Chapter Six: The Respectable Harlot – Part Two

My scream froze in my throat, as an almost mind-numbing fear for not only my life but my virtue coursed through my veins; though that certainly does not mean, gentle readers, that I did not struggle nor fight him with every breath of my body.

"Stop it at once! You have nothing to fear!" the voice above me snapped angrily as I tried desperately to wrest myself from him once more. So desperate were my actions that I failed to notice that that voice was no longer as throaty or thickly laden with the working class accent it had previously carried. "Miss Thurlow! Control yourself!"

The sound of my name brought some modicum of my senses back to me. Still quivering in fright, I looked up at the strange face before me. "Who...who...who are you? How do you know my name?" I gasped.

"A fair question…" he replied, the voice sounding more and more familiar though it retained its infuriated edge, "given that you are barely recognisable!" Quite suddenly I found my hands were free. "Have you completely taken leave of your senses, woman?"

Rubbing my wrists, I stared at the face before me, trying to reconcile the voice with what I beheld and searching for some hint of familiarity...and then I saw his eyes. They were hazel, sharp, narrow with rage, and flashing in the darkness. "Mr...Holmes?" I breathed, stunned at the transformation in him and briefly but acutely aware that had I been waiting and watching for him as planned, it was entirely possible I never would have recognised him! Finally, the meaning of his words hit me. "No! I have not taken leave of my senses. I am here to help you." And would you know it has been years since I have uttered those words...and I still feel rather ridiculous at how cocksure I sounded.

"What?" he whispered, his eyes widening incredulously. "Help...HELP me!" he blazed quickly before quieting himself, aware of both those at the end of the alley and the need to maintain his character's vocal inflections. "And how…precisely…were you doing that? By ignoring my decision on your participation? By distracting me from my work? Perhaps it was by throwing yourself blindly into the most precarious of situations and almost getting yourself..." He choked on the next word and I could see him visibly trying to control an anger that I had never before thought him capable of; his cool almost dispassionate demeanour was shaken to an extent that he appeared almost to be vibrating as he inhaled forcibly. "You have an unusual grasp of the meaning of the word, Miss Thurlow," he finished in the most derisive of tones.

Even though I knew he was right in every regard, I shudder to recall that, at that time, shaken by my experience, stung by his tone, and annoyed at his failure to at least appreciate my gesture, I pulled myself up to my full height and folded my arms across my chest. "Indeed...well, I must say that I did not plan on that happening, but I am grateful for your aid. You said that they would be on the look out for you alone...and how could I let a friend walk into such danger unaided? I did not plan for you to know I was here, unless it seemed that your contact did not believe you were who you said you were. So you see, I was not trying to distract you at all!"

His mouth opened to reply and then did so again in a way that that approximated the movement of a goldfish. In all my acquaintance with him, I have seldom seen Mr. Holmes lost for words...this was the first of those occasions. His eyes, still wide, stared incredulously into mine before, trying to formulate his thoughts, they dipped downwards and due to the unfortunate nature of my gown immediately shot back up again. He turned away quickly from me, his hand going to his forehead. "A woman's logic!" he lamented quietly to the air with a pained groan. "Utterly incomprehensible!"

In keeping with my truly illogical state, I was unsure if I was pleased or not that I had reduced him to such words. So I merely continued to press my case. "I do not see what is so incomprehensible about it, Mr. Holmes. I feel I made my point quite clearly."

"Yes, I'm sure you did, though what it was escapes me entirely," he rejoined, turning to face me again. "And now that you have made it, I will thank you to return home at once!"

I raised my chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. "I see...however, to get me safely to a cab, " I glanced out of the alleyway and across the mobbed street to where I had arrived, "will require escorting me beyond the Haymarket, and as a result, precious time...which given you are due to meet your contact at any moment, will be wasted, which you cannot afford. I am here, Mr. Holmes...and I can do this. Why won't you let me assist you?" I waved my hand. "Even that scoundrel thought I was a woman of...ill repute."

A single bark of a laugh reverberated off the alley walls. "Yes." He nodded, his voice flooding with harsh sarcasm. "Of course that is true, and for that single reason I should deem you capable, should I not? Give you all due credit? After all..." he moved closer, endeavouring still to keep his voice hushed, "your attention to detail..." his hand waved in the direction of my dress, no doubt indicating the lack of it, "was exemplary." He took in my face with the air of an inspector. "A raddle painted slattern to the tee...the hair is a nice touch and of course...having taken such pains to take on the outward trappings, I'm sure you naturally secreted a weapon about yourself, as such women do when walking the streets, and were just about to bring it to bear upon your attacker?" he asked with an expectant tone.

I swallowed slowly and tried to give the defiant appearance and air of that being exactly my intent before sighing and pursing my lips. "Well...yes, of course...if I had thought to bring such a weapon..."

"Of course," he agreed in that same sardonic tone as he interrupted me with a sharp nod. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow, I believe you have most adequately answered your own question as to 'why' I am reluctant to have you involved. You have demonstrated to me this evening a lack of good sense I heretofore had not thought you capable of!" His hand raised slowly and pointed towards the main street. "You will return to your hotel."

Alas, still I would not be moved, my father's stubborn streak manifesting itself in the most intransigent and bull-headed of ways. "You would send me away because I did not think to bring a knife?" I glanced around quickly and upon spying the discarded knife of the man who had accosted me, I retrieved it. Examining it and pressing the button that retracted the wicked blade into the handle, I slipped it into my pocket. "There...now I am armed," I pronounced, my mouth still stubbornly set and, I must admit, a rather triumphant gleam in my eyes.

He regarded me silently for a moment before inclining his head. "Please forgive my ungentlemanly conduct, Miss Thurlow," he apologised a moment before he laid hands on me and, taking my arm in his vice-like grip again, dragged me away from the wall.

Turning, he moved to drag me bodily back towards the main thoroughfare, his voice once again a snap of annoyance. "It is not your not being armed that concerns me...rather the appalling lack of thought and foresight that caused you to fail to think of it in the first place!"

I wriggled and yanked at my arm in an attempt to have him release me, more furious and embarrassed than scared this time. Only as we neared the entrance to the alleyway, I tripped first on a loose cobblestone and then on my voluminous skirts. Swinging around by his hold on my arm, I smashed directly into him as he tried to hold me up, nearly taking him off his feet in the process as I grabbed hold of him.

With great agility, he regained his footing almost immediately, but the appearance we gave upon righting ourselves would have shocked many in our society. Here and now, however, it went almost entirely unnoticed... just another harlot pressed up bodily against her pander.

Before he had the opportunity to pull away from me and resume his intention to send me back to Brown's, we were disturbed by a voice behind us.

"Oi!"

Both our heads turned in the direction of the end of the alley to see a man in evening clothes, but without his dress coat, standing in the pool of light beyond the main doors. "Your name Maidstone?" he called, watching us closely.

What followed was the oddest of sensations. Pressed now as I was to him, I could tell Mr. Holmes had padded himself across the chest to create the broader physique he was displaying. But even then I could feel him shift slightly, and his chest and shoulders seemed to expand still further in the half light, making him appear even more imposing again. Above me, he inhaled and when he spoke again, it was as the man I had first spied him as, his voice throaty, reverberating through him and me as he replied, "Who wants t' know?"

Our addresser, a broad and burly man, his hair long and tied back, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and wandered slowly towards us. "Name's Bill Switch," he said as he drew closer, revealing himself to be a man in his early twenties. "I work in the Rooms." He eyed us both before his attention turned wholly to Mr. Holmes, whose hands had slipped to my upper arms and were resting there. "And you are?" Switch reiterated his question with a bit more edge to it.

"Pleased t' meet you," Mr. Holmes, or rather Mr. Maidstone as he seemed to me now, replied, one hand moving from me towards him in greeting. "Jake Maidstone."

Switch eyed his hand, which I could not but admiringly notice was darkened in accordance with the rest of his skin. The gesture, however, was not reciprocated, and Switch's eyes, virtually ebony in the light we were standing in, moved back to Mr. Holmes's swarthy, bearded, and scarred face as he drew his hand back.

"Are you now?" he replied and began walking slowly around us. As he did so, I could smell the acrid stench of dried sweat and old cigarette smoke from him, and now I could gaze upon him fully, his dapper appearance was completely undermined on this closer inspection, his drawn-back hair gleaming, not from pomade but lank with grease. "Interesting name…" He nodded. "I recollects a Maidstone around these parts…from when I was younger like. He disappeared after a run in with the peelers when he muzzled one. You s'posed to be 'im then?"

"Not s'posed to be, am…and yes...the coppers weren't too 'appy about tha'," the hardly recognisable voice of the man close beside me returned. "Though I qui' enjoyed it meself," he said philosophically. "I don't take kindly t' any of my girls bein' set upon...even by a peeler after a free turn."

Switch nodded as he continued to circle us like one of those sharks I had read about in my brothers' tales of the South Seas. "I was only a nipper then...afore my time...but I seems to recollec' you righ' enough. You were set fair for a career and a 'alf. Costers liked you. Though...I don't seem to see you bein'," he stopped then and looked him up and down, "qui' so tall as you seems to me now."

"Been nigh on fifteen year since I been back 'ere. I put on a bit o' beef since then...and a man grows in stature natural like," Mr. Holmes sniffed, before looking down at me. "Continental life 'as been good to me, you migh' say."

Switch's black eyes followed his to mine and a flicker of a grin appeared on his face. "So I see," he agreed with a nod. "She one of yours, I take it? French piece, eh? Nice." His grin grew as he noted our surprise at his knowing that. "One of my young Crows gave me the nod to your being 'ere…came in all frighted he did, said some Froggy Judy and her 'ector was causin' a fuss."

Mr. Holmes hesitated a moment with his response, and I could virtually hear his mind weighing the options of his answer before his hold on me tightened somewhat. Switch's knowing at least a version of what had happened made it impossible for Mr. Holmes to deny we were together and difficult for him to dismiss me without raising suspicion.

"It was 'im as caused the fuss," Mr. Holmes snapped. "You'll want to tell that young cove to watch 'is 'ands in future…like I said, I don't take kindly t' any of my girls bein' set upon." He raised his bearded chin and nodded before looking to me once more. "And yes...she's my special girl...as long as she plays her cards righ', tha' is."

Realising I had gotten what I wanted and was now, whether he…or indeed I…liked it or not, part of Mr. Holmes's cover, I gave the other younger man a winning if coy smile and trying hard to hide any self consciousness, began to slowly move my hand up and down Mr. Holmes's chest in imitation of several women I had seen already that night.

"That is right," I replied, my French accent back on in full force and full of the brash brazenness a girl such as I was portraying would have. "Though I assure you that cards have nothing to do with my 'specialness.'" I paused and winked up at my companion. "N'est-ce pas?"

He nodded briefly at me and he looked back at Switch. "As you can see...she don't lack fer confidence this one," he added and I did not fail to hear the double meaning to his words, his amazement at my gall at being there still running strong.

"Yes...and with good reason, I'll warrant," Switch noted. "And what's your name, sweet thing?" he asked me.

Turning from Mr. Holmes without waiting for him to do the introductions as would have been usual, I held out my hand and continued to smile at Switch, though I found him utterly revolting by this stage. "I am Jeanette, Monsieur," I introduced myself, using the name I had lighted upon when concocting my short history of this woman over lunch.

"Pleasure, I'm sure," he answered, and my levels of revulsion rose when he took my hand, turned it, and with an infernal cheek that normally would have earned any man a slap to his face, opened three of the buttons on the wrist of my glove and proceeded to press his clammy mouth to the revealed skin. "Call me, Bill," he murmured lasciviously up at me, still keeping my hand close to his fleshy lips.

Beside me I could feel Mr. Holmes tense at Switch's actions, and fighting back a real wave of nausea, I managed to keep the coy smile on my face as I gently pulled back my hand.

"But Mr. Switch...we hardly know each other...that would not be proper at all," I chided, though my voice was a low purr. "Perhaps if all goes well with this business...I shall feel more comfortable with a more intimate acquaintance." I realise how horribly improper this sounds, but it was, I knew, in keeping with my character, and I could not help but feel a little fillip of triumphant vindication when once again I felt Mr. Holmes tense, this time in surprised response to my manner and words.

"Like she says…let's not get ahead of ourselves eh, Switch?" He took my hand and gripped it, to my mind, a little tightly. "We've got dealing to do...or do we?"

"P'rhaps..." Switch leaned back and jammed his hands once more into his trousers, trying to appear nonchalant. "Your note din't say much 'bout what you wanted from us."

A moment later, I found myself cut adrift as Mr. Holmes pushed me from him, his...or rather Maidstone's face dark. "You know well enough what I'm..." he paused and glanced at me reluctantly, "we're…after. Let's not mince about, Switch...can I see your 'andlers or not?"

"Where exactly did you get t' when you disappeared?" Switch shot back without pause.

"I told you!" Mr. Holmes growled. "The continent! I got snuck out o' the city…stowed away on a ship bound from Dover. Learned some lingo, got meself by as a Dipper and Mug-Hunter in Marseilles and then got some work in a bordello there...built a reputation for bringing in the English sailors. Earned me some money...got meself in well with the Abbess there...and when she got nabbed, she left the affair in my 'ands." He smiled darkly. "Never gave it back when she got out of Jug neither.

"Couple o' years later...got meself a place in Paris too. More 'igh class. And now I'm workin' on a nice place down on the Riviera, not tha' the likes of you would know where tha' is. Is tha' enough for you, Switch? Or would you like me to take you there and show you around? I'm sure you and your bosses got time...what with the coppers no doubt breathin' hot 'n heavy in your lugholes like."

Switch, for his part, seemed to bristle, but there was no denying the last part hit home. He straightened, his eyes moving to the end of the alley as a pair of policemen walked by, paying no attention to our presence whatsoever.

"I'll tell them I spoken to you," he finally said grudgingly. "Seein' as they don't know you, no doubt, they'll want to think it over more before they think of meetin' wiv you direct like."

Still looking at Switch, Mr. Holmes held out his hand to me casually, Maidstone's attitude relaxing instantly. "Right you are," he said pleasantly. "I s'pose you have somewhere civil for us to wait?"

Taking his hand, I moved to him, pressing up close against his side, while my fingers again trailed over his chest. "Yes..." I agreed. "Perhaps somewhere that is a bit warm, Monsieur? It is frightfully chilly out here...and I am getting all covered in goosebumps!" I lamented.

"Yes..." Switch said, appearing slightly distracted by my words, his eyes following my movements. "Head over to the Rouge Cafe...they 'ave snugs 'n the like put aside for us. Tell 'em Bill Switch sent you. Stay there till I sends for you." He raised his hand slowly as he returned his attention to Mr. Holmes, his manner threatening. "And don't you think of leaving. You wan' in on this...you waits till we gives the all clear you 'ear me, Maidstone? We're calling the shots...not you."

"Proper order," my companion replied, drawing my hand from his silk shirtfront and wrapping it firmly around his arm.

"Merci, Monsieur...you are most kind," I told the greasy-haired man in front of me and gave him another coy smile, batting my eyelashes a little as well. "Isn't he, Jake?" I purred, reaching up to run a finger over his neck and shoulder.

It is somewhat shameless of me to admit that...despite our predicament...and the blatant behaviour I was enacting, I could not help but get a second thrill of satisfaction as I felt Mr. Holmes attempt to stifle the stiffening of his shoulders in response to my touch.

"Yes..." he said giving me an odd look that Switch probably construed as irritation at my coy looks and flirtations with him, "he's righ' kind."

Turning and pausing only to pick up my cloak which had slipped from my grasp when I had been first accosted by Mr. Switch's young 'Crow,' we made our way back into the main street and through the continued mayhem there. Spotting the appropriately named Rouge Cafe just across the way, with its Scarlet sign and gilt and crimson interior decorations, we entered the crowded smoke filled and unsurprisingly raucous interior. Though it was thick with patrons, on providing Mr. Switch's name we were led directly to a plushly comfortable booth with high smoked glass on three sides of it, cutting us off from those on either side of us, but not, we noted, hiding us from the attentions of the two men who entered just after we did and were now standing sentry, watching us from the doorway.

"Move closer," Mr. Holmes instructed quietly, head bowed, before taking off his hat and sitting back, his eyes never wandering to the men spying on us. I did as he asked and, in an effort to allow us speak more freely, moved so outrageously close that had I been any nearer I would have been sitting on his lap.

"Like this?" I murmured into his ear as though whispering something flirtatious into it.

"Yes," he responded shortly and again, I could feel him tense slightly beside me. "That's more than adequate." After a moment, he turned to look at me, and there was no disguising the frown of bewilderment on his features.

"Am I doing something wrong?" I whispered, stroking his chest again for the benefit of any and all audiences. "Is this not how such women behave?"

"Yes...I dare say it is," he answered with a nod. "And your playing of the part is, and I mean nothing offensive by this naturally...better than expected."

I gave him a bit of a smile and nodded. "Yes, well...as I told you, I have seen a few things in my life...but…" I felt my bravado waver finally now that we were well embarked on this voyage together, my honesty emerging. "I assure you, there are limits."

"I am pleased to hear it," he murmured, turning his head back to glance towards the crowded bar. "And for that reason, I still believe it is best for you to go."

I laughed then as though he had just said the funniest thing in all the world, but shook my head. "I am afraid...Jake...that I cannot," I replied in my French accent before dropping my voice low and whispering closely and seriously in his ear, "I remind you, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Switch instructed us to remain here. As I suspect you are well aware, if I leave as you wait to meet his employers over so sensitive an issue, suspicions will be raised. I am afraid you are bound to me until the 'transaction' has been concluded." My tone had more than a touch of wryness in it.

"Miss..." He stopped himself as the waiter approached us, his voice slipping like mine back into his character's timbre but the frustration with me remaining just the same. "Jeanette...you're more stubborn than a mule…you're goin' to get yerself hurt, girl." He turned his eyes towards me, and after a moment, raised his hand to touch my hair, or rather the wig I was wearing, and then my cheek softly, his hand hiding his mouth's movements as the waiter drew closer. "I can give no guarantees as to your safety," he whispered.

My skin seemed to tingle under his fingers, but I pushed the nonsensical sensation aside and bestowed a firm look upon him. "Perhaps not...but in the end, I am…as you said…a woman full grown, Jake...I chose to be here with you...and if I leave now, I guarantee my life, but risk yours," I murmured softly to him, "and that I will not do."

He contemplated me in silence and though we both knew, then as now, that I had acted foolishly to begin with, a little of his exasperation with me seemed to dissipate upon my words.

The waiter intruded finally upon us, and after Mr. Holmes ordered for us both and our drinks had been brought, I sipped on my wine and leaned against him as he tried to give me at least some indication of what we could expect.

"The woman you are about to meet is named Mrs. Mary Becker," he said quietly, his words hidden behind his scotch and soda. "Though her honorific is, as with all Madams, purely nominal. As I mentioned previously, she is the worst kind of woman, and every whim, every vice, every kind of excess is indulged with no empathy, no kindness, and no temperance of any kind. Her position as a Madam is the least of her crimes. She is a kidnapper, a torturer for hire, and I believe her a multiple murderess also. By virtue of her connections, never doing the deed herself, and ensuring that the bodies rarely if ever appear, she has kept herself safe for many years on that score. She lives only for money, power over others, and her own gratification." I nodded minutely in reply, fascinated and appalled as I sipped my wine.

"The man...her partner...and a former paramour...Sebastian Boucher Hughes...is a self styled gentleman, though he is in fact the son of a librarian from Hounslow. He is also known as 'The Swell.' He is the ultimate pander in London...the man responsible for bringing the highest class of clients to their black fold. Well spoken…elegantly dressed, and well educated, he is often to be seen in the best of clubs and drawing rooms...and the lowest dives and back rooms indulging his penchant for unspeakable acts." He glanced away from me briefly, and I could sense the return of his discomfort at bringing me anywhere near these people.

Again I nodded and glanced around the room, taking in the surrounds, before turning back to him. "I see..." I murmured, touching his hand in what I hope was disguised reassurance.

He moved his hand from mine almost instantly, slipping it under the table. At the time, I had thought it odd, and considering the array of intimacies I had already perpetrated that evening, this touch of comfort seemed the least of them. It was not until afterwards, when dwelling upon the night's events, that it occurred to me that in every instance, save that one, all the others had been 'in character.' Nor had they acknowledged any uncertainty in the coolly self-possessed detective.

Glancing back at me, he nodded. "I have never been beyond the saloon and main galleries of the Trocadero or Argyll Rooms, as it used to be known till late. The sights to be seen in the upper galleries are bad enough...hopefully for your sake, we can avoid them en route to their offices, which I believe are on the second floor. As they use this as a place of legitimate business for acts, we can assume that there won't be anything too untoward there."

"Then I shall do my best to keep my eyes focused on the goal," I assured him and took another small sip of my drink.

Well past midnight, precisely two hours from the time we arrived, as if every last moment had been allocated to keeping us in our place until we were summoned, Mr. Switch, now fully dressed, arrived in the doorway and nodded at us to come, the two men who had been watching us departing at the same moment.

Mr. Holmes returned his hat to his head as I gathered my cloak. "Very well, Miss Thurlow," he said in a low voice. "The curtain rises in earnest. One way or another, we must play this to the finish and give the most convincing performance we can."

I smiled brightly at him, though inside my stomach was roiling in anxiety, the two hours contemplating what was to come having agitated me considerably. Slipping my arm around his as well as taking care to press myself close to his side, I gazed up at him. "Mais oui, Jake...you know I am your woman," I agreed.

Switch returned with us to the rear entrance, escorting us back down the empty alleyway. But before we reached the entrance, Mr. Holmes paused, seeming to stop suddenly as we reached the point just before the doors, glancing back rapidly over his shoulder and then back in front of us once more.

Touching his arm, I gave him a quizzical look, but he merely shook his head quickly and indicated for me to follow Switch, who had seen nothing. And so we continued on into the back of the theatre, from whence we could hear the act on stage in full voice engaged in the still vastly popular 'Where Did You Get That Hat?' -- the huge crowd inside singing along with them in strident approval.

He led us through the bustling, captivating, backstage area and its barely organised chaos which I had never witnessed before, despite increasing trips to the opera and theatre, first with Mr. Holmes and then with William. Acts of all sorts practiced freely and frantically in the corridors, few of them fortunate enough to have warranted a dressing room. Hordes of painted chorus girls, far more made up than I, changed shifts, some coming off stage as others rushed to go on. It was then I realised with enthralment that their brightly coloured and daring outfits were far more garish in real life than they appeared on stage, the footlights obviously washing out their colour and their overly done faces and making both appear natural. It was an all too brief interlude in our more serious and dangerous evening.

Mr. Switch led us on through the maze of shabby unadorned brickwork halls to a single long corridor which changed from brick to plain plaster. As we moved further along it, the corridor became more brightly lit and the walls more elaborately decorated with fine brass fittings and Greco Roman style murals. Finally, we reached the end and an oak panelled doorway at which stood a dress-suited guard.

On stepping through the opened portal, we found ourselves in the full golden glare of the Great Saloon Room of the Trocadero.

The saloon was, as the name indicated, large and lit up in a splendid manner by the handsomest of brass and glass chandeliers, which descended from the soaring ceiling above us. There was also an impressive band of fifty instruments stationed in the gallery at the further end of the room, each member attired in full evening dress and playing music of the best kind, in contrast to the popular songs of the music hall we had just left behind us. When each song ended, a virtual flotilla of barmaids moved out to take orders from the vast crowd in each section, the noise levels rising quite incredibly.

As we moved along, I could see the women I had seen outside, dressed like myself in costly silks, satins, and velvets, the majority of them wearing rich jewels and gold ornaments. Lounging on the plush sofas in a free and easy way, they conversed with men, whose dress promised their engagement in respectable society, most probably having come from the gentlemen's clubs, dinner parties, or possibly from the theatres or opera.

These men, I noted from their actions in alerting others to their presence were, it seemed, most certainly not ashamed to be seen here by their acquaintances -- far from it. They took delight in bringing other gentlemen over to introduce them to their new lady friends.

It is not without merit that it is said that family, and specifically the women within one's family, are the bedrock of civilisation and virtue, for it was clear to me that the men's uninhibited manner was solely due to the knowledge that no virtuous woman would ever dream of entering such a place as this. Therefore, there was no need for any of these men to worry that they would perhaps run into or meet by accident any of their sisters, sweethearts, or, indeed, any good lady of their acquaintance.

I wonder often at the ability of men of any class to be so hypocritical over women…that they could sit and buy a woman drink enough to inebriate her, whisper bawdy stories and innuendo in her ear, and prevail upon her for the shockingly ardent kisses I could see that were customary here before broaching the suggestion of far more, and then to boast amongst their fellows and think it all the done thing. And yet, should any man approach their sister so, and attempt to do half as much, even should she be as willing or desperate as these women, they would be all righteous rage and murderous indignation.

Beyond these scenes and across the lower end of the room stretched a black and gold worked iron railing. This barrier, I surmised, was to keep the lower priced ticket holders from mingling with this elite of the 'unfortunate' women. Most of the ground space in that area beyond the railing seemed to be devoted to dancing, the floor filled to overcrowding with bodies -- some clasped together and some cheered on by others as they danced capering jigs, the copious amount of alcohol they had consumed most certainly taking its effect.

And nor should that be surprising, for there was not a man nor woman without a glass, and in that area beyond the railing I could see women having ale and half pint glasses of gin served to them through the courtesy of their companion's purse. Some of these women matched any man and disposed of even the largest drinks as if they were water, some drinking for pleasure and some, no doubt, to ease the ache or even obliterate the memory of what was to follow.

Inside the railing, once more, it was quite different.

The bars in that more expensive end were furnished in finery, and the calls for champagne were incessant from both men and women alike, who were resting on cushioned seats or benches that were placed all around the room so that those who had been dancing could rest themselves. Cigarette smoke rose about the place, with many of the women joining their companions in the male pastime of smoking.

Upstairs, there was another gallery and bar, and that was where the most exclusive women congregated to gaze over the balconies, fluttering their expensive fans and never condescending to mix among the dancers. Here, the men seemed almost to be favoured if they were called to this level, arriving with gifts of champagne and cigarettes and most unusually of all, exquisitely sown kid leather gloves, some with stitching of gold thread, which were on sale within the premises.

As we walked by, I could see a handsomely fitted-up alcove to the right of the bar decorated and ornamented with panels which were painted with scenes such as Europa and the Bull, Leda, and Bacchus and Silenus, in front of which women and men stood with Venetian goblets foaming full of champagne before them.

On the second floor was another, darker gallery -- one I could not see into. But from Mr. Holmes's earlier words, no doubt it was here where the private supper rooms were located for the convenience of the customers.

However, what caught my attention the most on that second floor was the huge, ornately framed arched window that overlooked almost everything going on within the rooms, a vantage point from which to watch the debauchery around and below.

And debauchery was what it was, loud and salacious…but not as I had partially feared, orgiastic…and it struck me forcibly then that the owners were clever. While the goings on within the building were without a doubt scandalous, they themselves could take no particular blame. The women who came here did not work for them. They merely paid an entry fee and took their chances with the men inside, the sense of carnality palpable, but the actual levels of it decidedly muted. The establishment's money was made, not from the selling of women, but rather from their entry fees and the alcohol and sundry other items purchased and consumed by the men.

Anything that occurred within the confines of the place, including the more private supper rooms, was therefore technically the responsibility of the customer and not the owner. That the owners operated brothels and other dens of ill repute was not in doubt…the Trocadero, however, though a fleshpot and meeting point for decadent dealing, was not one of them, remaining just enough within the law to be a legitimate business.

Switch stopped to speak with a gentleman or two who were obviously asking about the use of one of the supper rooms, and our lank haired guide directed him towards a flame haired middle aged woman who bestrode the room with the look and actions of a school mistress, assessing the behaviour of the visiting women. Any she deemed to be overly rowdy or in danger of being lewd to the point of criminality, she merely indicated to the plethora of well dressed strong arms to be removed. Her conduct, stern to the women, was all smiles and sweetness as the man approached her, and she treated him with the utmost courtesy in meeting all the required arrangements for his use of a room.

Taking us away from all this and leading us up the stairs to the first gallery, thankfully for us, Switch avoided the main part of the darkened second gallery, selecting instead a secondary private wrought iron and gilt staircase, where two men stood to prevent any stray customers from moving up and into the covered stairwell at its top.

Moving into that, we followed Switch up that one final small flight of stairs and crested it to find ourselves in a small, deeply carpeted corridor. As opposed to the gilded gaudy decorations below, this was the epitome of taste and elegance -- a beautiful Persian carpet lay on the floor and the walls were panelled in light oak with small landscapes hanging here and there and the occasional fine vase set on a carved walnut table to break the bareness of the floor. From Mr. Holmes's description of who we were to meet, I could easily ascribe with whom the responsibility for this oasis of sophistication lay. The only thing to spoil the restrained ambience of the place was the man on guard outside the double doors that were undoubtedly the entry to the sanctum sanctorum of this den.

At almost seven feet tall, his clothes ill fitting and torn in places, muscles bulging from every part of him, hair wild and uncombed, and with several days worth of facial hair, stood the biggest man...and most certainly the biggest negro...I had ever seen in my life.

Switch smiled at my rather taken aback reaction. "Yeah...Kangaroo cuts quite the sight, don't he, sweet thing?" he said to me. "Not many can take a butchers at him and not be impressed. 'E's a former champ, 'e is..." he informed us as he led us towards him. "Best bare knuckle fighter I ever saw. Seen better days, of course. Demon drink got an 'old of 'im, so it did. Ain't that right, Kangaroo?" he asked as we reached him.

What uttered from the man's lips in reply was a torrent of the most foul and threatening words I have ever been privy to in my life, and all in so casual a manner as to give the impression of his simply wishing Switch a 'good evening.'

Even our odious guide seemed rather taken aback, and paling somewhat and obviously not daring to retort, he nodded and reached for the handle, pushing the doors open hurriedly, knocking as he did so, while 'Kangaroo' turned his baleful and bloodshot eyes upon us. I freely confess that I found myself leaning even closer to Mr. Holmes while we were under his gaze.

On following Switch inside, we entered a large comfortably appointed room, equally as finely decorated as the corridor that had preceded it, the opposite end from our entrance point chiefly notable for the huge arched window we had seen from the Saloon floor. As I had suspected, it was from this vantage point that the managers of this establishment surveyed their boisterous and debauched kingdom.

The window was fronted by a desk almost as wide as the arch itself...and seated there was a man looking over papers.

"Come in," he said, head still bowed, his voice cultured but weary as he responded to the delayed knock. "Though I suppose it's redundant to say as much, seeing as you are already in the process of doing so."

He looked up then, revealing an angular but not unattractive face with round, wide eyes that made it appear open and welcoming. His hair a light brown and cut quite close, he seemed to me to be around Mr. Holmes's age -- his mid-thirties. "Will you never learn that you knock first and then open the door, Switch? It really is rather a simple concept...I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you'll find sufficient power there to comprehend it." He raised an eyebrow at his employee before taking his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his hands with it and discarding it in his desk drawer.

Switch stopped in mid-step, the stocky, greasy young man taken unawares and embarrassed by his 'master's' words. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled. "This is Maidstone, sir...and his moll."

"Really, Switch..." The man who was without a doubt Sebastian Boucher Hughes rose from his desk, the cut of his clothes flattering his tall, slim figure, and moved towards us with precision and grace. "What a way to refer to such a charming lady visiting our shores. My apologies, Mademoiselle...my man here has no manners whatsoever." On stopping in front of us, he bowed quite stylishly.

Even now, despite his gracious mannerisms, I recall the uneasy and nervous feeling this man set off in me, but I could not afford for him to even suspect that he had provoked such a reaction, and so I gave him what I hoped was a grateful smile at his consideration. "Monsieur...I am most certainly charmed to make your acquaintance," I replied, my eyelashes fluttering flirtatiously. "And you are most kind...most kind."

He smiled broadly. "And your English is quite exceptional, Mademoiselle...Jeanette, is it?"

"Merci! I have practiced it night and day for my more refined English clientele. And yes, it most certainly is my name...to most that is," I replied coquettishly.

"Oh?" He arched an eyebrow. "And what do the privileged few call you?" he enquired as he clasped his hands behind his back, casting an admiring eye over my gown.

I repressed a shiver of loathing as his gaze moved over me and smiled wider instead. "Ah but, sir! That would depend on how much they paid me, n'est-ce pas?" I teased.

He laughed then, a full laugh but with a kind of mirthless quality to it that was hard to ignore. "You seem quite the business woman, Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed before somewhat suddenly launching into a rapid fire series of questions about how it was I came to be...'in the trade'...and all of it in French. All the time, he danced around the actuality of the subject, never referring to it beyond abstract terms in what seemed to be a peculiarity of his 'gentleman's' make up.

My eyebrow arched a little at his rather obvious method of testing, but with a casual smile and wave of my hand to accentuate my points, ever more thankful for the time I had taken to muse on 'Jeanette's' background, I answered him in my 'native' language, embellishing a little here and there, as well as taking his cue and being 'subtle' in my allusions, which was, I had to admit, something of a great relief to me at the time.

By the time I was done, I think I had surprised myself about not only how calm I was, but that I seemed to have conveyed a genuine enthusiasm for my 'work.' Looking back on that moment, I still have the urge to laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of the situation...a chaste woman conveying her love of being a harlot…though never in the presence of Mr. Holmes or the good doctor. Men's tolerance for humour regarding such things among women of good standing is remarkably non-existent.

Ever smiling, Sebastian Hughes conversed only with me for a while longer in what seemed to me just as obvious a ploy to unsettle my 'lover' before finally turning his attention to him.

"And you...must be Mr. Maidstone. You are a lucky man, sir, to have such an...eager...young lady on your hands." He gestured to the plush high backed chair in front of his desk and indicated for him to sit before clasping his hands behind his back again. "Is she indicative of your personnel in your establishments in France?"

With one long finger rubbing the thin, white scar on his cheek lightly, Mr. Holmes moved and lowered himself slowly in the chair, never taking his eyes off Hughes as he did so. "No...can't say as I know another qui' like 'er, sir..." He looked over at me. "She's unique, she is." With a smile, I followed him over to stand behind his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder, trailing my fingers over it and up and down his arm.

"That's why, Mr. 'ughes," he continued, "I was going to 'ave her 'ead up my new place in Montpellier." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar case, flipping open the top and pulling out a long slim panatela. "Don't s'pose you've any objections seein' as you're a partaker yourself?" he asked Mr. Hughes, nodding towards an ornately hand carved humidor upon his desk.

"Indeed, sir, feel right at home," Hughes replied. "In fact…" He reached for the box and, on opening it, slipped once more into French, reaching in and offering Mr. Holmes a fine Cuban while testing him as he had done me, asking him whether he had ever tried this brand or that one or visited a certain well known tobacconist near the Bois de Boulogne in Paris.

Mr. Holmes passed his test with even more aplomb than I. Managing to keep traces of his London accent while waxing lyrical in fluent French about cigars and French cigarettes, he finished by correcting Mr. Hughes on the name of the tobacconist he was referring to, side-stepping the attempted trip-up with a small smirk appropriate to 'Jake.'

Apologising for his 'mental lapse' on the name, Mr. Hughes sat back and steepled his fingers in a manner rather eerily like my friend. "Switch informs me that Montpellier is your target? Aiming for wealthy trade," he observed.

Mr. Holmes nodded. "Just outside of Montpellier, and yes, sir, the wealthiest. Those around the Riviera always has plenty of cash to flash...and wealthy men, I find, 'ave expensive appetites." He rolled and then placed the Cuban cigar he'd been given to his nose, inhaling deeply before looking at it again.

"That's a fine cigar, Mr. 'ughes, sir, unique aroma as they say…a good smoke, I'm sure," he commented, and slipped it inside his jacket pocket. "With your kind permission, I'll keep it for later. In fact…if you've no objections…" He rose suddenly and startled Hughes by opening the box on the table again. In an outrageously discourteous gesture he took out a second cigar, a small grin on his lips as he wafted this one too under his nostrils. "I'll 'ave another for the journey 'ome."

"None whatsoever," Mr. Hughes responded, though his eyes flashed with annoyance.

Jake's grin remained in place as he resumed his seat, casually handing me a book of matches without even so much as a glance in my direction. As he put his second cigar into the other inside pocket of his suit jacket where he had previously placed the panatela, he drew out the slender cigar instead and placing it to his lips, bit off the end.

Taking his cue, as he was hoping I would, I withdrew a match, struck it alight and silently bent over to hold it up to his cigar. Turning to face me, he paused before wafting his cigar over the flame, drawing on it quickly before turning his attention back to Mr. Hughes, who was watching me, impressed by my attentions.

"Yes…" the 'businessman' ruminated quietly to himself. "I can see why you would wish suitable properties to surround Mademoiselle Jeanette here." Mr. Hughes smiled at me as I gently blew out the match. "Her worth is clear to the well being of your enterprise…and she is well versed in the niceties of making a gentleman comfortable."

"Yes…she's 'igh class and eager, though come the end of it, I'm thinking of maybe 'aving her run the new outfit," Mr. Holmes replied, turning his gaze to me. "And if she does well enough by me, while I'm at it, reducin' her personal obligations in the job as you might say…to a shorter list...of one."

I gazed down at my 'hector' and, I have to admit partly out of sheer curiosity, took the opportunity my brazen role afforded me to run a slow finger over his cheek, lightly tracing his scar, still wondering how he had achieved the realistic effect. "My Jake always does well by me...most certainement," I agreed with a chuckle.

With a small smile, he turned his head from me and leaning forward a little, clasped his hands. "Expandin' and changin' as we is…you'll understand why those new properties you spoke of is of interest to me...'specially as such things don't go and fall into a man's lap often nor cheaply..." He sat back again. "I was thinkin' you might be able to see your way towards 'elpin me out there."

"That..." came another voice to our left, "remains to be seen."

All heads in that room turned towards the western wall, an archway now occupied by a blonde haired, sharp faced woman dressed in the most exquisitely worked beaded black silk and lace ball gown I think I had ever seen.

On her, however, the effect was less flattering than effective in putting one in mind of being in the presence of a human black widow spider. If I had reacted with revulsion at the men I had encountered thus far, it was as nothing to the quiver of cold hard fear I experienced on looking into the emotionless ice green eyes of Mary Becker...eyes that shall live in my memory for many years yet, I fear.

She was an undoubtedly attractive woman -- flaxen hair and flawless ivory skin, her figure slim and well maintained, a great beauty some years back I would have said…though now, there were no signs of dissipation that I could see...yet she was hard -- not just of face but of demeanour. The ice in her eyes seemed to emanate through her entire persona.

Her black feathered fan tapped lightly on her dress as she walked into the room, and those eyes moved silently from one to the other of us, scrutinising and evaluating. On reaching the desk, she leaned against it. "Sebastian..." she addressed him, her eyes moving back to me, taking in my dress, my hair, my make up before looking right into my eyes, "get me a brandy."

If there was any doubt as to who was the senior partner of this relationship, it dissolved when Hughes rose up as bidden and moved to the highly polished drinks cabinet on the far side of the room.

"She's French?" The woman's fan closed with a flick and pointed at me, her eyes still on me as she addressed Hughes.

"As far as I can ascertain. And he speaks it well enough if somewhat uncouthly," he answered, the crystal clinking in his haste to provide her with what she wished. I arched an eyebrow but said nothing, the chills that ran over me helping to bolster my determination to play my part and, in the end, to get those as far from her as possible.

"And you're Maidstone?" She turned her attention rapidly to Mr. Holmes.

"Appears so now, don't it?" he replied. "Mrs. Becker, I presume?" He rose up to greet her.

"Sit down," she ordered him summarily, turning away to go fetch her drink from the returning Hughes. Glancing at me briefly where I stood, Mr. Holmes did as he was instructed.

Taking the brandy from her partner, she returned to her previous position against the desk and sipped on the beverage while Hughes began to inform her of what had passed between us. "Mr. Maidstone is planning to open an establishment in Montpellier with this charming young lady as his..."

"I heard the rest!" she snapped, not even bothering to look at him, the irritation on her face slipping into a grimace of a smile directed at me. "She's supposed to be your Abbess, then?" she asked derisively.

Quite in keeping with the absurdity of the situation and my behaviour throughout this entire affair, I found myself stiffening a little at that. Even though I was in a role, I disliked feeling undermined or slighted in my 'abilities.'

"She looks a mite...soft and untried to me...especially to be dealing with the kind of properties we have on offer," she noted. "You'd be better off with an older…less frivolous…woman, Maidstone." She smiled at Mr. Holmes and I shivered again. "Someone more suited to meet your required needs."

I rose to my full height and stared at her, again using my fear and disgust of this woman to fuel my performance of bluster. "Pardon, Madame! I am neither soft nor frivolous! And never you mind on who can take care of his needs...for I assure you that I can handle them just fine! As well as the properties!" I shot back at her, my nose high in the air and glaring at her.

She regarded me with the vaguest amusement, her eyes darting to Mr. Holmes to take in his reaction. For his part, my friend rose up out of his chair fully this time and folded his arms.

"If you don't want to sell us the properties, you migh' as well jus' come clean and say so," he snapped. "But don't be lookin' for excuses like Jenny, there..." He nodded at me, garnering the same vaguely amused smile from Mrs. Becker as she'd given me.

"My...aren't you the gallant one?" She sniffed a little into her brandy glass as she raised it to her lips.

Mr. Holmes let out a short laugh. "As much as you're a golden 'earted soul, I'll wager." He gazed at both of them. "All I'm sayin' is, if you don't want to sell us the properties just say so...but you ain't said so...you're dancing around keepin' us waitin'...testin' us...with poncey French speakin' and the like...my guess is you wants to sell us the properties. My guess is, you ain't 'ad 'alf your 'oped for bidders...and my guess is time is runnin' short and you wants rid...even to the likes of us." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his wallet. "So let's get things started proper, shall we?" he stated, and opening it, pulled out and laid on the table five ten thousand pound notes.

I stood behind him and tried not to appear stunned at the sheer amount of funds that he had just put down as causally as one put down notepaper.

Mrs. Becker looked away from it disinterestedly. "Right now, Maidstone, I'm more interested in your other point. The likes of you." She returned to gazing at us both in turn. "Just how do I know you are who and what you appear to be?" She rose to her feet. "How do I know you're the Jake Maidstone that Switch says he remembers...and even if you are him, it's awfully convenient you're being back in London for the first time, isn't it?" She moved closer to him. "How do I know she is what she appears to be? That she is to you what you say she is?" she challenged.

There was silence for a moment as she finished, and there was no doubt in my mind that we had reached the crux point. With an even more affronted expression on my face, I found myself moving closer to his side, both as a show of support and of my supposed place.

"You don't now, do you?" Mr. Holmes replied and swept the money off the table, slipping it back into his wallet. "No more than I know that what you say you 'ave, you 'ave! We're workin' on faith now 'ere ain't we, Mrs. Becker?"

"I don't have faith in anyone or anything save myself, Maidstone," she shot back.

"Well then..." Mr. Holmes said, "it appears we don't have nothin' more to talk about, do we?"

"Wait!" Hughes said, finally interjecting again. "Mary..." he started before I moved around to the front of Mr. Holmes, waving my hand at the ghastly woman.

"You! Who are you to complain or doubt us? You who are so old you cannot remember how to please a man or how a real woman like me can!" I spat, flinching inwardly at my tirade, at the same time as strangely enjoying, if not the content, then the expressive freedom of it, remembering that French women in general and certainly all whom I had encountered in school and since coming to a fuller social life were much freer with both words and emotions than we English.

"We came here to do business...to help you as well as get what we need...and you spit in our faces! Zut alors...you English are stubborn and suspicious! I am his woman...I have been his for five years and never had a complaint! And if you will not believe even that, I shall show you!"

Carried away by my character and this release of emotion after the tensest of evenings, before I had even registered how utterly appalling my decision was and how it would most certainly impact upon my friend, I turned, and placing both my hands on his face and drawing it to me, pressed my lips to his more adamantly than I had ever done with William.

Authors' Notes: Hello! Um...should I just apologise now for leaving you all on a cliff hanger? (giggles) And what a cliffie, huh! Wow, no real questions to answer this week! The only one was who was the rescuer...and now you all know who! Cool...heh. Well then, I'll just quickly plug that we have put up a Severus Snape fic (for those readers that like Snape and Holmes...but not together!) here on fanfic dot net...just click on our author name and you'll be able to find it. So, this week you get two for the price of one. We hope you enjoy it and have enjoyed this chapter! As always thank you so much for all your reads and/or comments and feel free to leave some more, we love hearing from you. Hugs! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)