and cannot be bothered with haranguing for what I need!"
"Actually, you have never told me such a thing, but I shall endeavour to remember it nevertheless...though it would help if I knew what you were attempting to do," Helen replied smoothly from where she stood next to him.
His head turned to his left to regard her, and if he was surprised at her presence not a trace of it registered on his face, his features not transforming themselves one iota from the deep frown etched into his forehead and the rather flat look in his eyes. "Oh, it's you, Miss Thurlow," he intoned in an equally flat voice, as he picked up the tin, turning his eyes back to his experiment. "I should've realised something was detaining Mrs. Hudson." Opening the tin and placing it before him, he informed her, "Watson isn't here."
"So I noticed," she returned, matching his unchanging reaction, her placid face nor cheery note in her tone not altering a jot. "However, if it is all right with you, may I wait here for him for a bit? Mrs. Hudson said he was due shortly."
"Do as you wish," he replied, continuing to work on his experiment. "Though I should inform you, I am attempting to make an explosive substance. Staying here may not be wise."
She peered down at the mixture he was tending to with an interested expression. "Indeed, so I have been informed, though you have yet to answer my question on what it is," she reminded him, her eyes taking in the different substances on the table. "Is that yellow one sulphur?"
"Yes," came the terse reply, as he took a measuring stick and scooped a heaped level of the white powdery fertiliser in the tin to add to his bowl. "Everything here has been taken from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. As to what it is? It is proof to those who would disbelieve at Scotland Yard that it is the simplest of things for anarchists and villains of all sorts to dispose with the need to purchase dynamite, and instead create their own far more potent bombs in their own lodgings." Straightening, he brushed past her, as he made for some books on his desk, before picking one up and scanning it.
She nodded slowly. "So, you are attempting to prove this by constructing one yourself," she surmised, her manner calm on the outside, though inwardly wondering if he was in his right mind to be attempting something so dangerous…and she for standing there watching him do it. Turning to regard him, she came to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson was indeed correct. In his need to find stimulus for his mind, his mood had affected his rational thinking. Leaving would be the wisest course of action but not the kindest or the bravest.
Perhaps her presence might benefit in some manner, or perhaps she may simply be able to keep him focused enough from blowing the entire house up. She could slow him down, make him more deliberate…even if it did mean risking his ire with persistent and probably annoying questions, and as she took in his already annoyed and irked countenance, she expected that would be precisely the case.
So after a moment of watching him thumb through pages, and questioning her own sanity once again, she asked, "Do you wish any assistance?"
He glanced up at her, or rather through her, as he moved back to his bench with book in hand. "Do you know anything about nitrates?" he demanded.
Her brow furrowed, while she searched her mind for the answer, as her only knowledge on such things was from some vague remembrances of lessons from her History of English Advancements classes in school and her brothers' reports from his latest experiments as well as from his 'Book of Knowledge' that came with his chemistry set. "Are they not in gunpowder?" she inquired.
Holmes tapped the bag of fertiliser. "Yes, potassium nitrate...or saltpetre as it was known...and sulphur both. Nitrates...nitrates are the key...that is how nitro-glycerine came to be..." he murmured. "But to make it as powerful as the latter but stable as the former...how?" he asked himself, bending low over the table, as he looked down at his book. "C3 H5 N3 O9."
She blinked in confusion. "Is that a code?"
A short sharp bark of a laugh escaped him. "It is a chemical formula," he answered, putting the book down. "Three parts carbon, five parts hydrogen, three of nitrogen, and nine of oxygen...in more common parlance, say that of the kitchen, it is a recipe."
She sat down quietly on the seat opposite his across the table. "So, you are creating a recipe for nitrates? And that one was...nitro-glycerine?"
"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, nodding vigorously, as he looked over his equipment carefully. "I shall make a small quantity, and store it somewhere cool. It is January...that should not be too hard. It sweats you know..." As he spoke, he began to organise his ingredients once more. "It dislikes warmth, and is a fascinating substance...three times as powerful as gunpowder alone." His brow was furrowed in deep concentration, as he straightened. "Perhaps the pantry," he mused, considering storage spaces.
"What is glycerine made up of?" she asked quickly, hoping to distract him from further aggravating Mrs. Hudson by invading her kitchen with something likely to vaporise it.
A long finger gestured at her, pointing straight at her face without his eyes even turning in her direction, as he shifted a few of his household tins around. "Glycerine? C3 H8 O3. You are wearing it on your face as we speak."
"I am?" she asked with mild surprise, her hand going to her cheek.
"It is used in make up," he informed her perfunctorily.
She nodded silently, as she turned her mind back to the numbers he listed. "So the carbon in nitro-glycerine comes from the glycerine, a third of the oxygen as well, but there is less hydrogen." She frowned a little at that. "So the nitro part is N3 O6...and..." she trailed off wondering how the hydrogen was suddenly diminished. "Now that doesn't make sense."
"What? Don't mumble, Miss Thurlow!" he snapped, as he referred to his book once more.
"What is the recipe for a nitrate as it stands now?" she asked, ignoring his tone.
"Nitrates are merely the salts of nitric acid," Holmes replied. "Its base is NO3, but it forms compounds with ammonia and sulphur and..." He stopped in mid explanation as his eyes finally rose to regard her from across the table, and a puzzled frown formed on his face. "Why do you want to know?"
Having been listening intently so as to memorize any helpful facts, she was startled out of her frame of mind by his out of place question. "So I can help," she answered, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. "So, you double that and get the missing bits in nitro-glycerine?" she asked, returning back to his chemistry problem. "Though I still do not understand where three of the hydrogens went."
"You create nitro-glycerine by slowly tipping glycerine into a mix of concentrated nitric and sulphuric acids," he murmured, staring at her. "The hydrogen is burned away in the chemical reaction process and extra oxygen added you wish to help me?" he asked without breaking the sentence.
"Yes, it seems a fascinating experiment…if a little dangerous, I must admit," she agreed, the gentle suggestion floating there though her tone was light, as her eyes gazed at him unwaveringly. "And you do seem to be pondering a problem. Sometimes when I find something difficult or the solution just naggingly out of reach, I find it helpful to offer my ideas to another," she explained sincerely, before blushing slightly, and worrying if perhaps in her willingness to divert him from any disastrous outcome, she may have presumptuously overstepped her bounds. "Though of course, I am nowhere near your intellectual level and if you rather I didn't..." She rose swiftly from the chair. "I can just wait by the fire."
Startled by her willingness to help on such a project, her questions began to permeate his head along with her inquisitiveness, as he continued to watch her, and blinked slowly as the effects of the latest dosage of cocaine in his blood stream waned. For the past three days, his answer to that occurrence had been to make for his desk and syringe whenever Watson was not around to object, and let his mind expand and take on a million possibilities other than his interminable tedium.
Now though, as his mind contracted, it focused not on his boredom, but rather on her words and what it was she wished to join him in doing. "It is a dangerous operation..." he warned her slowly, the words coming like molasses, as he brushed his hands together, and noticed their discolouration.
The young woman regarded him and his change of manner a little warily, inwardly hoping she hadn't again offended him. "So you mentioned, though I am a fast learner," she replied.
The detective blinked, as listening to her talking about blithely creating an substance that could blow them both to kingdom come while she talked of 'learning quickly' suddenly brought it home to him precisely what he himself was doing.
Reaching for a cloth, Holmes began to wipe his hands. "No...thank you," he declined quietly, as he continued to scrutinize her. "I believe it wouldn't be prudent for me to continue in this environment. Nitro-glycerine is, as I say, highly unstable…too much could go wrong...though I appreciate the offer." His head shook a little at her reaction to what he had been doing, realising that her eagerness to learn was palpably genuine...and almost as insane as his. "Perhaps though, you might care to help me make a quantity of gunpowder? It is a good deal safer...completely so in fact, until encased."
"Of course, if you think I would not be in the way," she replied, blushing again and looking down, as his gaze began to feel rather penetratingly direct.
Putting down the cloth, he looked at her intrigued...the first time he had felt so in weeks. "If I thought you were in the way, Miss Thurlow, not only would I not have asked...you would not be here."
Her head rose slowly, until her eyes met his, and upon seeing no irritation or annoyance in them, relaxed a little, and allowed a tiny smile to form on her lips. "Then, I would most certainly be glad to assist you…though you will have to teach me the recipe."
"I would be more than a little surprised if I did not, Miss Thurlow," he countered, as the frown that had been permanently etched on his forehead since before she had arrived started to ease slightly.
She gave a low chuckle, her grey eyes twinkling up at his. "Though it is probably a good thing that I do learn, so as to be able to deduce if my wily younger brother suddenly decides to start creating such mixtures," she pointed out with a sigh and a shake of her auburn head. "He has already blown up four beakers, made a permanent mark on his desk, and created several noxious smells. Goodwin is nearly at his wits end."
"You have not managed to reverse the gifts then?" he asked, moving his own used items to one side.
"No," she lamented. "Though Matthew's aim is improving...and Andrew is getting more methodical in his experiments. I am considering hiring instructors for both. At least then they would both become more adept at their new hobbies, and cease being so destructive. I did try switching the gifts, but alas, they both have developed tastes for them. I suppose that is a good thing too...makes them more fully rounded."
Picking up a mortar and pestle, Holmes nodded in agreement. "It is a prudent move. I have found both subjects an invaluable addition to my armoury of knowledge." Dropping sticks of charcoal from an artist's kit into the bowl, he handed it to her. "Grind these, please. Archery is an excellent form of honing one's hand-eye coordination...and a useful sport. Chemistry...well as you can see...an understanding of chemistry can reveal a great deal about the world we live in, and enhance that world in the bargain."
"Oh, I agree," she replied, grinding the charcoal into a dark powder with the pestle. "However, the archery lessons will have to wait until the climate warms, and Andrew is keen on the idea of a tutor, but has a rather busy schedule as it is. In order, to take on more lessons, he will have to put aside something else, and he is not sure if he wants to or if he does, what it will be."
Measuring out some sulphur, he was about to respond when the sound of running footsteps culminated in the door to the room bursting open and the appearance of a rather wild-eyed Watson, who looked from one to the other rapidly with a slightly panicked look on his face.
"Whatever's the matter with you, Watson?" Holmes exclaimed, arching an eyebrow at his out of breath colleague. "You act as if the Devil himself was after you."
Helen gazed at the slightly crazed man in concern. "Are you quite well, Doctor?" she added.
Swallowing, Watson composed himself on seeing nothing apparently untoward going on - no gaping holes in the room, no blazing fires...Miss Thurlow well and not huddled in a corner away from a black tempered Holmes...and most oddly of all, Holmes not in a black temper…in fact, the man appeared quite relaxed. "I was just about to ask the same of you, Miss Thurlow," Watson replied stepping into the room, as he eyed his friend with some surprise. "I apologise for being late..."
She blinked a little in surprise, before smiling genially at him. "It's quite all right, Doctor. I was just catching Mr. Holmes up on the misadventures of my brothers, while attempting to be useful."
Watson's eyes moved nervously to what they were doing, Mrs. Hudson having rapidly explained to him what his friend's endeavours had consisted of since he'd left. There was no question in his mind that Holmes had taken to his syringe as soon as he discovered that he had gone to his surgery that morning, and that this insanity about an explosive was the effect of several doses of his solution, which, as usual, had caused his inhibitions to wash away in an orgy of ideas. "Yes..." he said edgily, moving further into the room, "and what exactly is it you are both attempting to be useful at creating might one ask?"
"It was to be nitro-glycerine," Holmes replied a hair's breath later.
"Nitro-glycerine!" Watson gaped at him. "Holmes are you quite..." he began, but his friend continued apace.
"But on realising how dangerous that was after Miss Thurlow arrived…"
Watson slumped in relief, and shot a grateful smile at the young woman.
"…we are now making a quantity of gunpowder instead," the detective finished.
Watson froze and gaped at him anew, his eyes dropping to Helen's mortar and pestle. "Gunpowder?" he repeated, looking up at her.
Helen nodded serenely, not entirely understanding why the doctor looked so out of sorts. "It really is quite a fascinating process," she enthused. "I've never given much thought to chemical reactions before, but this is made from such simple elements..."
The older man stared at her, wondering if her exposure to his friend had somehow caused some temporary insanity…or worse, whether he had somehow inveigled her to join him in his narcotic fuelled delirium. Yet, there was certainly no sign of that in her eyes…nor indeed, did there appear to be much of the tell tale widening in Holmes's eyes either, and the grip of the drug, if it had been there at all, seemed to be almost gone now. Coughing slightly, he nodded, trying to keep his manner and voice light. "Yes...but it's um...well...gunpowder," he reminded her.
"And completely safe," Holmes interjected. "As long as we don't wrap it up too tightly...you should know that, Watson," he admonished. "You being an ex-army man."
Watson stared back at him, amazed at the obvious defrosting of his temperament. "Well, yes..." he agreed with a slow nod, glancing back at their visitor and the change she had apparently evinced in him, "but still, Holmes...gunpowder...are you hatching a plot?"
Helen quirked an eyebrow at that, her face appearing distinctly amused. "Is this the right consistency, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, showing him the bowl.
Holmes peered over and in. "A little finer if you please, Miss Thurlow," he requested, and with a nod of her head, she pulled the bowl back towards her, and proceeded to continue grinding. "And no, Watson..." he continued, ignoring the flabbergasted look on his friend's face as he watched them calmly work on something that might as well have been a cake recipe. "My plot is only to prove to Lestrade and his friends that anyone can concoct an effective explosive at home...the tailing of gunrunners is not always necessary."
Watson nodded dumbly in reply, and slumped into his chair, as he watching them nonplussed.
Holmes regarded him for a moment, a smile flickering around his mouth. "But...I forget...you are here on business with the doctor, Miss Thurlow. As much as I am loathe to lose such an efficient lab assistant, I should not keep you from your business further."
After several more deep turns, Helen gazed down at the powder with an evaluating gaze, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to judge the consistency of the powder. "Do you think this is fine enough?" she enquired, glancing over at Holmes before blinking as his words finally penetrated her brain. "Oh yes...indeed. Dr. Watson, do you mind horribly if I finish up here first? I do hate to leave a job half done."
Watson tried very hard not to stare at them both once more, and stood up slowly. "No...of course not...please..." he responded, completely bewildered in thought and tone, as he wandered away to sit by the fire. "I'll...just relax for a bit."
"You do that, Watson...it's been a hard couple of days for you," Holmes said without a trace of irony, "working hard on your outbreak of Influenza." Leaning towards the young woman, he picked up the small tin of fertiliser again, this time adding a significant amount of the potassium nitrate into a bowl. "Yes..." he told her, glancing up at her as he did so, "that will do very nicely, indeed."
They finished the gunpowder 'plot' fairly rapidly with Holmes showing Helen the exact quantities of sulphur, potassium nitrate, and charcoal required...and afterwards allowing her to light the small pile of the mixture which puffed into the air harmlessly like a magician's vaporous cloud.
Her eyes widened with delight, though she jumped a little at the loud cracking sound, causing her cheeks to blush slightly, as she turned to Holmes with a wide smile, the thrill of having performed a successful experiment evident in her face and demeanour.
Nodding, he gave her a small, indulgent smile, pleased with the effectiveness and burn time of the powder. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow. Your aid was most advantageous."
She shook her head. "Oh no, Mr. Holmes. Thank you. It was a most informative lesson, and your tolerance was admirable. I never realized how satisfying chemistry was before. Now, I understand Andrew's growing fondness for it," she replied.
"Then that in itself is worth the experiment...to foster a love of science and knowledge is the greatest result I could've hoped for," he returned with an amicable incline his head. "Now...I shall no longer keep you from your business with my colleague, and shall endeavour to keep silent as I tidy up."
Watson, from where he sat, could hardly keep from surveying the exchange without shaking his head. Where was the snappish, brooding, barking Holmes of the last few nights and this morning? And, for that matter, the eminently sensible woman he had thought he knew quite well?
"Of course," she replied with a jovial and friendly smile at the detective, before turning and moving to sit near the doctor. "I apologise for keeping you waiting, Dr. Watson. Shall we?"
"Yes...yes of course..." he stuttered, rising out of his chair as she approached him.
Holmes was as a good as his word, finishing his work silently and diligently, even favouring an equally bemused Mrs. Hudson with a small smile and taking a cup of tea when she came to tentatively provide the doctor and their visitor with some tea and biscuits while they talked.
The conversation between Watson and Helen lasted an hour or so, dealing with previous dilemmas and problems and their outcomes and possible new ones, until Mrs. Hudson returned and stepped into the room once more.
"Excuse me," she said quietly. "Miss Thurlow?"
Helen looked up with surprise, and turned her head to the landlady. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" she asked with curiosity.
"I'm sorry for disturbing your talk with the doctor...but there is a lady downstairs, very soft spoken, asking after you," the older woman informed her, as both men's eyes turned to their guest.
A light frown of confusion crossed her face, before it rapidly cleared and she smiled. "Oh yes," she breathed, her eyes moving to the clock on the mantle and taking in the time. "Is it that late already?" She rose to her feet, and nodded to the other woman.
"Would you please let my mother know I shall be right down?"
Holmes and Watson rose at once. "Your mother?" the detective repeated, and turned to his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, please invite Mrs. Thurlow up." His eyes were alight with curiosity, having not seen the woman since the day of her former husband's funeral and the gradual breakthrough in her own condition.
Watson looked over at Helen. "Was today her appointment with Dr. Von Brummel at the Institute?" he enquired with surprise.
She nodded slightly. "Yes, but it was only a follow up, so that she took the opportunity to visit with a cousin of hers as well. I was to meet her here, so that we could take the train home together."
Holmes moved away from his workbench, and straightened his coat, moving to his chair to await the new arrival that Mrs. Hudson had gone to fetch. "I confess, Miss Thurlow, that I am most keen to make your mother's acquaintance again," he told her, as they heard footfalls on the stairs. "I am eager to see how she has progressed since last I saw her."
A moment later, the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson ushered their latest guest in. A woman of rather average height and also attired in a dress that showed her to be in a state of deepest mourning entered the room, her amber eyes taking in the environs with a keen curiosity and interest, though if somewhat dreamily at the same time. If she was aware that she was the focus of everyone's attention, she did not show it. Instead, she smiled serenely at her daughter and quirked a rather amused eyebrow at her.
"I apologise if I'm a bit early, Helen, but my appointment proceeded more quickly than I thought," she told her, her voice soft and melodic, before turning her attention to the man next to her. "Dr. Watson, it is good to see you again," she greeted with a gentle smile, before catching sight of the detective. "Mr. Holmes." She moved gracefully over to him, and held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to finally make your formal acquaintance."
He crossed the space between them to meet her. "And yours, Madam. It is a pleasure I have long looked forward to." Taking her hand with a bow, he regarded her face with keen precision, taking in the clear thought and unclouded intelligence and softness he saw there. "You are most welcome. Please..." he invited with a gesture of his hand, "pray be seated.
She smiled, and crossed over to the couch, as her daughter moved to her side, and sat next to her. "And how are you faring, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired, though her eyes and expression showed that she already had deduced the answer.
"I am...fair to middling, Mrs. Thurlow," he admitted, seating himself, and leaning back into his chair. "Life has been tedious this past while without work to occupy it. But you...you are looking quite well," he asserted meaningfully.
The older woman nodded. "I am doing better," she replied with quiet dignity. "I still have my moments, but they grow ever fewer. Thanks to our kind doctor and his colleagues, of course." She inclined her head at the older man with a grateful smile on her lips, her daughter's expression mirroring her own.
Watson shook his head slowly. "Indeed not, Mrs. Thurlow," he demurred. "The lion's share of your thoughts in that regard should go to yourself...for it was you and you alone who took those steps. I merely guided them towards those who could help you along the way, like Dr. Von Burmmel."
"Indeed..." Holmes agreed, "the change is most remarkable, Mrs. Thurlow. You have travelled a great distance back to your family."
Her eyes dipped a little, as her hand took her daughter's. "I am very grateful to my family," she said softly, before her gaze again rose to meet his. "Though I believe they are all thankful I am now no longer speaking in rhymes." The corners of her mouth tugged upwards in a light smile. "I hear it can be rather frustrating to have to interpret such statements."
Helen patted the matron's hand. "No, Mother. I believe we understood you just fine," she assured her.
Alice turned her head, and gave her daughter an affectionate look. "Yes, well, you were always more perceptive than the rest," she pointed out, giving Helen's hand a squeeze, before adding with a light teasing tone, "But alas, the boys and I shall be without our guiding star in a few days."
"Oh? How so?" Holmes enquired, as Watson reached for the teapot Mrs. Hudson had left and silently offered the women some, his eyes just as intrigued by this piece of information.
The older woman looked rather surprised neither man knew of what she spoke. "Yes, thank you, Doctor," she replied to the question of tea, before asking her daughter, "Helen, dear, have you not told them of your forthcoming trip?"
The young woman flushed slightly, for it had quite slipped her mind given the afternoon's experiments in gunpowder. However, taking in the inquiring glances, she swallowed, and explained, "An old friend, Lady Margaret Sotherby, has kindly invited me to accompany her to a hunt in a week's time, as her husband, Sir Nicholas, has prior commitments he can not change. I am not one for the sport, but Lady Margaret has been a dear friend of mine since we were six, and I must admit to being eager at the chance to relax and spend some time with her."
Alice smiled indulgently, and sipped on the tea Watson had just provided her with. "Yes, Helen and little Maggie were rather inseparable growing up. We had a rather hard time keeping track of them however, until we learned to simply look up when in the garden," she reminisced, causing Helen's cheeks to turn a deep shade of crimson, as she coughed lightly into her hand.
Holmes turned an amused glance in her direction at the idea of the two girls climbing trees, as his friend chuckled aloud. "I seem to remember your father making mention of your fondness for trees," the detective recalled.
"Yes...well..." the young woman stammered. "One can get quite the view of one's environment when up high..."
"Yes...but your father and I had quite the time removing the pieces of the trees from your hair and clothes, dear," her mother reminded her, before turning back to the two men. "When she was young, our daughter refused to keep her hair up in any way, and was always coming home with pieces of leaves, branches, and bark stuck in there."
Her daughter's cheeks were slowly growing an ever brighter shade of red, at her mother's voiced remembrances. "Yes...um...Mother, we should really go if we are to make our train," she mumbled.
Holmes, however, was not so quickly dissuaded, his eyes quite firmly upon the elder Thurlow the entire time she was recollecting times past. Leaning forward, he peered keenly at Alice. "Your pardon, ma'am..." he said quietly but directly, his eyes alert with curiosity, "but I must ask. It does not distress you now...to reminisce on such times? To think on your husband?"
The older woman merely cocked her head a little to the side, her amber gaze washing over his face, before allowing her eyes to meet his, giving him the odd feeling as though she wasn't so much looking at him as into him. "Why should it?" she replied, her soft voice trickling over him. "We have made our peace...and I was buried in the dark part of our past for too long. He may be gone from the physical world, but he is here with me." She placed a hand on her chest, her face a picture of tranquillity, before she rose gracefully to her feet. "I have lived far too long trapped in the past, Mr. Holmes. When I think of it, I choose to remember the better times, but mostly, my mind is to the future." Her words were both explanatory and advising. "And now," she finished as her daughter followed her prompt, "we should depart if we are to make our train."
Both men stood as the ladies did, and Watson smiled at them both before turning to Helen as they began to move slowly towards the door. "May I ask which hunt is it you're attending, Miss Thurlow? I've a mild interest in following the hunting season, perhaps I might have heard of it?"
"It is the Lucifer Hunt," she replied. "It is hosted, I believe, by Viscount Maxwell Lynley, an old friend of Lady Margaret's late father."
Watson's eyes widened a little in recognition. "Indeed! Well that is an adventure! I hear it is one of the most sought after invitations, a tremendous ride, and the Hunt Ball after is quite famed! His estate is in Somerset is it not?"
She nodded with a rather enthusiastic expression. "Yes, and for the most part a very beautiful place," she replied. "Though, of course, I will not be participating in the hunt itself, I am also looking forward to attending the Ball...and it is not often, that you will hear me say that...especially since circumstances have placed my dance card on hold."
Holmes opened the door for the ladies. "Forgive me...but my mind is not taken up with such things as hunts and Balls but…the Lucifer Hunt?" he enquired. "It is a rather ominous name, is it not?"
"Indeed, Mr. Holmes," she agreed. "And I must admit to looking into that myself, for it is a rather portentous name. The hunt is named, if I remember rightly, because in the hills and valleys on the Viscount's Estate, there is a particularly dangerous and dense stretch of rocky woodland called 'Lucifer's Playground' through which only the most experienced of riders go." She gave him a wry smile. "I do not enjoy riding that much, but if I were to...I think the name alone would have me shying away."
"Most certainly," the detective agreed wholeheartedly. "Nonetheless enjoy your stay. Somerset is a fine part of the world. And thank you again for your aid today," he added, inclining his head in gratitude, a certain double meaning evident in his words.
"It was my pleasure, Mr. Holmes," she replied, extending a hand to him with a soft smile and nod.
Taking it, he bowed over it respectfully, before turning to do the same with her mother. "Mrs. Thurlow."
The older woman had been watching the interplay between the two with mild interest, her eyes taking in everything but revealing nothing. "It was good to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "I look forward to seeing you again."
"Madam," he said with a second bow, before releasing her hand to let them go.
After they departed, Watson closed the door with a smile, and watched Holmes move to the mantel to retrieve his clay pipe and pack it carefully with his blended tobacco. "It is good to see their lives taking such a positive path, is it not?" he asked, as he walked back to the couch to sit down. "It goes to show you how what we do has repercussions far beyond our investigations. On ourselves as well as on our clients." Smiling over at his friend, he slipped his hands into his pockets, watching him closely as he sank down into the familiar cushions, and marvelling again how Holmes's entire demeanour was more relaxed than he had seen it since the Christmas festivities. "I am pleased that, for once, we can play a part in people's lives beyond murder and mayhem and they in ours. I think it does us good."
Striking a match, Holmes smirked a little at his colleague's philosophical nature as he set his tobacco aflame. "Perhaps," he acquiesced with a nod. "It has certainly benefited you to the tune of one fiancée," he pointed out, to which Watson chuckled in agreement.
"But be careful who you wish us on, my dear fellow," the detective continued. "Remember, murder and mayhem are our stock in trade. We follow it, and it follows us…" Lowering himself down into his favourite chair by the fire, he drew on his pipe slowly. "And in turn, it is almost inevitable that it will touch those we choose to keep close."
Authors' Notes: Again a huge thank you to all have read and/or reviewed! We love hearing from you, and your kind and insightful comments really make our days brighter. Especially mine, as I have been slaving hard over my final portfolio this week so that I can graduate this May. As a result, and because we want to get this next bit perfect, the next chapter will not be up for perhaps a week. We both apologise for this, but it cannot be helped. Mysteries are tricky things, and we want to ensure there are zero plot holes before we roll it out to you fine folk (that and I won't be done with this portfolio till Thursday…blech). Thank you for your patience in this, it is very appreciated.
So take care, and see you all next week for our three chapter arc within our tale of The Lucifer Hunt. Tea and scones. Aeryn