Chapter Seven: Respectable Harlot – Part 3

To say Mr. Holmes was surprised by my kiss would be an understatement. Even as my arms slid around his neck, emulating, or at least attempting to emulate, the kisses bestowed by the women I had seen downstairs I could feel his body tighten instantly. However, as ever when on a case, even under such unusual circumstances, Mr. Holmes's responses remained sharp. The fractional tension disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving it ascribable to the outside observer as 'Jake' being taken unaware by his demonstrative French doxy.

He must have realised that, while this dreadful liberty was hardly the way to prove anything concrete to Mrs. Becker, it was at least in keeping with my character and our relationship…and…lord help me…the chances of any decent woman doing this would have been slim. On those grounds at least, it had a convincing air. With little choice left to him but to play along, he let his hands come up to my waist and draw me a little nearer, and a moment later, his lips were moving over mine in return.

I have admitted openly before that I had only been kissed less than a handful of times in my life by a man...and all by the same one. But the warm and pleasant hum I associated with such an occurrence was nothing compared to the jolt that sped through me the moment the man currently in my embrace began to respond.

He will not thank me for raising this should he ever deign to read this poor retelling of events, but in keeping with his philosophy of factual recounting and the need for data, it should be known that this is truthfully how I felt upon his responding to my kiss.

It was as though something had come alive inside of me, and it embarrasses me to say this now, but that something craved more...and I was weak. My fingers seemed to have a will of their own and set about exploring his dark hair and trailing over his neck...and my lips seemed only to be encouraged by his. Though my mind tried to justify what I was doing as trying to save our covers and our lives, my kiss only grew more persistent.

I know too that the ardency of my kiss took even him unaware, for I could feel that sense of surprisein my proximity to him. That he followed my lead was undoubtedly because he had little choice, as my embrace grew even more intense, so too did his, his arms slipping about me and drawing me in and up tight against him.

Yet I was falling, dear readers...falling under some sort of spell that a woman only hears about or dreams of. I was losing myself every moment I was with him, and yet I was more alive than I had ever been. I could feel...everything. Every part of me was aware and thrumming...and desperate for more. I could not have stopped myself then if I had tried...and at that moment, I was not even attempting to.

More was what I desired, and more was what I received as a moment later the man I had once longed for, the one for whom all impassioned feelings I thought I had gratefully put away from me, kissed me in a manner I had never been kissed before -- not in the sweet warm way William had kissed me, but like the other men I had seen tonight kissing women...passionately and deeply.

My head spun, and then I was gone...as was any thought about anyone else in that room with us, for he was all my senses focused on. And in that short moment, I must shamefacedly admit to taking on the attributes of the wanton I had played all evening. I could not touch him enough, taste him enough, even breathe him enough. And as my hearing dissolved completely into the roar of blood in my ears, I am certain I heard what could only be described as a moan bubble forth from me.

In the very next instant, though, he was gone from me, and I found myself slumped against his chest, trying to catch my breath and not daring to look up at him, terrified of what I might see and what he must think of me. Sebastian Hughes's voice registered dimly on my ears, as I began to tell myself over and over that it was the tension of the evening responsible for my horrendous decision making and my reactions. Tension, that was all.

"We don't have time for this, Mary...see sense!" Hughes was saying. "He's offering more than any of our other bidders...and since when did the police have women operatives? Never mind ones so obviously willing as this little trollop?"

For once, the derogatory comment struck home, particularly since I knew that the behaviour he was referring to now was my own and not 'Jeanette's.' To escape the horrible feeling and the chance of seeing Mr. Holmes's face, I turned my attention back to Mary Becker.

She was deeply conflicted still...her suspicious nature running against her desire for the money she knew he had and to be rid of 'property' that, thanks to the media outcry that had been greater than she had foreseen, was far more trouble than it was worth to hold on to for a few more days. Draining her glass with one swift motion, she set it down. "Sixty thousand...twenty apiece!" she demanded, her icy eyes flashing.

As both our adversaries' eyes turned to him, behind me I could feel Mr. Holmes wait before responding. "Include delivery and it's a deal," his harsh London accent rumbled.

Mrs. Becker arched a perfect blonde eyebrow and nodded. "Delivery is hardly a problem."

There was another pause, and a moment later, a sixth note fluttered to join the other five upon the wide desk. "Done," he said quietly before, this time to my surprise, his arm slipped around my waist and drew me back against him.

It took a great deal for me to not melt against him, the memory and kiss still too fresh on my mind and lips. Berating myself and bewildered by a great many things, I concentrated on putting any residual foolish feelings in wake of what had just occurred into my role. Cuddling up to his side, I resumed my earlier stroking of his chest as I watched the two 'business' people before us.

"Sebastian, fetch Switch..." Mrs. Becker ordered, eying us both as her hands closed around the money, holding it out to him. "Tell him to bring the brougham and have this money taken to the usual place."

Nodding quickly, Sebastian took the money and moved to the far side of the desk where he opened a drawer. Withdrawing a box from inside, he pulled out two long barrelled revolvers. Giving us a look, he inserted them inside his jacket into what I assumed were specially made pockets. More eager to see the deal through Mr. Hughes may have been, the threat in his eyes regarding any betrayal was obvious.

Once done, he left the room, leaving us with Mary Becker, who took his place behind the desk and with an unwavering stare watched us in silence for the entire time he was gone. A five minute stretch, which to my mind, took an eternity.

Finally, though, we left via the back entrance and headed out into the still chaotic street beyond. We then embarked down a secondary alley and into the most dismal hovel it has ever been my misfortune to wander through. Blackened out windows and walls in various states of ruination, open doors revealing sordid, stained cots and broken sticks of furniture. It stank of filth, misery, and human despair, shadowed figures slinking back into rooms as our 'guides' led us through a maze of hallways to emerge in a small exterior walkway, which in turn led back out onto Regent Street where their brougham awaited us.

On boarding the carriage, I was alarmed to see it too, like the den we had just left, had blackened windows, the cab being lit from within by its own gas source. Wrapping my cloak around myself to keep from showing the shiver I felt had nothing at all to do with cold, I slid close to Mr. Holmes and was grateful that, despite my foolishness in the office above, he wrapped an arm around me, for it truly helped settle my nerves and clenching stomach.

"Don't s'pose there's any point in my askin' where we are 'eadin' to, is there?" he asked the silent pair seated opposite us, Mrs. Becker in a puffed sleeve crushed velvet cape that was, needless to say, as black as night.

"Macklin Street," she replied tersely.

"Off Drury Lane?" Mr. Holmes asked.

That small, worry-provoking smile returned to her face. "You have a good memory, Maidstone. Fifteen years away and you remember a tiny place like that?"

Slipping one hand into his pocket, he tightened his hold about me with the other as he stretched his back slightly. "I grew up on these streets, Mrs. Becker...I run messages, crowed, thieved, drank and starved on 'em...fifteen year away don't wipe a man's memory of his strugglin' years."

Turning her head away from him, she looked to Hughes. "Give me one of the guns."

Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out one of the revolvers, and I could feel Mr. Holmes tense imperceptibly beside me. The terror once again settled within me, and I could feel my finger itch for the switchblade in my pocket, though I knew to even think of going for it would be foolhardy and dangerous in the extreme. Even if I somehow managed to draw it, what would I do with it? My familiarity with the use of knives extended to cooking and little more.

If I had held on to any shreds of the illusion that I had been right in insisting on aiding Mr. Holmes, they vanished in these minutes in the carriage as the threat of death grew more and more oppressive and real. My thoughts turned to my mother and brothers and what my actions might mean for them should I get myself killed. How they would manage, who would look after them…quite apart from the appalling vista of my body being found dressed as I was and what the newspapers would make of it all, even allowing for some sort of explanation being forthcoming. I tell you now that it was all I could do not to weep in contrition for my own stubbornness, vowing to heaven that I would never again go contrary to good sense or Mr. Holmes's pronouncement upon a case.

Taking the gun from Hughes, Mrs. Becker slid one finger along it slowly in a near caress. She opened it, examining the cartridges within, and spun the chamber blithely before closing it and putting it back down in her lap, her hands resting upon it.

"And what of you, Mademoiselle...what do you know of London?" She gazed up at me from under heavy lidded eyes.

Swallowing my fear, something I had dined on far too frequently that night, I arched an eyebrow and shrugged, waving my hand blithely. "Practically nothing, I can assure you. It is dark. It smells...and there is always this fog. I shall be most pleased to return to France," I replied nonchalantly with a rather arrogant sniff. "The only thing I have ever heard was at this Drury Lane is a muffin man!" I gave her a little smile. "And I am hoping we are not going there."

"No." She shook her head. "Nothing as pleasurable as that. I'm afraid you will have to settle for more dark, more smells...and possibly more fog, as it was rolling in before we left. No, Mademoiselle, Macklin Lane is not Versailles...more...like..." She smiled again. "The Bastille...with all its attendant niceties."

My nose wrinkled in disgust, and I shot a rather plaintive look up at Mr. Holmes. "I shall have to buy a new dress, Jake!" I pronounced. "I cannot be expected to work smelling like a sewer," I lamented. "My clients have expectations."

"You always 'ave to buy a new dress," he replied, his eyes never leaving Mrs. Becker. "Any bloody excuse to be off down the outfitters."

I batted my eyelashes up at him, brushing his cheek with the back of my hand. "But you like it when I look nice, Jake, n'est-ce pas?" I purred, cringing again at the familiarity but admittedly finding it easier as time passed.

"It don't 'urt you none." He shrugged and stretched his shoulders a little.

Oddly, I found the banter between our characters helped to ease my tension, and we somehow managed to keep it going under the silent scrutiny of our two companions for virtually the entire remaining journey, which was short enough, thank heavens.

The brougham pulled to a halt, and I turned my eyes to the windows, having forgotten that they had been blackened. A moment later, there was the clang of metal as the driver released the fold away steps on either door and then one door opened, revealing the massive frame of 'Kangaroo,' who must have been riding on the back unseen.

"Are we here?" I asked, adjusting my cloak to hide my true desire to shrink back into my seat at the sight of this menacing man.

Our two companions departed without answering me, one through either door in what looked very much like a rehearsed move, perhaps in case of traps...or possibly to ensure that we tried nothing similar. A voice talking to Sebastian Hughes on the far side indicated that Mr. Switch had also accompanied us on our journey...very likely as the driver. We were outnumbered four to two...while they had guns and we had knives, something I was hardly proficient with.

Mr. Holmes turned his eyes to me. "Looks like we're 'ere," he answered for them and after a momentary hesitation, surreptitiously gave my hand a gentle squeeze before he headed for the door that 'Kangaroo' was still holding open for us. Once he was on the pavement, he reached up and helped me from the carriage, which was certainly not easy in my elaborate gown.

The street was barely lit, and the cobbles at the far end under the one fully functioning street lamp were already wisped with the promised mist of the oncoming 'London Particular' as the cold fog seeped its way across the city from the Thames. The houses were single storey and granite, the windows shuttered and barred, and each residence so similar that it was decidedly difficult to tell where one ended and the other started. At well past midnight, after the noise of the Haymarket and Trocadero, the grey, heavy silence that pervaded the place was almost total, and, in my nervous state, put me unerringly in mind of a graveyard.

Pushing his hat a little further forward and drawing up the collar of his suit against the cold, Mr. Holmes looked around and sniffed. "Well then?" He glanced at our escorts between taking in the environs. "Where's the merchandise, then? Or are we going to just stand here and admire the view for a while?"

"The merchandise is there, Mr. Maidstone," Mrs. Becker replied, nodding in the direction of the far side of the road and the houses there. "All three." A slow smile formed on her lips.

"Right then..." He nodded, looking from her to the houses to her again, his eyes clearly evaluating something. "Let's have a butchers, shall we? Not up for buyin' a pig in a poke, me," he told her.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment at his words, and then she relaxed. "Very well..." She reached inside her cloak and a second later, withdrew a small bunch of iron keys. "As you wish."

Moving across the cobblestones, she headed in the direction of the area she had indicated, Hughes by her side and 'Kangaroo' in their wake. Mr. Switch stayed back to accompany us, drawing back one fold of his black dress suit to indicate his gun.

As he did, though, a great hue and cry broke out, and before I knew what was happening the street was alive with police officers, whistles, and lantern light. I nearly jumped out of my skin in fright, not having expected any of this to occur.

"No!" Mr. Holmes near groaned in exasperation as the blue suited officers flooded the scene. A split second late, he, too, was called into action as Switch moved to draw his gun. A punch to the solar plexus and a rather fine uppercut to the lank haired man's chin sent him reeling backwards and into the arms of the approaching officers, who quickly disarmed and handcuffed him.

Across the street, unlike their colleague and to my great puzzlement, Mrs. Becker and Hughes stood absolutely still as they were surrounded, indicating for the bodyguard to do likewise.

A familiar figure came hurrying out of the gloom towards us, a doctor's black case in one hand, and a slighter figure with a sprightly, almost arrogant walk moved beside him with hands clasped behind his back as he gave orders to those around us. Beside me, I heard Mr. Holmes mutter angrily under his breath once more.

I fumbled for the hood of my cloak and quickly drew it over my head as they approached, not entirely ready for another talking to, this time from my advisor.

Striding forward to meet them, Mr. Holmes was, I was oddly gratified to see, almost as annoyed with the two men as he had been with me a few hours earlier. "Forgive me if I am puzzled, but was there not to be a pre-arranged signal?" he demanded of the smaller man.

"The fog was starting to build rapidly," came the almost dismissive reply, as the new man eyed the trio standing still and silent outside the houses they had been heading towards. "I couldn't take the chance we'd miss it. Besides...we have what we came for."

"Do we, indeed?" Mr. Holmes snapped at him before giving his friend a frustrated look.

"I tried to stop him!" John glanced in great annoyance at the man who, as I drew closer, I knew had to be the much mentioned Inspector Lestrade. A character who, I must admit, held some interest for me given the way Mr. Holmes and John spoke about him. He was a sharp, pinched faced man, whose dark eyes gleamed with a self-assurance that, given our current circumstances, I felt wasn't really warranted.

Mr. Holmes's voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the misting air like a knife all the same. "Lestrade...you have made some monumental decisions in your time...but this time you may have excelled yourself!"

As if in mocking agreement with his words, Mary Becker's voice traversed the short distance between us as I reached his side. "Why, officers?" she said in a bewildered, innocent voice utterly at odds with the near sneer on her face. "Whatever is the matter?"

"You will kindly keep silent!" Inspector Lestrade snapped at her most forcefully before turning his attention to me. "Who's this? We've been wondering ever since you hooked up with her in the alley."

It was then that John, peering into the gloom the hood of my cape cast over me, started rather noticeably. "Good God!" he breathed. "Miss Thurlow?"

Feeling like a school girl who had just been caught out by her father, I reached up and, pushing back the hood of my cloak, gave him a rather embarrassed smile. "Hello, John," I said softly.

Inspector Lestrade then, rather rudely to my mind, raised the lantern he had in his hand and shone it right in my face as he peered at me. "Miss Thurlow?" he said quizzically. "She hardly looks worth of the soubriquet...she looks like a..."

"What on earth are you doing here?" He was interrupted by an angry John, his shock having given way to annoyance. "When I saw Holmes had a woman with him coming out of the alley I thought perhaps he had pulled someone out of his hat in that confounded way of his...I never dreamed that it would...that it could possibly be…you!" He stared at me. "Holmes, what were you thinking, reversing your decision like that?" he said angrily to him. "You might have gotten her killed, or worse!"

I placed a hand on my dear friend's arm to soothe him. "John, do not blame him," I insisted. "He did not reverse his decision. I came despite your objections. In fact, he tried several times to get me to leave...I was foolishly stubborn but I had to help..." My voice trailed off as John turned his irritated eyes back to me.

"How could you have been so reckless, Helen?" He shook his head. "Put yourself through this degradation, exposed yourself to this filth..." He glanced at the trio still standing patiently and quietly. "And the debauchery and mortal danger! There was no need for it! Why couldn't you have trusted that Holmes knew what he was doing?"

"Quite," Mr. Holmes added firmly, though when I looked, I found his retort appeared to be aimed not at me but at the Inspector. "However, first things first, Watson," he breathed. "We are wasting time."

Turning on his heel, he walked towards the prisoners, whose faces, contrary to their situation, were completely unperturbed. Coming to stand directly in front of Mary Becker, the two regarded each other silently.

"All right, Mrs. Becker..." the Inspector intruded once more, his tone both forceful and contemptuous, "where are they?"

"They?" she murmured, her gaze still on Mr. Holmes.

"You know full well!" the thin Detective Inspector barked at her. "Where are the children?" I glanced quickly over at John and moved briskly over to the scene, though I stayed far enough back so as not to intrude.

"Children? What children?" she asked...a moment before the police burst open one of the closed doors of the houses behind her, the officers pouring into it in search for the girls, their lanterns flashing until each of the still, gaslit houses were alight. And yet, none of their actions seemed to bother her in the slightest, and the sight of the calm look upon her face set my stomach plummeting in cold dread.

"The ones you have stashed in your bawdy houses!" Lestrade retorted, nodding towards the invaded houses.

"Bawdy houses?" She eyed him as one might a rodent. "Watch your mouth, Inspector!"

It was obvious to me by now why she was so calm...the children were not there...it had been a ruse. They had never been quite as desperate or as divided as they had appeared in those final moments in their office, and this had simply been a last test to corroborate our credentials, correctly gauging that something such as this could happen.

A test we had failed due to this policeman's over eagerness.

A rage born of frustration set upon me, building like an inferno. Though many who know me may not think me capable of it, I was born with the flaw of my father's temper...though thankfully I had my mother's patience to aid me in controlling it in most circumstances. But the complete disaster this night was turning into and my constant state of fear and anxiety had resulted in my patience having worn quite thin.

After a minute or so, a sergeant emerged from the buildings and confirmed what I suspect everyone except the Inspector already knew. "There's nothing here, sir! No children...these houses haven't been stepped in in months, if you ask me, sir! Not a sinner...not even any furniture to speak of. We've checked for cellars just in case...but there's nothing, sir."

"My, my...Mr. Holmes." Mary Becker folded her hands in front of her as she levelled one of those cold smiles at him. "The great detective..." She shook her head derisively. "I hope, sir, that you can afford a good lawyer's fees when I sue you for defamation of character."

She looked to Lestrade, who was staring at her. "I came here to show the man now revealed to me as Mr. Holmes the properties I had on offer...three...solid residences that have been advertised as for sale or let for some time now, something you can easily check upon yourself. There was never any mention of children." She glanced back at her colleague. "Was there, Sebastian?"

"Never," he agreed with a nod, moving closer to her. "As this young lady can testify to," he added with a smile at me. My eyes narrowed at him in reply, my friendly and coquettish manner long gone and my humour not improved at the realisation that that was true and that if the matter came to a head, I could be called upon to testify in their favour!

Mr. Holmes said nothing, his gaze steely, direct, and never moving from her, and after a moment, she started to laugh.

"What did I tell you, Sebastian? One can never be too sure of one's acquaintances."

He nodded and began to chuckle, taking her arm. "Quite right as always, Mary, my dear."

"Do property transactions in the middle of the night often, do you?" the Inspector scoffed. "And what about your guns!" Lestrade held up the one taken from her.

"We're business people, Inspector. We do our deals when they present themselves, and the amount of money on offer would have been foolish to refuse. As for our weapons, surely, Inspector Lestrade, in a world when even the innocents you seek can disappear from the streets in broad daylight, you can hardly expect a lady and gentlemen such as ourselves to venture forth unarmed into such an area at this time of night?"

She gazed at us all in turn, the ghost of a smirk on her face melting away as she raised a hand to her mouth in faux distress. "Those poor little girls snatched from their loving families' arms? Gentlemen! I am just a businesswoman, running some paltry music show and social rooms! How could you think it was me?" Her eyes dipped and she sighed in a melancholy way, though her painted lips betrayed a growing smirk. "Those poor children…what must they be going through, hidden away in the dark and squealing their little lungs out, never to be heard until they're dragged into some house of ill repute to be used and…"

She was suddenly silenced by my hand as it cracked across her face so hard her head snapped back. "You foul, evil, horrid troll of a woman!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, her mocking and utterly insincere act breaking the last tie on my self control. "You know very well where they are! You and this sorry excuse for a weasel both!"

I made another lunge for her then, but felt a pair of steely hands grip my arms, preventing any further violence on my part.

With the police warding off both Hughes and their giant bodyguard, it took both John Watson and the Inspector to restrain Mrs. Becker, who on recovery from the blow and the shock revealed herself as the harpy that she truly was; her civilised veneer gone as she abused me with the foulest verbiage, promising me just as much physical abuse as she could do to me before disposing of me permanently. All the while, I struggled in the most unladylike manner to accost her again, my fury raging, as I ached to force her to tell me where the girls were...but just as in the alley, there was no escaping Mr. Holmes's grasp.

Pulling me back away from her and against him, he lowered his head and spoke quietly and calmly. "Be at your ease, Miss Thurlow. You are quite correct. She is all the things you say, and yes...she does know where the children are. But then..." And I could hear the smile in his voice by my ear. "So do I."

Mary Becker and I stopped our struggles almost simultaneously on that utterance.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped at him, her mouth still twisted in hate.

"You do?" I gasped, his closeness soothing me as I gazed up at him, my face, I'm sure, reflecting my mystification and relief at his statement.

"I do. Though it pains me to say I should have realised it far earlier than now." He released me to gaze down at me. "So, for the moment at least, you do not have to sully your hands with her in retribution." The look in his eyes as he spoke conveyed, much to my surprise, not disapproval at my raging emotional outburst but rather a level of admiration.

I could not help but smile a little in response, my cheeks flushing, finding myself again rather heady at his approval. "Well, then for the moment...I shall endeavour to contain my anger," I said, relenting somewhat sheepishly.

"Thank you." He inclined his head politely and turned to Lestrade. "Inspector, you have a Black Maria in waiting?"

"Yes," the other man replied with a nod. "Next street over."

"Then I would ask you to please bring it around, ensconce Mr. Hughes and Mrs. Becker and their employees within, and have it follow us in their excellently private brougham to the address I will give one of your men in but a moment."

"You're bluffing!" Mrs. Becker suddenly hissed at him. "You hope to have me reveal something thinking that you know more than you do!"

Mr. Holmes smile was small but definite. "But Mrs. Becker, what could I possibly expect you to reveal? After all...as you have so adamantly said...you know nothing about these children."

Ten minutes later, we were on our way down Whitehall, heading for the Thames to cross eastwards into Lambeth. The fog, thickest naturally around the river, hampered our progress somewhat, lending an increased edge of impatience to an already strained air in our newly appropriated, self-contained carriage.

Under the rather uncomfortable scrutiny of John Watson and Inspector Lestrade, the latter of whom exuded a positive wave of disapproval at both my continued presence and my appearance, I endeavoured, with the aid of the good doctor's handkerchief and a small bottle of water from his black bag, to remove what I could of the powder and paint adorning me, discarding my wig in the process -- both of which were obviously discomforting my advisor as well.

At the same time, Inspector Lestrade was attempting to ignore the rather pointed gaze Mr. Holmes had levelled at him for his, in my view, grossly pre-emptive strike. I am not given to drawing instant impressions of someone, preferring to let time reveal the truth of a person's character, and anyone can act in haste and make a mistake, but the more we travelled the more I found, to my annoyance, that I was growing to dislike the man rather rapidly. Perhaps it was the stress of the night and the uncertainty of what was to come, but the waves of judgement from someone I deemed to have done more harm than even I in my naiveté, on top of the tales of pomposity I had heard about him, made it hard not to come to some negative conclusions about him.

I was grateful, therefore, when the police driver who had taken control of the brougham reined in the horses at the address Mr. Holmes had given him. Opening the door rapidly, Mr. Holmes disembarked onto the pavement, and we followed him closely. Gazing up in the fogged lamplight as two in the morning rapidly approached, I couldn't help but notice the unmistakable scent of ammonia in the air and could just about make out from the signs that we were on Lambeth Walk at the corner of Lollard Street.

"Well, Holmes?" Inspector Lestrade asked brusquely, looking around with an expectant air that, I must say, I found highly impertinent given the situation we had just been in, though I near gasped at the insolence of what was to follow from his lips. "More houses to raid, have we? I hope these at least will have something living in them other than mice."

"No, Inspector, not the houses. I asked your driver to stop our entourage here rather than risk another early alert," came Mr. Holmes's reply, his pointed rejoinder veiled in the mildest of tones. "I said to you last night that I felt their dens would have been too obvious a hiding place. Most of them are known, easily watched, and far too accessible to strangers posing as customers. Plus there is the reward money posted by the papers. It is a considerable sum. Something an unfortunate woman working there and seeing something might be inclined towards collecting before disappearing to build a better life for herself.

"As I have said ad infinitum, their aim was always to sell the girls onwards…out of the country. That being the case, then what better place to store them to expedite the process than in something designed to that aim?"

"A shipping company," John said, nodding. "Of course. Stowing them in some hideous container or other. With all the ports so closely watched, even disguised they could not simply walk them through. But still…that contains its own risks, Holmes. Surely with a deal done, they could not have taken the chance of gagging and binding them or even anaesthetising them and placing them in a crate? The journey to the continent would be riddled with delays and such, plus the danger of dehydration and the amounts of money involved -- they couldn't take the chance of harming them…and yet indisputably, their cries would've been heard otherwise?"

"Precisely. Anaesthetising would be far too dangerous in the long term," Mr. Holmes agreed with a shake of his hand. "And awake, they would have been heard, unless…?" He paused, leaving his answer open.

"Unless…their cries could not be heard!"

"Just so. Shrouded…more effectively than the city streets are by this damnable fog. Tell me, Inspector, what activity did your men observe while watching the alley to the back of the Trocadero?"

Frowning, the wiry police Inspector looked back to the group of officers who had gathered alongside the Black Maria that carried our most certainly guilty suspects. Gesticulating, he called a name, and a man in plain clothes trotted forward to be asked the same question.

"Very little, sir, during evening," the officer answered to Mr. Holmes. "The young cove keeping watch in the alleyway kept almost everyone out, 'ceptin' the regular visits from the delivery vans from the brewery and the butcher, them two loud drunkards who most probably kept him entertained, and then…" he glanced at me his expression not quite sure what to make of me, "the woman that as turned out to be this young lady 'ere. And then yourself, Mr. Holmes, sir. After you and the young lady 'ad your chat with Bill Switch back there, we followed you both to the Rouge Café to keep 'an eye on you as per orders."

"And the vans, they were checked?" he asked him.

"Yes, sir," the officer confirmed. "Both in and out."

"And what did you find?"

"Empty ale barrels on the one and a few remaining crates of pork and chickens on the other, the latter bound for another delivery, Mr. Holmes, sir."

Thanking him, my friend smiled grimly.

"The clues as to how the victims were to be smuggled out and how it could be achieved with them both conscious and unheard were self evident from the start." He glanced at me. "Had I not been distracted by Miss Thurlow's presence at the scene upon my arrival in the alley, leaving my mind in something of a preoccupied state afterwards, I might have taken sufficient notice of what was going on around us to have been able to avoid the need to confront Mrs. Becker and Hughes at all."

"What was going on around us?" I asked, even as I flinched at the probable truth of my role as a disruption. Trying vainly to escape the thought, I cast my mind back to the events in the alleyway. "There was the boy whom you drove off. And then after we…talked…" I avoided Mr. Holmes's eyes as I took licence with events there. "Mr. Switch appeared, we made arrangements and left. The only other thing occurring during that time was the unloading of a delivery van to the stage and trade entrance."

"No, Miss Thurlow." He shook his head. "You are inaccurate in your observations."

"I am? But…" I racked my memory. "I am certain that was all that occurred. There was no other activity in the alleyway…even in my affrighted state I am sure of that."

"The fault in your recollection is not in the numbering of the activities, Miss Thurlow, but in what those activities were."

I must admit I was at a loss. "What? They were?" I repeated, perplexed and frustrated.

He gave me a small smile. "Do not berate yourself, Miss Thurlow. What we had witnessed did not permeate my mind until we were returning with Switch to the Trocadero after our short sojourn at the Café. The revisiting of the alleyway helped me to recall those moments in a more clear-headed state…"

"Your quite sudden stop in the alley?" I remembered, to which he nodded.

"Yes…and what I saw, in that sudden recollection, was not the carters unloading crates but…"

"Packing them on!" I gasped.

With another decisive nod, he grasped the arm of the Inspector and walked him briskly to the corner of Lollard Road, pointing in the direction of a large factory gate shrouded in fog. "Our aim, Inspector."

Across the way from us, we could just about make out in the fog the ghostly lit signage for Shucke & Beergh's, Victuallers & Live Export & Import: Finest English and Danish Pork and Poultry.

"It was so infernally simple I should be shot for not noticing it even in my unfocused state…" Mr. Holmes lamented with a shake of his head. "May I borrow your notebook and pencil, Watson?"

"Of course!" John delved into his overcoat and produced both quickly. Moving back to the light of the carriage, Mr. Holmes wrote down the name of the company and showed it to us. A moment later, he began striking off letters and reordering them until finally, amazingly, Shucke & Beergh's, had become Becker & Hughes's.

"Well, I'll be…" The end of the Inspector's thought died as he remembered my presence. "They were on the van?" His brow furrowed. "But how? My men checked it."

"And found a now half empty van with crates yet for delivery…crates that though loaded still with pork, unlike the ones that went in, now had false bottoms, having been swapped for others inside the Trocadero with the girls inside them. Crates that were not hard to come by, seeing Becker and Hughes owned the company in question and could store them in the Trocadero's cellars until needed," Mr. Holmes answered, his voice taking on an almost lecturing tone.

"But surely the girls would've been heard on transference to the van, Holmes?" John queried and received a small patient smile in return.

"Bear in mind, Watson, that I mentioned anaesthetic would have been dangerous…in the long term." He handed John back his notebook and reached into his pocket, withdrawing, to my surprise, one of the cigars given to him by Sebastian Hughes. "Pass this under your nose, Watson, and tell me what you detect."

On doing just that, John's eyes widened. "My God…" He looked back at Holmes. "Ether."

"A difficult smell to remove even over a period of hours. Hughes was still compulsively wiping his hands when we entered his office. He deliberately avoided taking either mine or Miss Thurlow's hand, keeping his hands behind his back…and yet, in his eagerness to test me, he forgot himself and offered me a cigar." Our friend smiled. "I caught the trace as I tested the quality."

"Is that why you so audaciously took another one?" I asked, staring at him in amazement at everything that had gone on unnoticed by me, even with me standing there right there with him.

"Yes." He turned towards me a little. "To be sure, the faint but definite aroma came from Hughes's hands and not the cigars themselves, I…as Mr. Maidstone might say…'webbed'…another one. When the second cigar proved to be unblemished, it was clear Hughes had rendered the girls unconscious earlier with the substance in order to secure their quiet departure from the premises.

"From midway through our time in the Trocadero, I was reasonably sure I knew where the children had been taken to. But with the game in full flow, as dangerous as it was, it was even more dangerous to stop and act upon it. Besides, even had we managed to leave rather than simply arrive here without Becker and Hughes would prove nothing against them personally. Only that their premises were being used for nefarious purposes. Their lawyers and their connections would easily make a case for that." He glanced towards the barred carriage in which they were incarcerated. "We needed them with us so that an identification can be made.

"When their little trap, instead of ours was sprung by the Inspector here..." He slipped the cigar back into his pocket, as Inspector Lestrade stiffened slightly, to my great satisfaction. "…they were sure I knew nothing." A slow smile slipped over his face. "Naturally, they could not have been more wrong." He gave a short laugh and rubbed his hands. "Even if I had not observed half as much…Mrs. Becker's gloating in Macklin Street would have given me all the inkling I would have required."

He noted our rather blank looks and shook his head in amused tolerance.

"Mrs. Becker's words, prior to Miss Thurlow's exacting a right cross of some worth," he explained, causing me to flush with embarrassment once more at my actions, "were, I believe…poor children…what they must be going through, hidden away in the dark, squealing their little lungs out never to be heard…" He folded his arms and smirked again. "In the dark…squealing…never to be heard…quite insightful for someone who knew nothing, wouldn't you agree?" His hand raised in presentation of the factory sign across from us once more.

"Pigs!" I breathed as it all made sense. "Live exports…they planned to hide them in the crates amongst a live shipment. The squealing…" I stared at him in absolute dismay at the thought, "like a little girl's screams and cries."

From the slight frown on his face as he looked down at me, there was no doubt that he could see my by now fragile emotions starting to get the better of me, my chin starting to tremble as my empathy for the girls and the strain of the night's events finally took its toll.

"Miss Thurlow," he said quietly, "as you are acquainted with at least one of the girls, I would deem it a personal favour if you would accompany us into the factory, once we have confirmed Becker and Hughes's personal part in all this. I feel a gentle woman's presence…" he inclined his head towards me, "your presence in particular…would be of great comfort to the girls after their ordeals."

"Of course," I replied quickly, glad to have something to focus on, though I must admit to feeling more than a tiny thrill running through me at his words.

"Thank you," he returned and glanced at John, who having also seen my distress, moved to take and pat my hand comfortingly.

"I can't say I approve one jot of you being here..." my advisor said quietly to me with a small smile, as Mr. Holmes asked the Inspector to bring out Mrs. Becker, "but you've done a sterling job so far. Sterling. And we're almost to the end now."

Lowering my eyes, I gave him a small if shaky smile. He was quite correct. I shouldn't have come. I was foolish, pig-headed, and stubborn...I had let my pride take over my good sense and could have gotten Mr. Holmes and myself killed. And yet...John's words did bolster me...and I found a new determination spark to see this through.

"Thank you," I said with utter sincerity. "Though I shall be glad when this is over."

Mary Becker slid out of the fog surrounding us, her hands manacled and her expression derisive and cold. "Another wild goose chase, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, glancing at him and then at me, taking in my changed appearance. "Shame..." She shook her head. "At least you had some character before."

Filled with another wave of sudden desire to hit her again, I moved forward a step, only for John to take my arm in an attempt to both restrain and soothe my ire. "She's not worth your time..." he said quietly, shaking his head. "Don't give her the satisfaction."

"Yes..." Mr. Holmes agreed, peering at her, "give her your cloak instead, Miss Thurlow."

That gave me a bit of a start. "My cloak, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, sure my puzzlement was clear on my face.

Giving me a tight smile and a nod, he moved to the plain clothes officer who had given us the early report and quite casually took from him the scarf that hung around his neck. "With your permission, officer...I shall ensure its safe return." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his handkerchief and approached Mrs. Becker. "Not a goose chase, Mrs. Becker..." He drew her forward so she, too, could see the pig and poultry factory we stood a little away from. "Or at least not wholly..."

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a moment before she stiffened. "I..." she began but never finished, as the handkerchief that Mr. Holmes held found its way to her mouth, swiftly followed by the scarf to keep it in and gag her.

Swallowing a little, aware of the numerous gentlemen around me and my modesty returning in full now my role was over, I drew off my cloak and moved to hand it to Mr. Holmes, feeling a rather un-Christian surge of satisfaction in seeing her in such a manner.

"Thank you, Miss Thurlow; the hood will be just the job," he said, wrapping it around the woman and drawing it forward, as John, with a cough, drew off his overcoat and handed it to me as a gentleman would. The deep cloak around her and the hood up but not too far forward, so that her blonde hair was still visible at the side of her face, and eyes flashing fire at him, Mrs. Becker was turned to face us by Mr. Holmes and though she was bound and gagged she still looked for all the world as if she were simply wrapped against the chill of the foggy night. "There..." Mr. Holmes stated, regarding her as one might a newly completed painting. "Mute but recognisable, wouldn't you say?"

Pulling on John's coat, I nodded slowly.

"Your pardon, Madam," he said to her. "I realise that was hardly a gentlemanly act...but it was highly unlikely you would not attempt to say something to alert your men, and we need them to see you." He turned to John, regarding him for a long moment before he shook his head. "No...I fear you look entirely too respectable, Watson...even mussing you up would fail to remove that innate glow of decency that shines from within you. Officer? Would you join me?" he asked the plainclothes officer briskly.

Beside me, John's brow creased considerably, as he did not quite know how to take his friend's comments. "Thank you, Holmes," he mumbled finally. "I think."

I patted his arm, though the grin was struggling not to show on my face. A grin of John's own very nearly shone through, however, only truly covered by a cough when Mr. Holmes then glanced at the Inspector and commented, "You too, Inspector...yes, you'll do admirably. Do you know, Lestrade, without your hat you have all the markings of a first rate criminal type." The slight twitch of his lips was noticeable as he turned away from him, the Inspector's hands going to his hat before he frowned.

"Let's get this over with, shall we, Holmes?" He removed his hat and reached into his pocket to draw out his gun, checking it. "Martin?" He nodded to the officer. "Get yourself armed."

As the other man moved away to fetch a firearm, Mr. Holmes turned to John. "May I prevail upon you once again for your trusty revolver, Watson? All I have upon me is the stiletto I brought earlier."

"Of course, Holmes." The older man reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the gun. "Good luck," he added as he handed it to him.

I watched the scene before me and found a lump form in my throat at the sight of the gun, and a fear took hold of me for his safety...as it had earlier that day in his rooms...but...stronger. And before I could stop myself, I blurted, "Good luck, Mr. Holmes!"

He turned to look at me, silent for a moment, before he nodded slowly. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow. I shall see you inside in a few minutes' time."

I nodded, my cheeks flushing pink, barely resisting the urge to kiss him for luck…or so I desperately told myself.

As Officer Martin returned, I watched as the three men turned to go, only for Mrs. Becker to begin to buck and thrash about as they endeavoured to take her with them. After struggling with her, the Inspector drew his gun and pointed it at her.

"Madam…I've been very much looking forward to having you fall within my remit for the longest time," he told her, his voice carrying a dangerous edge to it. "I despise your sort…and you…you're the very worst of your kind." He stepped closer. "It's not enough to sell yourself…you sell others. Corrupt and debase innocents. You and your lot are the ghouls of our society. You shouldn't be let near decent folk. Upsetting decent people like my good lady wife. As mother to our little ones, she's been highly distressed by talk and reports in the papers…and I don't like to see my wife distressed.

"So, let me just make this very clear to you, Mrs. Becker. You've been arrested on suspicion of kidnapping…should you resist…in any way…I shall be forced to assume, in the confusion of this fog…that you are trying to escape…something I'm sure my men here will all attest to afterwards." The sound of his revolver cocking was very clear indeed, and no better emphasis to his words was required. "Now…" He gave her a small smile. "Shall we?"

Her eyes flashed in defiance…but her movements stilled as she met the very real detestation in the Inspector's gaze. With the cowed, bound, gagged, and now quiescent Mrs. Becker between them, the men walked into the mist towards the factory entrance, their shapes becoming more obscured until only their grey silhouettes were visible to us.

The officers around me watched with their weapons drawn, ready to spring into action should something go amiss. And with bated breath in the silent stillness of the foggy night, we saw them knock upon the watchman's door inset into the large wooden factory gates. Time seemed to pass as if slowed by some malign force...but eventually we saw the door answered and…after a brief exchange of conversation…they stepped inside.

"Get ready, lads..." said a Sergeant by my side, his gun in his hand.

My hands clenched, and were my gloves not on, I am sure my knuckles would have shown entirely white. I was suddenly terrified. Terrified for the girls, that this was some mistake…or that the ruse would misfire...terrified that Mr. Holmes would be hurt or killed, and oh, dear readers, how my breath caught in my throat at that thought, and the pain in my heart was such that it felt as though a white hot poker had been driven in it. And yet, my eyes remained fixed on that door, unable and unwilling to look away even for a moment.

"They're in…and without a fuss too," John said quietly to me, his voice grim and tension-filled. "It means the watchman recognised her...we have them...providing..."

A moment later, two shots rang out in rapid succession...followed by a third. My stomach clenched and my heart leapt into my throat, my hand flying to my mouth in horror. The officers around me sprang into action immediately across the cobbled street as a piercing whistle rang through the night.

The watchman's door to the factory opened again, and a figure appeared, the whistle sounding again from his lips as he beckoned to his fellow onrushing officers to come quickly.

I stood there not knowing what to do until my frozen limbs finally received life, and I found myself running after them, only for a hand to lock around my arm, pulling me to a halt before I had taken five steps. "Helen, no! There is nothing you can do, save get yourself hurt. Holmes will ensure the girls come to no harm," John said sternly. "Stay here."

The men ahead of us poured into the small door and several more shots rang out, lights blazing around the darkened factory and whistles echoing from areas inside before things silenced once more.

An instant later, two officers emerged with a struggling man between them and pushed him to the ground, handcuffing him as he jerked and twisted, trying to get away.

Slipping his arm firmly through mine, John watched and then nodded. "Now. But stay close, Helen." Leading me forward towards the shadow figures ahead of us, John stopped me a little ways from them.

Officer Martin looked up from where he and his colleague had just finished restraining the worker. "Doctor...you should head in; you're needed."

"Who's hurt?" John asked hastily. "And have they found the girls?"

The officer stood up, his thick black moustache twitching with satisfaction. "A couple of the dastards got winged pretty good...and the Inspector took a blow with a billy to the 'ead...think 'e's alright though..." He smiled a little. "Thick 'ead the Inspector 'as. They're searchin' for the girls now...that..." he paused looking at me, "woman won't 'elp none, o' course."

"Of course…" John sighed before he turned his eyes to me. "If you're ready?"

My face had grown more resolute at the policeman's words, and I nodded. "Yes...I'm ready," I replied with determination, my stomach relaxing just a little with the knowledge that Mr. Holmes was not hurt.

The factory was quite small and, as Mr Holmes explained later, it was kept that way to reduce the need for employees. And this was essential due to the fact that those that worked there had the dual job of expediting both the legitimate and illegitimate side of their business -- the fewer the people, the less likelihood of a leak.

The amount of slaughtering and preparing of meat done there was disproportionately small compared to the bringing in and exporting of animals -- shiploads coming in, often almost immediately to be shipped out again, and with them, hidden in their midst, the far more profitable cargo of the disappeared. The ledgers that were later found showed their despicable customers and suppliers were as far flung as Russia and North Africa.

As we moved through the grounds, the stench of ammonia from the effluent produced by pigs was almost overwhelming, as was their ear piercing squealing at the noise and the sudden barrage of lights and movement. It was never easier to understand how, in the midst of all that, cries for help might go completely unheard.

Several men lay wounded and guarded while right in the centre of the yard, her hood pushed back and her gag removed, Mary Becker stood still and erect with an officer by her side, her eyes fixed on nothing as the search went on around her.

When another young policeman emerged from a shed beyond her and cried, "Here! Quick! Here!" she barely registered it, allowing herself to be led without a flicker of emotion towards the shed as police officers emerged from every corner and hurried to the call, ourselves included.

On reaching the shed door, Inspector Lestrade, holding a handkerchief to his head, looked up at us with a wince.

"Inspector..." John said quickly, moving to him and hoisting his bag, "how are you?"

"I've had worse, Doctor." He shrugged it off with what I must admit was admirable fortitude. "There are villains down, as you've no doubt seen, but none mortally wounded. Though they might wish they had been by the time the court is done with them. In any event, you'd best leave them for the moment and join Mr. Holmes." He nodded towards the large pig pen that took up the bulk of the stinking whitewashed stone shed.

At the far side of the pen, the hogs milling around, Mr. Holmes was bent down, peering through a grating at the front of a solid iron container. He appeared to be talking quietly, though what with the shrieking of the animals all around, there was no way in the world one might make out what he was saying.

"Go on in...watch your footing though...and your dress, Miss," the Inspector said, taking a seat rather heavily on a barrel.

"I'll be back to take a good look at you directly, Inspector." John patted him lightly on the shoulder before looking at me. I hardly cared a jot about the dress, for I knew I would have no need of it again after this night, so gathering it up in one hand, I entered the pen and began to move resolutely to Mr. Holmes.

By the time we reached him, he and the officer with him had inserted an iron bar into the rusty padlock that was holding the sliding grate that made up the door in place and with a great heave, they forced it to snap open. Beckoning me forward as the officer forced the two-foot tall grating door upwards and propped it up with the bar, Mr. Holmes bent down again, and the lamp the officers had with them gently turned inwards as I crouched beside him to see the cramped confines of the straw strewn container. A bowl of water stood in one corner, a bucket beside it, while in the other corner were three small bodies huddled together, their eyes wide and terrified.

I breathed a sigh of relief that they were all there and alive and without another thought, slipped myself easily into the container, waiting for a moment on all fours on the far side so they could get used to my presence. "Emily?" I called softly.

The girls shifted more tightly together at my voice -- the smallest one...Kate, whimpering a little and clinging to the body of the older blonde haired, brown-eyed girl who had her arms about them both. Behind me, John's voice advised softly, "They are disoriented...and the ether will have made the effects all the greater."

I nodded almost imperceptibly and crawled a bit closer. "Emily...it's Miss Thurlow...Helen Thurlow. Matthew and Andrew's sister. I've come to take you and the other girls home," I told her soothingly, making small movements so not to frighten them further. "Is this Kate and Susan?"

Emily's large, scared eyes stared at me, her brow flickering until with a swallow, her voice thick with the effects of the anaesthetic showing in it just as John had said, she spoke hesitantly, "Miss...Miss Thurlow?" Her brow furrowed further as she looked down slowly at the two girls with their heads against her shoulders. "Yes...Kate..." she said of the little brown haired girl, "and...and...Susie..." The red haired girl turned her green eyes away from me on mention of her name, as Emily's own chocolate ones gradually moved back to me. "Is...is...Mama here?"

I shook my head. "No, but she is not far…waiting for you. Her and your Papa, both. I'm here with the police...and Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Do you remember Andrew telling you about them? We're going to take you and Kate and Susie to your Mamas now. All right?" I held out my hand gradually and moved a little closer. "Let's go home, darling."

She looked at my hand, and her arm about Kate twitched a little before her eyes turned to the entrance and the faces of the men there, her gaze resting on the dark, scarred visage of the still disguised Mr. Holmes. "Home?" she asked softly, her chin rising slowly and bravely before she nodded and, slipping her arm from around Kate, placed her small unsteady hand into mine.

I clasped it warmly and pulled her to me, embracing her. "Home," I repeated, my voice soft but firm, and held out my arms to the other girls. "All of us."

Taking them cautiously and patiently from their tiny pen, we carried them to the entrance of the shed...Kate in my arms, Emily in John's, and the young, unshaven officer with Mr. Holmes carrying Susan…Mr. Holmes still being too somewhat fierce in appearance to be a soothing enough presence. That underlying fierceness increased enormously when, on reaching the entrance, the girls caught sight of Mary Becker, the two younger ones clinging even tighter to the officer and myself as Emily pointed at her in silent fear.

My face hardened as well, my eyes like daggers on the woman who was, in my opinion, as evil as the devil himself. Mr. Holmes looked from them to Mary Becker, his expression one of disdain. "Tell me, now...Madam...what connections you have who will convince a jury to ignore the testimony of the innocents you tried to corrupt? In the full glare of the public eye…a glare you yourselves have brought to bear…they will scurry for cover, even if you threaten them. And if you intimidate and expose them…so much the better for us, for we will take them, too. You have my word on that," he promised her faithfully before he turned his gaze again to the children. "These girls will speak for all those ignored unfortunates you and your customers have ruined and killed...and you will go to your judgement, first in this world and then the next."

I wish I could say that there was some kind of regret or penitence in her then…but even at that point, with the gallows rearing up on the horizon, she showed no remorse, no fear, no emotion of any kind. Her eyes were blank and hard as she stared back at Emily, dead inside. Years later, as I write this, it is still the case that when I think of the callous, indifferent evils that humanity is capable of, it is always Mary Becker's eyes I see before me.

Turning away, Mr. Holmes led us out as another officer took Emily, allowing John to attend to the Inspector and the other wounded. Once he was satisfied to leave them to the police medics who followed, we took the girls to the brougham and back to Scotland Yard and ultimately, a joyful and tearful reunion with their families.

I watched Emily, her pretty dress stained and torn, run unsteadily to her mother and father, who swept her up in open arms, Elizabeth raining kisses over her daughter's face. And I must confess unashamedly to some tears rolling down my cheeks, feeling then that it had all been worth it simply to see those joyous parents hold their daughters again. Brushing one more tear from my cheek, I turned away, allowing them a little privacy and a chance to get my own thoughts in order, which were, in the aftermath of all that had occurred, quite frankly reeling all over the place.

Dawn was beginning to creep over London, the spires, domes, and stacks of the city coming into relief against the lightening sky. As the fog slipped away, I did likewise to the exterior of Scotland Yard to take a breath of air, only to find my two friends there smoking and talking quietly together. Looking up at me as I emerged, they smiled -- John gently and Mr. Holmes with that tight small pull of the lips that indicated a welcome and made my stomach flip.

"A most moving and rewarding end to a terrible situation," John addressed me softly in keeping with the hush of the breaking morning.

"Yes," I agreed, moving slowly over to them and feeling awkward now that the case and my role in it were over.

"I still find it hard to believe you did what you did, Helen. Such a dreadful and terrifying situation to put oneself into. What emotions you must have experienced in that place." John shook his head pondering upon it, and I barely stopped myself from glancing over at the tall man next to him, for John would never really have any idea exactly what emotions had been brought from me this past night.

"I did what I thought I had to do...but I know now that I was wrong...I was foolish and stubborn. I am sorry...sorry for not having listened...for not trusting in you both enough." I let out a shaky breath, the long night and whirlwind of terror, anxiety, and...well, it was all settling on me and leaving me drained. "You may both rest assured that I shall never fail to heed your warnings or words again." I hesitated, a wave of weariness washing over me. "That is, if you are inclined to continue our acquaintance...for after my behaviour tonight, I would not be surprised if you did not."

"Miss Thurlow…" Mr. Holmes shook his head at my words as he dropped his spent cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "After a relatively modulated debut performance that despite one or two unexpected flourishes exceeded even your most virulent critics' expectations," he indicated John and himself, "it would be a shame to introduce a touch of melodrama at this late stage." His rebuke was gentle, but caused me to flush all the same as I was in no doubt as to what 'flourishes' he was referring to, and yet, I flinched to hear him name them so…especially the…

Exhaling slowly, he folded his arms against the morning chill, his look all the more severe for the disguise he still wore. "You are quite correct. You were wrong and quite spectacularly stubborn, foolish, illogical, and reckless.

"However..." he paused, "your bravery and adaptability were, at the end of it all, quite without question and your performance, not only in your dubious role but in the face of true danger, quite confounded me. It is a gratifying thing when someone risks their life for others...one can never wholly condemn it." He inhaled quietly. "But it is...even more gratifying when someone eschews the chance for personal safety to help ensure that of their friends."

"Yes...well..." I stammered at his words, which I knew were a form of thanks for my intentions at least, but their unexpectedness left me more than a little off balance. "I would do it for anyone..." I assured him, though part of me doubted those words. Would I really leap into danger so readily for John? Mary? Maggie? They, too, were my friends...but I was beginning to suspect that my motivations for this night were not just based on friendly concern. And truth be told, dear readers, that both frightened and worried me more. But this moment was not for worrying on such matters...not that doing so would do me any good at any rate. So pushing back my thoughts, I looked up into his eyes. "Any of my friends," I stressed.

"Naturally," he agreed slowly. "Though in my case, Miss Thurlow, I would be exceptionally grateful if you might see your way in the future to never…ever…do it again?" His eyebrows rose and a hint of amusement sparked in the eyes underneath them. Beside me, John bit his lip in an attempt not to smile, but ended up chuckling quietly all the same.

The blush returned in full force as I nodded. "Of course..."

He continued to regard me closely, and I was left with the momentary sense that he wished to say something more…but glancing at the smiling John, instead he looked around and up at the skyline. "It is late...or early...we should see to returning you home. We have already taken up far too much of your weekend and, no doubt, you have plans tomorrow with your family…or Captain Edwards."

On speaking William's name, he reached up and scratching a little at his cheek, gently peeled his scar from his face and parted the skin around it that appeared to have had been puckered and joined by a glue of sorts, rubbing it softly. "We are done here. Jake Maidstone...and Mademoiselle Jeanette...are no more."

I must admit to a deep conflict at his words... a conflict made up of an irrational surge of hurt at such an easy discard, considering what had occurred between us...even though I had understood all along that to him it had only been a role…and alongside that hurt came the far greater stab of guilt. Guilt at my actions that had led me to feel this way…guilt at, though it had never been intended that way, my betrayal of William -- both in what I had done…in the feelings I had unwittingly unleashed once more, and what it all meant.

Composing myself, I reached up to brush back the stray locks of hair that had fallen from the tight bun worn to accommodate the dark wig I had been wearing earlier.

"Yes...they are," I agreed, none too relieved, though I drew myself up. "And you are quite right; it is late...and I am due to meet William later this morning. I should return to my hotel." I wonder if perhaps my words sounded as flat to them as they did to me, though from the sympathetic expression on John's face, he merely attributed my tone to exhaustion.

"Then, by all means, let us accompany you," Mr. Holmes replied as the navy sky turned ever more violet, a new day dawning on London and on me.

Authors' Note: Greetings! We both hope you enjoyed the mystery...and next week it's back to third person...heh...and the fall out! Thank you all for reading and/or reviewing. You have not only made our plot bunnies extremely happy...but its been wonderful to see your opinions and thoughts and theories for what is going to happen next. I even set up a poll on my livejournal (aerynstales)...kudos to those who got it right! However, the game is not over yet...and what does Holmes really think about what just went on. Dun dun dun...

On a side note...LOLOLOLOL to BaskervilleBeauty for her Phlem referrence...oh yes, Jeanette really did remind me of Fleur too. (giggles more) Your comment had me in stiches, gal.

Again, we are both so glad everyone is enjoying this story so much...and now the countdown has begun...four more chapters kiddos...just four. Thank you everyone for your interest and enthusiasm...and again feel free to wander over to my lj for discussion on theories on what shall happen next...And stay tuned for next week's chapter, Masques. Hugs to all! --Aeryn (of aerynfire)