AN -- Warning...content may not be suitable for all readers. There are mentions of prostitution and child prostitution (though no sex whatsoever)...please keep this in mind before you read. Thank you. -- AerynFire

Chapter Five: The Respectable Harlot – Part One

19th April, 1903

During the many years that I have been fortunate to know the world's foremost consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been privy both to events which have helped shaped the current global climate and state of politics, as well as many more personal and poignant cases that he has chosen to share with me. Confidences that I shall not only take to my grave, but also ones that I have been honoured that he has allowed me to share…for Sherlock Holmes is not one to impart the most personal details of his life without due cause. His trust is not freely bestowed…it must be earned.

My dear friend Dr. John Watson has been asking me for many a year now to write down, for posterity, the details of any such cases that I may have been privy to that he, due to reasons both his own and beyond his control, has not. I must admit that the idea to do so has often crossed my mind, but alas, a woman's life is not always quiet or free enough to spare the time needed to devote to such a task. And no life has been busier than mine until lately.

My brothers, Matthew and Andrew, have recently come into their own, and have fully taken over the business that Father devoted his life and energy to as is their birthright…though I often get the impression that Matthew would rather be playing the piano than attending board meetings, and I can not say that I blame him on that score.

So now that I am no longer Directress General of Thurlow & Balfour, as well as the two charitable foundations that were also in trust to me, I find that my life has opened up enough to finally give in to the good doctor's entreaties. That is, on two conditions. The first that no one other the that most select of audiences he has listed to me will ever read this or any other tale I impart…for though I have my misgivings about such recounting, how could I deny them that which they are due? The second, and this cannot be stressed too strongly, is that these tales are revealed to that audience only when the timing for their telling is suitable.

I suppose I could tell the tale of how I met Mr. Holmes and his friend and colleague Dr. Watson and the case which brought me into their lives; however, I know it is one of those listed as one that must never be repeated, so it would not do for me to break such a mandate…that, and I am rather sure John Watson has already done so.

The Lucifer Hunt Mystery would also be one that would make sense to bring to you; however, though I was privy to much of that case I was not there for all of its dealings, so I must rule that one out as well.

That leaves me with the one case with which I was completely involved in from start to finish, something Mr. Holmes still chastises me for to this day, some fourteen years later. The case which he refers to as The Respectable Harlot…

The story begins, I suppose, on Friday, the fifteenth of November, 1889. I was on my way to the train station in St. Albans in order to spend some time with my beau, Captain William Edwards, in London. He had been away for a two week period in Munich in his capacity as aide to General Cadwalader, and after his return, I had found myself rather busy due to commitments I possessed in regards to my late father's business.

I clearly remember being so completely swamped in the intricate and taxing details of expanding the import/export shipping business into the United States that my mind could simply not focus on anything or anyone else. My brothers were very understanding, and though I tried to be a sympathetic ear as they told me the details of their days, I found I was very grateful that my mother seemed readily prepared to step into my shoes in the role as surrogate parent and manager of the house for a short time.

And so on this fine autumn day, I eagerly made my way to the station with high hopes of a relaxing weekend with William, intending to surprise him following my attendance at a short meeting at Balfour & Thurlow. However, as I stepped out of the carriage and followed the cabbie, who was kind enough to help me in with my case, I found myself nearly falling over the wife of the town doctor as she was rushing from the station in a clear state of anxiety.

"Miss Thurlow!" she exclaimed after barely avoiding trodding on my foot. "Have you heard? It's awful! Horrible!"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Wiggins," I said as soothingly as I could, while she waved the newspaper in my face. "I am sure it is not that bad."

"Oh, it is! It is!" She pushed The Times into my hands, her voice strident in her nervous state. "Those horrible, despicable degenerates! They just took her off the platform, simply whisked her away! What is this world coming to?"

Taking the proffered paper with a frown at her words, I glanced down to the headline, my stomach tightening instantly at the large bold print reading…Child Slavery Ring Strikes!...and on scanning further, the text of the story itself only increased my queasy feeling.

It began by speaking of 'The Society for the Prevention of Juvenile Prostitution,' a worthy organisation who were at that time increasingly vocal in attempting to make the populace of London and its surrounds aware of that heinously growing problem. They railed with increasing frequency against the disappearance of young girls from the streets of London, abducted and often sold to populate the darkest corners of the brothels and specialised 'clubs' of the city and abroad. Most recently, they had been urging the Metropolitan police to investigate a supposed ring of the monsters behind these abductions which were growing more audacious in their methods to obtain new 'stock.'

I must admit I was not overly familiar with the practices of such groups. Generally speaking, no lady would be, but being acquainted with a detective for over a year had opened my eyes greatly to what went on just under the seemingly 'respectable' surface of the world around me. Not that such enlightenment prevented the bile from rising in my throat as I read of the high prices willingly paid for these innocent girls being offered in such sordid dens to men of wealthy and even noble status, who seemed to delight in their pain and degradation. The more refined the child, it seemed, the better the price.

It was this level of activity from the noble and influential that was, it appeared, to be at the heart of the reluctance of the authorities to do anything about the problem. The police, in the aftermath of several major societal scandals and a host of rumours about even greater horrors, were under immense pressure to avoid another outrage and had simply been 'persuaded' not to interfere.

Of course, such indifference by the police would not have been allowed to stand had it not been accompanied by the apathy of the middle classes, the most powerful moral force in our society or any other. This apathy stemmed, it seemed, from the fact that to this point the targeted victims of prostitution, adult or child, were mostly from the indigent or lower working classes, whisked away from the rookeries and garrets of the most poverty stricken and dangerous areas of London.

The perception existed that what occurred to these women and young girls who fell victim to villains like these was simply their own fault somehow; had they been worthy or virtuous, such things would never have occurred to them in the first place. An opinion I can say, with the utmost vehemence, I do not share, though it was a prevalent one amongst many of my acquaintances to their and my shame.

In any event, the problem was certainly of little consequence to them, and on some occasions, being told of such horrors was met only with the greatest resentment. The Society itself had even been accused of scare mongering and scandalising respectable people with their insistence on being blunt with their reports to the newspapers.

It was, needless to say, obvious from the headline that the law had responded poorly to The Society's request…doing little to absolutely nothing to take steps to track and stop these criminals. So much so that, as the reporting journalist quite correctly said, this Ring had grown so confident that they obviously felt they could strike with increasing impunity.

And so finally now, no child of any class was safe…

It had taken these kidnappings, three of them in the last two days, to provoke the public and police to action. I was on the verge of tossing the paper back to Mrs. Wiggins in disgust when she hurriedly drew my attention to the list of names of those taken.

They read: Susan St. John – who was aged ten and from an well to do middle class family in Kent, and had vanished when her family was visiting London, her father there on business; Kate Brewer – aged nine, from Islington, snatched it seemed from the crowded streets near The Haymarket in broad daylight when her mother took her to one of the Omnibus stops located there when trying to return home quickly; and the third was…

"Oh no!" I breathed in absolute horror, understanding Mrs. Wiggins's reaction completely now as I read the final name -- Emily Day – aged thirteen, from St. Albans, Hertfordshire, who had apparently disappeared from King's Cross station when returning home with her mother and three brothers and sisters from a day trip to the outfitters in London.

The dreadfulness of the situation, bad enough in abstract, was fully brought home to me in that moment. For my family was well acquainted with the Days; in fact, my brothers were fast friends with the middle child, a young lad named Robert, while I and my mother knew Benjamin and Elizabeth Day from church and local charitable and social events.

Emily was their eldest -- the kindest and sweetest girl -- who possessed a heart of gold and a real gift for dealing with younger children. To have this happen to her, or indeed any child, was beyond condemnation. My stomach churned at the thought of what might happen to her. As terrible as it is to say, I suppose in matters such as these, it always takes something like truly horrible to bring a problem home to one.

"Yes!" the doctor's wife agreed. "Poor Elizabeth must be beside herself…those monsters! Devils!"

I swallowed and pulled my thoughts away from the image in my mind of little Emily, her large brown eyes, and hair Goldilocks herself would have been envious of. "Indeed," I replied, wondering if I should postpone my trip to London to try to offer the Days some support and consolation. But I stopped myself, knowing that that would be of little help, and there would be plenty of others in the town hastening to do likewise.

But I had influence and wealth, and something had to be done immediately before Emily and the others disappeared too deep into a web of criminal secrecy…surely, I could do something practical? In that instant, I knew exactly what I had to do. Turning to Mrs. Wiggins, I gave her what I hoped was a rallying smile. "I must make haste to London…but thank you so much for bringing this to my attention. May I keep this?" I asked of her paper.

She nodded, already spying Mrs. Featherly the organist from the church and with a quick farewell, rushed off down the street to inform her as well.

Tucking the paper under my arm, I headed into the station to purchase my ticket to King's Cross, London. My mind was no longer focused where it had so pleasantly been only a short time before, but on the proposal I planned to bring to a certain consulting detective that lived at 221b Baker Street.

Arriving in London, I sent my belongings on to my lodgings and hurried to the telegram office located just a few doors down from the station to send several hasty telegrams to my personal secretary, Mr. Maximillian Beauchamp, at Balfour & Thurlow, asking him to cancel any appointments that I had scheduled for that afternoon and to forward any correspondence to me at Brown's Hotel.

Ten minutes later, I was safely ensconced in a hansom cab that was moving swiftly over the cobbled stone streets towards Baker Street and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my mind awash with what I might say or do to try and secure his aid on the matter.

Knowing him as well as I did, I realised my arguments and entreaties could not simply depend on emotional factors. Though Mr. Holmes was most certainly not immune to emotions or the plights of others, he favoured a more logical outlook on both his life and his approach to his cases. If I was to have any hope in garnering his aid it was there, in logic, that I had to base my argument.

The still, early morning air contained a definite chill, not in the least surprising seeing as it was November; however, it could not cool my rage nor the fiery determination I needed to see out the purpose of my visit.

Upon arriving at Baker Street, I paid the cabbie and hurried across the pavement to the door. Taking a moment to compose myself, I rang the bell just I had done countless times before, and it was but a heartbeat later that the familiar face of Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes's landlady, appeared in the doorway with a smile.

"Why, Miss Thurlow, good morning!" she exclaimed in understandable surprise, my visits to Baker Street having been few and far between of late. "I wasn't aware you had an appointment with Dr. Watson this morning."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, putting aside my anxieties as I smiled brightly at the woman. "Actually, I do not have an appointment for today...but is Mr. Holmes in residence?"

"Most certainly," she replied, stepping aside to admit me. "In fact, he is upstairs with the doctor right this minute. He's been pacing the floors since late last night."

"Indeed?" I wondered aloud and gave her a puzzled look. "Would I be disturbing him, do you think? I have a matter of importance to discuss with him...but if he is occupied..."

She gazed up the stairs for a long moment. "No, if it is important I am sure he will not mind an interruption," she decided finally. "The doctor has only just arrived himself, after all."

Breathing a slight sigh of relief, I nodded. "Very well...thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, removing my coat and hanging it on the peg before heading up the stairs.

I could hear the sound of voices the closer I drew to the door. Voices that were so urgent that when I reached it, I found my hand stilling as it rose to knock.

Now, I am not an overly inquisitive woman...most certainly not to the extent of eavesdropping intentionally on anyone's private conversations; however, the subject of their discourse captured my attention and held it. I suppose part of me knew that were I to enter that they would no longer feel so free to talk...for the subject was not one most gentlemen would deem fit for a woman's ears.

"I am confident I know who is behind this..." Mr. Holmes was saying, so unusually animated that for once he had failed to perceive the footfalls upon the stairs and landing outside his door. "She is one of the vilest, most unfeeling and immoral purveyors of innocent flesh to the brothels of London and beyond. A woman she may be, but she is shorn of any and all of their kinder, gentler emotions. She and her accomplice have their fingers in every degrading and perverted shadowy action in this city, and yet her connections are such that no one has yet been able to take her with sufficient evidence to prosecute beyond minor charges. Only she and that brute who laughingly calls himself a gentleman would have the audacity to carry out these kidnappings.

"I know precisely what to do, Watson, and if I can carry it off, I will not only rescue these unfortunates but rid London of two of her most evil denizens." His figure flashed past the partially open door as he paced, my heart lightening at the thought that he was already working on the problem I had come willing to beg him to take up had my logic failed me. "But there are problems," he continued, keeping my attention. "Difficulties that are not easy to surmount...the devil, as they say, lies in the details."

I truly did not like the sound of that and nibbled my lip absently, a dreadful nervous habit of mine that I had long been battling since childhood, as the voice I recognised without fail as Dr. Watson's enquired, "What difficulties? Can I be of any assistance?"

I longed to hear the answer, but as Mr. Holmes again paced by, I began to feel a decided guilt at listening like an unscrupulous eavesdropper. So with a deep sigh, I re-raised my hand and gave the door a quick rap.

"Come in," came the rather terse reply, a style of response Mr. Holmes often makes when he is caught unawares but is loathe to show it.

I was never comfortable to be in the receiving end of his irritation and now was no exception, so as I opened the door I glanced around the room with a look that could only be described as sheepish. "Forgive me, Mr. Holmes...John...I appear to be interrupting."

"Miss Thurlow," Mr. Holmes greeted me, some of his sharpness leaving his voice and a little of that surprise on seeing me replacing it. "Come in. Watson and I were just in discussion of a case."

"Yes, my apologies, I overheard some of it as I approached," I replied, finding no use in hiding it as I moved into the room. "It is actually quite a fortuitous coincidence that I found you so engaged. You were discussing the kidnappings that were reported this morning in The Times, were you not?"

Glancing at John, the two men exchanged looks before Mr. Holmes regarded me once more. "Amongst other papers, yes...that is precisely what we were discussing. Inspector Lestrade came to inform me of the hunt last night, once the police finally realised this was not just a case of children losing themselves in the Metropolis. He asked me if my contacts had been forthcoming on the matter in any way, and I was forced to inform him I had heard nothing. I did agree, however, to lend my aid, and have been up ever since considering a way I might help. Watson and I were just about to get to the meat of the matter when you arrived..." He paused and glanced past me towards the landing. "Most stealthily, I might add. I shall have to learn to pay more attention." His lips quirked a little at that.

I could feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment but found myself smiling back at him all the same. "Indeed...it would not do for it to emerge that London's only consulting detective was so easily creptup on," I lightly chaffed him before turning my attention to his partner and my dear friend. "John, it is good to see you. Again, pardon my interruption...but after seeing the paper this morning I felt I must come and see you both. Something truly needs to be done at once," I explained, my tone adamant.

"And from what you have heard, you will know I am planning to take action," Mr. Holmes replied, resuming his movement once more, this time in the direction of the window near his desk. "And also that my plan has its own difficulties to be surmounted if this wrong is to be righted." He turned back to look at both John and myself, but before he could speak again, the doctor interrupted him, rising from his seat with a grave look on his face.

"Holmes..." he said with some degree of vehemence, "I really feel that further discussion of what you may have planned should be curtailed while Miss Thurlow is here. The subject matter is, despite its presence in the papers, not fit for discussion with a lady present. Most especially as I am almost sure your plan will involve some detailing on a subject that should best be avoided around polite society of any kind."

"John," I interjected, my tone equally firm, though I smiled to show I was grateful for his consideration, "I have read things in this morning's paper that…providing a graphic level of detail is avoided…could not possibly be any worse than what you and Mr. Holmes were about to say. There is also the small matter of having lived ten years in Camden Town and bearing witness to quite a few sights on Bayham Street that polite society would not care for. But most importantly, I am also a friend of the Day family and know little Emily, one of the trio taken, quite well and am determined to be involved one way or another. So, please, gentlemen, do not restrain yourselves on my behalf."

John's frown focused itself upon the paper in my hand. "Still..." He shook his head. "Such things are..."

"Printed in the paper, Watson," Mr. Holmes interrupted him, "just as Miss Thurlow says. And anything that follows from my mouth will be no worse than what she has already read...or heard. Besides, as I have often intimated to you, Watson, women are not always the fragile creatures society and men in particular imagine them to be. That,my dear fellow, is one of the most dangerous assumptions about them. Miss Thurlow is a woman full grown with a vested interest in this matter; if she wishes to attend on what I have to say then by all means." With the sweep of his hand, he indicated for me to take a seat despite John's continued unhappiness.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said with a nod as I took a seat on the couch and removed my hat and gloves, pleased that he had seen fit for me to remain and be privy to his plans. "What strategy have you devised thus far?"

"As you may have already ascertained," he said in reply, "I have a suspect in mind...two, in fact...near certainties. Only they have the necessary connections through an extensive list of powerful, wealthy, and well placed clientele to be able to comfortably set in motion such a brazen set of kidnappings. Having seen the hastily compiled police notes last night, we can deduce from the testimony of what few witnesses saw the children last that they utilised seemingly well to do, well spoken individuals to lure the children away for but a moment, whereupon they were taken!" He gesticulated sharply, his hand closing into a fist.

"The use of refinement to entice orphans and paupers to their trade is a fashion long since practiced by them…with years of experience behind them, they have merely redeployed it for use on a different set of victims.

"In addition, the class of the girls involved reflects a purchasing power on behalf of their perspective patronage that is beyond that of the mere libidinous man on the street." Glancing at John, who was shifting uncomfortably throughout, he continued, "This is a specialist kidnapping for a specialist demand...a demand they cater to."

From the concerned look I suddenly received from John, I am sure my face must have paled a little as I remembered some of the details that had been further intimated in the paper as to what would likely happen to these poor children. However, on giving him a quick nod to assure him I was well, I steeled my features and resolve still further. "So I see...the papers were informative, in their subtle way, on what form of demand it takes."

As John gazed down at his feet, Mr. Holmes folded his arms and nodded. "Well then, as you have read the broadsheet's revealing articles...you will know that the trafficking in young girls is of hideous proportions. Some are destined to end on the streets of London, others are entered into white slavery and sent abroad, hardly ever to be seen again." He inhaled softly, looking to the small fire that burned in the grate this cold autumn morning.

"Given the hornets' nest our perpetrators have stirred up, we can be assured these girls are not bound for a domestic market. Unlike Lestrade, I have my doubts that they currently reside in any of the houses of ill repute in the city." He turned back to us. "They will almost certainly be sold to the highest bidder and shipped abroad…and done so quickly. Very quickly. The kidnappings all occurred within the last twenty-four hours with the last of the girls, your young Miss Day, taken yesterday evening at King's Cross.

"If the transactions have not already been carried out, they will be within the next twenty-four hours for certain…meaning that time is most definitely not on our side. Once these girls are shipped, they will disappear into the morass of an international underworld, and finding them again will be next to impossible."

"Indeed," I replied, my mouth set in a line as my anger smouldered inside, my drive to do something...anything I could to help increasing with every word he uttered. "So what do you intend to do, Mr. Holmes?"

"I intend, Miss Thurlow," he replied his eyes turning to me, a grim smile upon his face, "to attempt to purchase the girls." John's head rose rapidly as his colleague continued without pause, "Naturally, I will not be doing so as myself. Far from it. Before either of you arrived, I had already come to the decision to take on the guise of a well heeled former Haymarket Hector now operating out of Paris...a persona I had kept in mind for some time, in fact."

I frowned a little, my curiosity, so often my downfall, interjecting and before I realised it I had interrupted him. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes…Haymarket Hector?" I enquired.

He regarded me for a moment, distracted only by the ever-increasing glower upon John Watson's face at my question and the answer he knew must follow. "Forgive me," Mr. Holmes replied, "it's a colloquialism from the area in question. It means - a procurer…a pander. A…pimp."

"Oh," I said quietly, dipping my head.

"Yes…" he continued. "Several years ago while incognito on a case in Paris, I had cause to visit a garret in the search for a murderer on the run. When there, I found not the young man I sought, but an elderly man who had sheltered him there for a time…an Englishman, an addict almost dead from consumption. After I extracted what information I could from him in return for the promise of some absinthe, he told me I reminded him in body, if somewhat paler and thinner, of a man he had once known. A young man, a Hector he was to help smuggle out of London to Paris after he had killed a police officer who had killed the girl under his protection. The old man, as dying men are wont to do, unburdened himself of something he had told no one before and proceeded to tell me of the grisly fate that he had witnessed befall this man I resembled, as they had been pursued through the underbelly of the rookeries in the Seven Dials.

"It was…" He appeared thoughtful in remembrance. "A most uniquely foul death and one I suppose which kept the story fresh in my mind all these years. Under the houses, if one can call them that, of such places as the Dials is a maze of escape tunnels. Interconnected cellars, in fact. Designed with the express purpose of evading the police and sometimes more. Oft times these tunnels contain traps -- the most common of the type being a deep wide trench in the cellar floors. Almost double the height of a man, it is filled with the thickest, vilest sludge from the slime pits of the sewers beneath the city that run close by, their proximity accounting for the smell. Covered over lightly so that the unfortunate officer steps unaware onto what looks like a hay strewn or boarded floor, it naturally gives, and he falls into the sucking, putrid effluent, only to be drawn quickly under."

"A London made Grimpen Mire of the filthiest kind, eh Holmes?" John gazed at his friend while shaking his head in disgust.

"Quite so. And just as indiscriminate in its choice of victims. Only in this case it was not a police officer but the unfortunate young Mr. Maidstone, attempting to avoid detection on his way out of London, who in his haste went to such a fate, my narrator being unable to expend the time with the police close on their heels to save him. Eager to keep his fee, which he had already pocketed, he told no one of the man's fate and went on his way, allowing all to believe Maidstone had made it safely to the Continent."

"How horrible!" I breathed, amazed at the picture he painted and the dreadful death trap. "So he lies there still?"

"Almost certainly," Mr. Holmes agreed with a nod. "Such places are never scrutinised too closely by either pit owner or officers...if they never knew anyone had fallen in, they would never seek to search." He pursed his lips slightly and rubbed his hands a little. "His death would be some fifteen years ago now…more than enough time, I feel, for me to perform a slight miracle of resurrection upon him."

"But Holmes…if he has friends or family…enemies even? Isn't there a chance of recognition?" John asked him, querying his choice, but the detective shook his head in response.

"According to my fading source, Maidstone, like many of his ilk, had been raised in the workhouses and dossing kens across the city. There are, at any one time, hundreds of such men working in Haymarket, some switching between there and Leicester Square, and they do not form close associations. Neither are residential areas; the crowds and those that work there are fluctuating constantly. Awareness of that allowed the dying smuggler to take his money and run at the time, knowing few if any questions would be asked. Since he had no family and the girl he had been pandering for is dead, fifteen years is more than enough time to fudge the memories of those remaining few who knew him. I imagine all I shall be competing with is his former reputation…those who attack the police are fondly thought of in that world.

"I shaped him all last night, this later Jake Maidstone…an unmitigated scoundrel with a past, back in London for the first time in a decade and a half. Finally having made good for himself in France, and intending to open a new place of business in the South, he wants some expensive added attractions in order to bring in a 'better class' of clientele. Being in London, he will naturally have heard of the kidnappings and will calmly make contact to secure some attractive purchases," he said as he moved to his chair and sat.

"It will be obvious to you both, of course, from my plans to take this path, that my simply passing on my suspicions of who is responsible to Lestrade and having The Yard raid their superficially 'respectable' business premises will result in absolutely nothing incriminating being found. Quite the contrary, it may lead directly to the deaths of the three children." His sharp eyes turned to me again as I started at the impossibility of that last expressed thought. When he spoke again to me his tone took on the timbre of one who was conveying an absolute truth, leaving no room for doubt in my mind.

"The wickedly vindictive and cruel nature of those responsible means that they would think nothing of leaving even innocent children to rot wherever they have them stored, merely for spite." Reaching for a taper, he drew out his cigarette case from his inside pocket, opening and taking out a cigarette. "Consequently drawing out the location of the children is absolutely vital before we lower the boom upon our two ghouls." He snapped the silver case shut harshly.

It was at this point that a frown creased his brow, his attention drifting inwards as he lit his cigarette.

"Your plan has risk but appears sound," I said, breaking the silence that had descended on the room upon his mind wandering. "But you mentioned there were problems?"

"Yes." He came back slowly, indicating my newspaper with his still lighted taper before blowing it out and tossing it away to the fire. "Unfortunately the same device that brought all this to prominence and finally galvanised both the public and our jaded police force into action on this matter has also made its resolution much more difficult.

"With the outcry the media and society as a whole has raised and the hefty reward being offered in the Daily Telegraph, the underworld will be on high alert, looking for anyone trying to discover where the children are. Most particularly they will be on the lookout for me, as they have, I have no doubt, informants on the force, even in Scotland Yard," he said to my utter shock, "that will have informed them of Lestrade's putting inquiries my way. Therefore," he puffed on his cigarette, "I will need to be especially convincing in my role, and that will mean taking unusual steps.

"If they are watching out for me, they will know two things," he told us slipping his tall form forward in his seat, holding up one and then two fingers on his hand as he counted off. "One -- I work with Watson...or two -- I work alone. Therefore, the logical course of action is...to do neither." He turned his eyes to John, his expression knowing. "My plan was to have something in reserve no one would ever suspect me, of all people, of utilising...my plan was to have a woman join me."

Mr. Holmes had read his dearest friend quite correctly, for John's eyes could not have widened more, I dare say...not that I was any less astonished as we stared at him in tandem. "A woman? Holmes..." John breathed, "you couldn't possibly bring a lady anywhere near the clutches of such people!"

Nodding slowly, Mr. Holmes agreed, "A lady, most assuredly. But the woman I had planned to engage would need to have spent a great deal of time around such people." He glanced at me quickly, my first indication that he was a little concerned about offending or scandalising me with what he was about to say.

"My plan was to fool them by having my Hector bring with him this woman, specifically my character's 'piece' and prospective partner in his new offing…a slattern who would be the Madam once the place was set up. Having a woman would be most convincing as they, for the most part, run such places...and as I say, no one would think of me as utilising a woman in my plans."

John's eyes shot to me and away again, his neck going scarlet above his collar. "You were planning to use a..." He cleared his throat. "That is, to work with a...street girl?"

My cheeks flushed a little, but I fought the surge of embarrassment that shot through me, and asked, "However, you could not find such a woman that was...acceptable?"

His eyes rested on me and he smiled a little, letting me know I had presumed correctly, the tinge of slight approval in his look setting me aflutter, as it always did -- a warm, foolishly proud sensation inside of me. "Yes," he concurred with a nod, flicking the ash of his cigarette towards the fireplace. "The more I thought about it last night, the more problems presented themselves. Firstly, I cannot use any of the local ladies with whom I am acquainted," he informed me levelly, his eyes never wavering as he spoke of consorting with them, "and from whom I have garnered information and aid before. They are, I'm afraid, either too well known locally...or entirely too untrustworthy.

"There is also the need to tally her in with my back-story. In order to be able to pass as this pander operating in France, it makes the most sense to bring with me a French woman to help corroborate my story." Finishing his cigarette, he tossed it away. "I can telegram my connections in France to have them help me confirm my false identity should queries be put in...but having a French woman, or at least one that can pass for French, would be immediately useful. They could, should I see fit, also contact one woman there with whom I have had some considerable dealings in the past, who would fit the bill admirably and be willing to help."

"But you said time was of the essence...is there time to have this woman sent for?" I interjected, my brow furrowing at this rather important complication.

"Therein lies the rub, Miss Thurlow, no…there is no time at all for such a journey on her part," he replied, steepling his fingers he sat back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. "I have since thought about utilising an actress...but unless she was used to dealing with these elements of the underworld..." he glanced at John, "she would be an unknown quantity and perhaps a liability I cannot afford. I require someone that can be relied upon not to crack in a pressurised situation, and again, she would require sufficient French and a good French accent to pass for the woman in question. I know precious few actresses that carry both credentials...and none of the correct age."

My shoulders slumped, and my mind howled in frustration. "Are there no other options?" I asked, desperately wanting his plan to succeed, as well as being fully aware how short time was...and that it was growing shorter by the second.

His face creased into a mask of irritation that matched my inner turmoil. "At the moment, none present themselves to me. The most infuriating part of it is that I require her to appear with me only once, twice at the most, to create the illusion and make them comfortable enough to do business with me. Then, once the ring was so penetrated and the location of the girls or the girls themselves revealed to me, I would close out the case with her safely to one side."

I nibbled my lip, my mind whirring. I knew of no woman that would help fit his criteria. Yes, I had several friends who could speak French, and indeed, the accent was not too hard to emulate. My dear friend Maggie, Lady Margaret Sotherby, and I had been doing so in jest for years from the time we were in school.

My thoughts froze.

When they moved again, they were incredulous at the idea that had popped into my brain. No...it was insane...entirely foolhardy. He needed a woman he could trust...a woman who could speak French and affect an accent. A woman who was no shrinking violet, and despite the fact that was indeed my middle name, I knew with utmost certainty that I was not of the shrinking variety. But to put myself at such risk voluntarily...it was sheer folly...

But…my mind turned once more…time was so short, speed was of the essence, and my mind's eye kept flashing to sweet Emily Day and the other girls currently in the limbo of awaiting a fate worse than death.

"You need such a woman only for a brief time? Just to ensure your cover is sound?" I enquired, taking care to keep my voice neutral and showing no hint as to what I was foolishly considering.

He nodded. "She would play no other part. But I shall have to reconsider, that much is clear."

I nodded quietly, steeling myself for what came out of my mouth next. "Then I shall do it." My head rose and my eyes met his, my mind made up...for there really was no other way for any of us.

John moved faster than I believe I have ever seen him move before, on his feet in a flash. "No!" he exclaimed so loudly I was sure I saw some of the window panes vibrate. "Absolutely not!" His face was aghast. "I forbid it completely. I will not stand idly by and let a lady place herself in such company and such danger! It is not to be borne!" he told me, his chivalrous nature deeply offended by the mere concept. He turned to Mr. Holmes, his moustaches quivering as he glared at him. "Do you hear me, Holmes? I forbid it!"

The other man raised his hand slowly. "Calm yourself, Watson, calm yourself. Miss Thurlow's offer is courageous but also imprudent in the extreme. You may rest assured there is no danger of my accepting it. You are quite correct in every regard...I cannot and will not allow it."

I was sure my expression was a little insubordinate, though I tried to rein it in. "But why? You have said, Mr. Holmes, that you need someone right away...I am here now. You said you needed a woman who is younger but of enough years and experience to make a worthy madam...I am twenty and six, which is plenty of years of experience seeing as such unfortunate women start their 'careers' quite young.

"You need someone who can speak French and affect an accent...I can assure you, sir, that I can do both. You need someone you can trust. I should hope you could trust me; we have been friends for over a year now...and I have yet to let you down in any way. And you said you needed someone that these people would not know...and I can assure you that they will and do not know me. I am no mollycoddled milquetoast or fainting female, Mr. Holmes!" I asserted strongly.

"You will recall I have had a knife to my throat and still retained my mind and will...I have been there when you found a dead body in a situation where I am sure most women would swoon. In fact, during my acquaintance with you, I have borne witness to three deaths! I admit I am most assuredly nervous about pursuing such a course of action...but there is little to no time...and I can help you. I want to help you...and for the sake of Emily Day and those other girls, I need to help you." My voice grew more insistent and steadier with each word...my own anxieties washing away under my own impassioned, and I was full sure, logical speech.

When I grew fully aware of the two men again, I was startled to see the small smile and bright eyed look on Mr. Holmes's face that was, on him, the equivalent of a highly impressed expression. I flushed slightly in the knowledge that I had at least had a positive effect.

"Excellent points all, Miss Thurlow. I cannot refute any of your stated qualifications." His index finger rose to tap against his lips in thought. "And," he ruminated out loud, "I have no doubt that you would be more than brave and resolute enough if involved."

"Holmes..." John's voice grew a warning tone as he sensed, as I did, his friend wavering under my barrage of well made points.

"However, my decision remains unaltered," the detective finished abruptly, standing up to take down his rosewood pipe, the finality in his words and actions evident and leaving me stunned...and John highly satisfied.

I studied him for a moment. "Is it that you do not trust me?" I asked plainly. I had been confident on all my other points save that one, for though I had suspected that he did trust me some minor level, his attitudes to women and their trustworthiness were well documented and stated. "That you feel in some way I will hamper you?"

"What I feel..." he replied, retrieving his Persian slipper, "is nothing to do with either trust or your general aptitude in handling stressful situations. It has everything to do with suitability, however.

"The plain fact of the matter is, Miss Thurlow, that in order for you to carry off the role successfully, you would have to act essentially as...a harlot. Frankly, I have no wish to place you in such an invidious and scandalous position...and even if I were so inclined, I have my severest doubts as to whether you could carry off the part."

He began to pack his pipe as he continued, "In addition to this, while many in society, most of all the ladies, may not like to think so, the places that I, and anyone accompanying me, will be required to visit during this case may well be full of otherwise respectable businessmen, married or otherwise, some quite possibly of your acquaintance, thanks to your unusually prominent position in the business world. A sufficient disguise would be required, and that would be one more thing to worry over."

John nodded, sinking to his seat. "Holmes is right, Helen...it is a most unsuitable part for a lady. You are not even married, and have no understanding of..." he sighed, "baser human instincts...and such a place...I could not bear to think of you exposed to such things."

But I was not for turning, irritation rising within me. "I have heard that you are a master at disguises, Mr. Holmes...and indeed, have heard many tales from you both where they were put to good use. Surely, creating one for me would be mere child's play," I insisted to the younger man before turning to John, my tone determined but kind.

"You are correct of course, John. But in order for me not to have been exposed to such behaviours, you would have had to have intervened when I was fifteen and we moved to Bayham Street. I have enough of a basic understanding of the..." I paused, again feeling the blush rise in my cheeks. "Intricacies of...such...actions. At least on an intellectual level...but isn't that where acting comes into play? How many who tread the boards to play Macbeth are murderers?"

"Miss Thurlow…" Mr. Holmes's level voice drew my eyes back to him, and I found myself pinned down by one of his most penetrating gazes. In all my life, only he and my mother ever left me with the sensation of being looked right through. "You may be intellectually aware of them, and your time in Camden Town left you with the knowledge that such events were going on around you, but, Miss Thurlow, even now you blush at the mere mention of such...actions..." He sighed and shook his head.

"If that is case, how will you react when you might play witness to both them and other sordid things you have no concept of? To play a murderer, to imagine killing another for revenge, hate, or avarice is, unfortunately, something we are all capable of, and all of us witness life and death in its various forms every day. There is data there to fuel the interpretation. But how can you imagine and pretend to be that which you know nothing of to an audience who are of what you aspire to?" he asked me before shaking his head, "A harlot who flushes at the mere thought of impropriety? No, Miss Thurlow, you are far too respectable."

He returned to packing his pipe slowly. "But beyond any of this, there is the danger," he said firmly. "And I will not have you placed, by my hand yet, in such a dangerous position. Should either of us be seen through, the chances of our surviving the encounter plummet to miniscule. Neither your family, your friends, nor your beau would thank me for it should you end up injured or worse, no matter how just the cause." He looked up at me once more. "My answer remains an emphatic…No."

Before I had a chance to respond again, he turned his attention to John, who nodded in complete agreement and approval of his friend's summation.

"It is obvious I have little choice but to risk this alone, Watson...but I will, as Miss Thurlow pointed out, take great pains with my disguise in order to maximise my chances." Sitting back, he put match to pipe. "Maidstone will have 'establishments' in Marseilles and Paris where, as I say, my connections can fabricate a background should it come to that. I am hopeful it will not, however. As they need to dispose of the children quickly, they will not have the time to do an extensive foreign check, especially if the police are breathing down their necks and I can at least arrange for that." He smiled a little. "The force of the media and public response has been tremendous, as we have all seen; that will no doubt make a few of their prospective clients shy away from involvement. Between that and a sniffing sleuthing Lestrade, we can at least attempt to harry them into a mistake.

"Once I have made arrangements, I will go to the Haymarket at ten thirty tonight to the back entrance of the Trocadero Music Hall and Rooms, one of the more grandiose of such entertainments, and, as it has been in all its prior incarnations, a notorious fleshpot. It is there our people have their 'respectable' musical and entertainment offices. I've already given a note to the Irregulars for them to send at precisely one this afternoon, via a runner in need of half a crown, to make contact with a man who works in the Rooms. One I'm sure has the ear of at least one of the ring leaders..."

I sat there listening, feeling both the irrational need to sulk and the defiant need to prove that I could act this part and help him. His concerns were valid, and his decision was final...and I suppose that should have been the end of it. However, as my mind noted the details of his plan, I could not help but quibble at his dismissal of my offer.

Yes, I was a novice to the ways of the flesh...apart from the few kisses William had bestowed on me, I had no experience at all. I could understand his hesitation in taking so untried a woman into a world of sin...but at the same time, I was genuinely aggrieved that he did not have faith in me to carry out the part. I, who had always had a great deal of faith in him...it hurt a great deal to find the appreciation again one-sided.

He would be going into the lion's den alone...and he thought my plan imprudent? I cavilled greatly at what I perceived to be his own lack of logic, while at the same time wondering how I could allow my friend, no matter how successful in the past and celebrated, to enter into so rash a plan. I trusted he knew what he was doing...but I did not trust that those he was going after would not be on the lookout for just such a man attempting exactly what he was about to do. He had even said as much!

Glancing at the clock on his mantle, I rose to my feet, pulling my gloves quickly on and affixing my hat to my head. "Well, it seems you have a great deal to do, Mr. Holmes, in preparation for tonight, so please do not let me keep you." I gave him a quick smile and turned to my friend, whose safeguarding of myself and my modesty I did not begrudge for a moment. Over the past year, he had become in essence an elder brother to me in everything but name...how could I fault him on his natural and chivalrous feelings? "John, it was good to see you again. Please give my love to Mary."

"Of course." He stepped to me and took my hand in both his. "And please do not think the less of us for refusing your offer. It was extraordinarily spirited and generous of you...our stance only emanates from our concern for your well being, eh Holmes?" he said, glancing to him.

"Certainly." The other man nodded quietly, tobacco smoke now rising up around his head. "Good afternoon, Miss Thurlow...and thank you."

I gave him a small smiled and nodded. "Of course...and good luck to you tonight," I returned. "Good day to you both." And with a quick squeeze of my friend's hand, I turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Retrieving my coat and bidding Mrs. Hudson farewell, I left 221b and, after hailing a passing hansom cab, I soon found myself headed for my familiar lodgings when in London -- Brown's Hotel. The cab ride itself was a blur, my mind still back at Baker Street and the case, the one thought playing repeatedly over and over in my head.

I had to help him! There was too much at stake for him to risk all. Not just his own life but those of the children. His earlier words regarding the vindictive nature of those responsible had quite chilled me. What if they discovered him? Might they not kill the children rather than risk another such breach, or even just as retribution? No, he needed aid if he was not to be detected...even if it was only to keep watch on him, to be an extra hidden set of eyes. I could wait outside or enter the establishment, and if I saw him about to encounter trouble, I could intervene.

I suppose, dear readers, you find me more than just a tad foolish in having such thoughts. And looking back on it, there is no doubt at all now that I was. For an experienced man such as he knew well enough what he was getting into, and what would a woman like me be able to do that would possibly help beyond simply alerting the police? And yet, I was blind to this at the time; I think now I was desperate to avoid what was to me a secondary form of rejection at his hands following on the earlier, more intimate one. Therefore, I could not and would not be persuaded to any other path.

Upon arrival at the hotel, I paid the driver and entered the fashionably decorated lobby, heading for the front desk to retrieve the key to my room.

Once there, I was greeted with a pleasant smile by Mr. Samuel Phipps, the regular desk clerk at that time of day. I could tell he was somewhat surprised to see me there at that time, my day usually taken up either by company business or William. "Here you are, Miss Thurlow," he said, handing me the key to my room. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I was about to thank him and reply in the negative when a woman not much older than me came down the stairs in a whirlwind of feathers and dogs, who were yipping annoyingly at her feet. There was nothing amiss with her large elaborate hat or her gown of fine silks and satins, with a long train that would have cost a pretty penny in any shop...save only the glaring incongruity that it was a gown one wore in the evening to a ball or gala...not in the middle of an afternoon. That, and the jewels she was decorated in and the somewhat heavy handed use of raddle upon her cheeks made it difficult not to stare at her. Indeed, on turning back to Mr. Phipps, I noticed his face had fallen into almost a glower.

"Mr. Phipps?" I enquired solicitously of him.

He coughed lightly and gazed down at his register, dragging his eyes from the woman and back to me, his look going from one of utter disapproval to sincerest apology in literally the blink or two of an eye.

"My deepest apologies, Miss," he murmured, leaning a little closer to me. "Respectable guests like yourself shouldn't have to be subjected to the likes of her being kept here." He shook his head. "No better than a guttersnipe with her airs and graces. I really don't know what the manager was thinking of when he let her...patron...put her up here." He sighed and leaned back. "If you would like to leave a letter of complaint?" he ventured.

My head turned back to the woman, who was exiting the hotel with an almost haughty expression on her face, a tiny smile appearing on my lips as I turned back to the clerk. "No, that is quite all right...however, you would not happen to know where I could purchase such a gown? The matter is rather urgent," I enquired, giving him my most winning smile.

He blinked rapidly in a matter I supposed was not a million miles away from the effect Mr. Holmes has on me and most of human kind with his swift successive changes of pace and subject. "Miss?" he queried, flabbergasted I might want something like that after seeing it on 'that woman.' "Umm...there is Morelli's of Park Lane...they do an extensive range of ball gowns..." His eyes glanced to the door. "Although some don't recognise that when they see them."

"Wonderful! Thank you so much, Mr. Phipps. You have been most helpful!" I replied, giving him a most grateful look, and moved briskly out the door that the woman had just left, my mind now fully focused on my errand.

It was just quarter past ten when I stepped again into a carriage waiting outside Brown's Hotel, my dress and face hidden by a rather full hooded cloak. Calling up to the waiting driver that I wished to be taken to Haymarket, there was a pause born of surprise and a query from the man to ensure he had heard right.

As I repeated our dubious destination, I sat back, more grateful than ever for the anonymity the cloak had presented me with, due primarily to my new 'disguise,' for the looks that would have been bestowed upon me on crossing through the lobby, dressed as I was beneath the shield of the long cape and cowl, would surely have been a mixture of horrified fascination and outrage.

Once we were safely on our way, I removed the substantial covering of silk and velvet, and sat back to prepare myself for our arrival in one of the more risqué areas of London. I found myself again nibbling my lip as I tried to contemplate my approach for that night, my fingers finding and twirling the long tendrils of my new black-haired wig.

Mr. Holmes would not be pleased to see me there…that I knew and understood, so my best option was to not be seen. I would simply stay in the background and only make myself known if it looked as though he required my aid. I had no doubt that I would, despite my few all anxieties, be able to see this plan through smoothly and precisely.

How wrong I was.

As we trundled through the streets of Mayfair and Piccadilly, my mind cast back over my whirlwind of an afternoon. After leaving the hotel that morning, I had hurried over to the shop that the clerk had recommended, and I must say the man at Morelli's who handled my rather bizarre order was nothing if not helpful -- especially after he saw that I had the monetary means to purchase not only the type of evening gown I was looking for but also the accessories one needed to go with it. His lack of questions or even surprise at my choice of garments and desired effect led me to believe that Morelli's clientele, though all well funded, were not exclusively of a respectable nature.

I found the type of dress I was looking for immediately -- a purple gown of silk and satin with black lace and beading that was cinched tightly at the waist and contained a rather full bustle and train. It was frankly somewhat excessive, especially with its plunging neckline, and something I would never have dared to be seen in normally. This in and of itself would not have been untoward, but with my corset having to be tightened greatly as this particular style of gown favoured a very small waist, my bust line was, by the time we were done, certainly leaning towards immodesty.

However, the situation called for it, and needs must…so after some quick tailoring, I was told to return in three hours and the gown would be ready.

I put this time to good use and hurried to a nearby shop that specialised in hats, hair pieces, and wigs, and an hour later left with an already styled black wig, complete with feathers and combs. I must admit to a slight curiosity about what I would look like with my hair colour so radically changed, but other than that, my mind remained focused on my goal. A couple of other brief stops for shoes and gloves, and I was back at Morelli's to pick up my newly fitted gown.

Dining quickly at a small restaurant, I felt it wise that, should I be called into play, to think up a character, and adapting the kind of castle-building I had last utilised in imaginary 'plays' in my childhood, I attempted to draw upon it again, this time to concoct an admittedly far more squalid history than my imagination had ever been called upon to draft before.

I arrived back at Brown's in good time to rapidly bathe, dress, coif myself in my new hair, and attempt to make my make-up more like the Magdalen I was disguising myself as. The reflection that greeted me in the mirror on completion of my toilette most certainly gave me a turn. For apart from the grey eyes that stared back at me, I could barely see anything of myself in my refection. It was though I had been hidden away by this other being. It was, I must say, most disconcerting, and even looking back on it now, I still feel a shiver when I remember that moment.

At that time, however, my thoughts were interrupted by the cab stopping and the driver calling back to me that we were at Regent Street, right by the Jermyn Street access to The Haymarket. Folding my cloak over my arm, I opened the door and descended from the carriage, handing the money up to the driver once I was safely on the street and giving him a quick smile. His response on seeing me now without the cloak reminded me again that he did not see me as the woman I truly was. Taking my money with a sniff, he snapped the reins, and as he pulled away I could hear him muttering about ferrying my 'sort' about.

Perverse and shameless as the admittance might sound given his assumption, I could barely keep the smile off my face for my small triumph. Though as I walked briskly down Jermyn Street and entered the bustling Haymarket…I froze, the smile washed off my face as though by a tidal wave.

I had seen The Haymarket in passing once or twice by day, and though crowded and somewhat shabby with its pubs, street dealers, and traders, it hardly seemed remotely as threatening as places like The Seven Dials or Whitechapel that I had read of. I had thoroughly convinced myself that no single place surrounded on all sides by such respectable areas as Regent Street, Piccadilly, and The Strand could be as infamous as all that, and had thought that I would be prepared for the sights and sounds of the district by night.

But what greeted me was not like the street I had seen before. Indeed, it was not like any street in London I had ever experienced before. No…it was Bedlam…or Babylon reincarnate…depending on who wished to make the comparison.

I freely confess that I have never in all my days seen anyplace so packed with people and vice as I did that night. There was noise everywhere -- so much it seemed to echo off the stones in the buildings and streets to such an extent that it simply assaulted the ears.

There were bodies packed into every available spot -- men and women both, stumbling around mindlessly inebriated. Women offering themselves openly to well heeled men, beggars of every age and sex performing their craft in the streets and selling their paltry wares or thrusting their dirty hands at the people who passed by, until they either achieved their goal or were chased off.

There were cafes, many well decorated, that lined the streets, filled to the brim with men of every class and their obvious 'acquaintances' for the night, as well as tourists from the continent, judging by their accents and the noticeable foreign languages that emanated from the snatches of conversations I heard -- tourists out for a good time in the metropolis.

The Haymarket was not wholly without its respectable side, and I did notice a few establishments that were suitable if not for the well to do, at least for the more morally upright people there solely to visit the Music Halls. However, the crowds waiting to get into those grandiose buildings were so great that the pavement was quite impassable, and most of the visitors had to walk on the streets, which explained why no traffic, save the hefty delivery drays and wagons with their rough draymen at the helm, ventured there after the Omnibus stopped running in the early evening.

As I moved out of the way of a drunken, raucously singing couple, I noticed that this den of vice was not without its law keepers. I spied several policemen scattered around, but it was obvious that they were there only for keeping public order and watching for and collaring thievery that might discommode the visiting gentry. They were doing absolutely nothing at all about the obvious 'trade' going on around me, contenting themselves with breaking up the rows that spilled out from the pubs and cafes or spontaneously broke out on the streets between rival groups.

And truth be told, I could not help but be astonished at the almost incalculable number of 'unfortunate' women who were haunting the streets of London. The women that I had seen before in Camden Town had been mostly of the decent sort. Working class women with respectable jobs in shops and factories, who had been forced to other arrangements when times took a downward turn until they were able to pull themselves back onto their feet again. And most of them simply returned to work and married with no other problems. It was then, I was struck quite forcibly with the realization that what I thought I knew was nothing to what I was witnessing now.

It was most humbling, to say the least…and I felt my heart beat more rapidly as the doubt once again rose within me. However, I had come this far, and the stakes were so high that I could not and would not turn back. So, steeling myself, I began my slow but purposeful walk towards the entrance of the Trocadero, the illuminated sign for their more legitimate side alerting me to its location in this madness.

Focusing on the sign, I could see the women from the corner of my eye, and it had never occurred to me till then that there might be a type of class order in this trade that they were forced to make their living in. Eyeing me with nothing short of disdain as I passed were the shamelessly aggressive, foulmouthed, lewd, and often violent streetwalkers, who seemed to congregate in small loose groups. Yet despite their fierce nature, even in my short time observing them, these women demonstrated several acts of deep compassion in watching over the beggars, both old and young. Protecting them from the police, they encouraged their patrons to buy what flotsam the impoverished one might be selling before taking their customers away down sordid alleys or to houses backing onto the Haymarket and Regent Street, their compatriots watching their patches till they returned.

Then there were those who queued to buy the 'tin tickets' that would get them into other areas of the Music Halls like the Trocadero. These women were better attired and behaved in a far more reserved and ladylike manner than the streetwalkers, the men on the door scrutinizing them before they entered seeing to that. But they too seemed to vary in stature, for some were dressed shabbily and showing signs of dissipation, while others were fresh faced and far better clothed, amazingly so in some cases, their jewelry glittering in the bright lights. It was obvious to see that those women were almost certainly headed for wealthy if not noble trade. The sight was both fascinating and horrible to see first hand.

I bypassed the usual, brightly lit entrance to the Trocadero and headed for the short alley alongside it as though I intended to go to the tradesman's or stage door entrance. Knowing that was where Mr. Holmes was to meet and make his contact, I knew that was where I had to be in my great plan to wait for and watch over my friend, the detective.

Of course, I was paying so much attention to the throng and bustle around me that I was not paying heed to what was happening in front to me, and in the process, was nearly run over by a rapidly departing cart from the Schorman & Parkes brewery, taking away empty ale barrels from the rear of the establishment at a pace that was, to my mind, reckless considering the size and weight of the vehicle. I did my best to look merely mildly affronted and not blush at the comments they threw my way as they headed away, but it truly does amaze me what comes out of men's mouths at times.

I turned to continue on my way, but this time ran smack into a pair of incredibly loud and obviously drunk and leering older men, who stank of old ale and smoke. After staring at me through rheumy eyes for a moment, they told, or rather bellowed, some incomprehensible drunken joke, at which both burst out laughing before weaving on their way out of the alleyway.

The alley was brightly lit only at its far end, near the trade and stage entrances, where I could see another delivery vehicle outside the open doors, from the pork and poultry vendors Shucke & Beergh's. Beyond where the van's horse stood were a welcome number of wooden boxes. Crates of a size I might successfully secret myself behind to observe and overhear, were I able to reach them without being perceived by the men moving to and fro from the van.

As I began furtively down the dank, damp, foul smelling alley, progressing from the half light near the start of the alley into that unlit part of it at its heart, a match flared and its ruddy orange glow illuminated a face half hidden by a rumpled, brown derby as the owner lit his cigarette in the pitch dark. The tip of the tightly rolled tobacco burned brightly; it was the only thing I could see until my eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, and I perceived a tall shadowed figure leaning backwards against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

"'Ello, Miss Laycock. Lost?" came a deep timbred voice.

I fought back the urge to shrink away, instead remembering myself and gazing at him with an arched eyebrow, and decided now was just as good a time as any to practice my accent. "Mais, non, Monsieur. I am most certainly not lost," I replied with a sniff.

There was a momentary silence and another glow of the cigarette as it was pulled upon once more. "Frenchy, eh?" came the answer, the tip of the cigarette shifting and telling me he was moving. "Well now...ain't that somefink. Whatcha doin' here, Miss Frenchy Laycock?" he asked, getting closer.

"That is most certainly not your concern," I shot back, barely finding it within me to hold my own ground, though I knew if he came much closer, I would either have to flee or figure out some way of fending him off.

He stepped out into the light, his head bowed as he dropped the cigarette, nothing more than a fag end to begin with, to the wet ground, his cracked hobnailed boots grinding it into the ground beneath his feet. Tall and stocky, he was a strapping figure, his clothes dandified but rumpled and just a little too small for him. The ornate ring on his finger, which caught the glow of the cigarette when he raised it to his mouth, had some cloth around one part of it to hold it on him, the misfit indicating that there was every chance he was not its true owner.

On first glance, he looked like a great many of the men I had seen thus far, but I was taken by surprise when he raised his head and revealed a pair of pale blue eyes in a face that could not have been more than sixteen at the most.

"Not my concern?" his voice reverberated off the wall behind me as he raised it. "I reckons any gal...fancy 'n foreign or not...who wanders down my alley...ain't got no right to tell me what is and ain't my concern?" He eyed me slowly and moved forward again.

I felt a lead weight drop to the bottom of my stomach, the thought never occurring to me that the alley ways were 'owned' by anyone, but after witnessing what the other women had done and where they sometimes took their 'clients,' it did make a sort of sense. "Your alley?" I enquired, trying to seem cool and collected and not show how utterly terrified I truly was. "Then I do apologise, Monsieur. I am merely meeting an acquaintance...but shall trouble you no further," I added, taking a step back.

"An hacquaintance, is it?" he imitated in a hoity toity voice, and before I knew it had closed the distance between us again until he was no more than two feet from me. He looked up and down the alleyway. "Unless its them carters loadin' and unloadin' at that there meat locker...I don't see no 'hacquaintances.' Appears to me like its jus' you and me, Miss Fancy Dollymop...and seein' as you're in my alley...you owes me a toll." His young face darkened into a smile that was the deadest I had ever seen on a face so young.

I also had no doubt exactly what type of 'toll' he desired. "Well, I am a little early, so it is just more likely he has not yet arrived," I shot back casually, desperate to keep up my wit and show no fear as I took several more steps back nonchalantly, which was just as well, as my feet nearly got caught up in my ridiculously long and ornate gown.

"Tha's alright..." he sniffed, wiping his jacket arm across the lower part of his face. "That suits us jus' nice now don't it...gives us privacy like." His eyes wandered over me. "I ain't never had no foreign Jane...they say as how you Frogs are all a stinkin' lot...but you smells perfumeried enough to me..." He began to open his jacket buttons. "If you're good, I may even buys you a drink when we're done..."

It took everything within me not to scream in terror at what that boy...man…intended, and yet somehow I found the will to pull myself to my full height and look at him with the most condescending expression and mocking smile I could muster. "And what makes you think, Monsieur, that you will have your Jane now? You could not afford me in this lifetime...and my...Hector...I do believe you call them here...would most certainly not be amused! He would thrash you within an inch of your life for your impertinence!"

His face hardened in an instant, his eyes flashing, and how it came to be there I will never know, but there was a click and the glint of a blade was evident in his hand. "Don't you come the 'igh and mighty with me, Miss Laycock...pricey and perfumeried you may be, but all you is, is a common whore...no different then all them others. I don't see no Hector...and I doubts you have one, Frenchy…in the shake I ain't gonna fret none over it…cos' you'll come across...and come across happy like." He nodded, advancing on me. "Or I'll see to it your price drops considerable," he added as he raised the knife.

A moment later, he froze where he was, a sharp gasp filling the air.

My eyes, which had been seeking an avenue of escape, looked back at the sound and widened as I perceived a second blade pressed tight against the throat of the now terrified young man.

"Drop the shiv...there's a good lad," a second, more mature, but equally broad East End accent whispered in the dark, and I blinked as the immaculately goateed, swarthy face of a second man hove into view in the poor light. Even then, I could make out the long pale line on his cheek nearest to me running into that black goatee. A scar that told of a man used to knives. "Drop it now, I tellsya boy..." his whisper descended into a growl. "Or I'll fetch off and wallop you one so 'ard you'll go screaming for your Ma into the next life...if I don't slice you open first, that is."

The sound of metal hitting the ground clattered about the place. Down by the trades entrance, the carters paused in the middle of loading crates into the delivery meat locker, but on seeing something as commonplace as two men fighting over a woman, turned and went on about their business.

"Good boy." White teeth gleamed against dark skin. "Clever lad...knows as wha' side his bread is buttered on, don't you?" Quick as a flash the knife at his throat was gone to be replaced by a hand which closed around his windpipe and with considerable force began to choke him. "Now..." The man, tall, broad chested, and unlike his young opponent, immaculately dressed in a tailored grey suit, a bowler perched on the back of his head, began to walk him backwards. "If you wants to be able to eat that bread 'n butter any time soon..." The gurgling sound the boy made at that point led me to believe the point had been driven home by a contraction of the fingers about his throat. "You'll clear off. Sharpish like."

The sudden victim of an almighty shove, the boy flew backwards and landed in a puddle on the ground, gasping for air. A finger from my rescuer pointed at him. "For good mind...this ain't your alley no more, mind me!" he was warned. "And don't get no rum ideas about bringing your mates back with you...you saw how easy I sneaked up on you...don't think I ain't got no mates as can do the same hangin' hereabouts."

I think I watched the scene in some kind of petrified state of fear and horror, for as soon as he released the young man, I was hurrying as fast as I could to lose myself in the crowded streets before this new man could follow me, his appearance terrifying me much more than that of the more youthful assailant.

Ahead of me, the boy scrambled back, his eyes darting fearfully from this man towards the shadows. Dragging himself up and dripping, he turned and ran to the end of the alley, getting halfway out into the Market beyond and then he turned back to shout some vile abusive bravado back at us both before disappearing into the crowd.

Hurrying to do the same, my stomach lurched and I cried out as a hand gripped my arm in a grip like steel. I was dragged backwards into the heart of the darkened alleyway, shoved against the wall, and pinned there, my cries utterly unheeded as the scarred and snarling face loomed above me.

Authors' Notes: Sorry this chapter is a day late! We have been tying up loose ends here on the mystery and as a result this chapter got to the beta a day late. Also, we wrote a small Snape piece -- which can be viewed at http / occulmency. Feel free, if you are over the age of 17...to go and take a peek. Anyhoo...we hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Courtship of Helen Thurlow...and we should be all set to bring you the next part of this mystery on time on Friday. (crosses fingers)

Not many questions this week, I see! Though I notice that people really like Captain Edwards or think he's up to no good. Well, I guess if falling in love with Helen is up to no good...then he is. (chuckles) He really is a stand up guy though... And as you noticed...the next three chapters --The Harlot mystery arc -- there is zero Captain Edwards and tons more Holmes...heh...

And as for Helen's feelings towards the great detective...we shall see.

So enjoy and please let us know your thoughts -- feeding the plot bunnies is always good. And till next week...hugs to all! --Aeryn (of aerynfire)