A/N: Thanks again for the reviews everyone and sorry that I'm so slow at updating…

'Yes, I've been to Lyre's Café a couple of times, they do very good Chelsea buns you know…' said Clarence, twiddling a pencil between his fingers and staring at a blank sheet of paper.

'Mmm,' said Ida, trying to sound interested, 'so, near Soho square you say?'

'Yes, I think so…Never had you down as much of a Chelsea bun fan, Ida…'

'Clarence!'

'Scherzo, as the Italians say, scherzo, I know that it's got something to do with your latest case…A big one, is it?'

'Could be.'

'Well, good luck.'

He turned back to the paper and made a faint mark, before springing back as though burned and making a tutting noise under his breath.

Ida paused in surprise, she had expected him to want to come to the café too, and had in fact been going over a speech in her head where she would re iterate how she was the private detective and had no need for a right hand man.

'You still here, Ida?' asked Clarence,

'I'm just going,' she said, sharply

'I don't suppose you could get me a piece of charcoal from over…'

'…Sorry Clarence, time is of the essence.'

……………….

Still feeling a sense of annoyance she didn't quite understand, which just made her all the more annoyed, Ida sat in Lyre's Café and sipped a no doubt over-priced cup of tea. It was five minutes to twelve. Her day had started at 5 AM, when the scullery maid had woken her with a vicious pinch. Ida had laid the fires, with minimal assistance from said scullery maid, and then made a cup of tea with which to go and wake the housekeeper. That charming woman had berated her for a single speck of soot on her apron before informing her that she intended to speak to Mrs Hertford about the disgracefully unconventional way in which Ida had been appointed, and get her dismissed before the day was out. So Ida had not felt particularly bad about walking out of the Hertford house at 10 that morning - after a couple of hours of fruitless snooping in the library and parlour whilst dusting – without a word to anyone.

Ida surveyed her fellow café customers. A young couple chaperoned by a late middle aged woman who was knitting a prodigiously long scarf sat by the window and stole nervous glances at each other; an elderly man enjoyed a Chelsea bun studded with great lumps of sugar at a table to her left; a tall gaunt woman dressed in severe black mourning clothes took little sips of a glass of water at a table by the door, and, yes… at the table in the corner sat Mrs Hertford.

She was wearing an elegant little black hat with a heavy veil that obscured about two thirds of her face, but Ida had taken care to note the clothes she had been wearing at home that morning, and it was definitely her. She found herself wondering briefly where Mrs Hertford had purchased that hat, it really did strike just the right note of sophistication, plus the veil could really come in handy…

….with a jangling bell the café door swung open, and in scurried a figure that had to be female, it was so petite, but which was so swathed in a voluminous fur coat and a red silk scarf that it was hard to tell. Ida glimpsed a hint of very black hair under the shapeless green velvet hat that topped off the whole ensemble as the newcomer hurried past, paused instantaneously, then dashed over to the table in the corner. Even from where she sat – some distance away – Ida could detect the desperate gladness in Mrs Hertford's face and manner as she leant across the table to speak softly to what could only be her daughter.

Ida put down her teacup and strained to hear their conversation. She was fairly certain of a whispered

'Darling!'

but could make nothing of whatever reply Emily made. Mrs Hertford then said something like

'but….….stand…'

'No!' exclaimed Emily, almost at normal speaking volume, before some very urgent whispering, then Mrs Hertford made some sort of concillatory noises that sounded like

'...course….love…both….'

Ida saw Emily pull off one of her long gloves, and give her left hand to her mother across the table. Mrs Hertford took it, kissed it, and let it go, dabbing at her eyes with her hankerchief. As Emily pulled the glove back on, Ida was sure she caught a glimpse of something sparkling…

As quickly as she had come, Emily was suddenly on her feet again, and making for the door. Ida stood up, her chair scraping on the wooden floor…

'Leaving, madam?'

It was the waiter.

'Er, yes…' Ida stuttered, picking up her bag

'That will be sixpence…'

'Sixpence!'

'Madam,'

'Alright, alright,' she fumbled in her purse, asking 'Do you know Clarence Fortescue?'

'The young art student fellow? He comes in here sometimes…'

'…could you put that on his tab?'

'On his…tab…?' repeated the waiter, in astonished horror.

Emily Hertford was already outside and turning left into the street outside.

Ida eventually dug out a shilling.

'I'll be back for the change!' she said firmly, handing it over, and running for the door. Before the waiter could respond she was shoving at the handle. The door swung out far more easily than she had anticipated, and she stumbled onto the pavement, smack-bang into a man hurrying past.

'Oh!'

'Miss! Have a care, please…'

She could never mistake that voice

'Mr Holmes?'

His eyes, when they met hers, were filled with emotions she hadn't seen there before: anger yes, but mixed with fear,

'Not…now…Miss Greene,' he said, enunciating each word with deliberate calm, 'I am in somewhat of a hurry,'

He pushed past her, eyes scanning the crowds in Soho Square

'Are you looking for Emily Hertford?' Ida asked, helpfully, but Holmes didn't seem to hear,

'Damn, damn, damn and blast it!' he exclaimed, stepping away from her.

Ida followed his gaze, and saw Emily Hertford, still dressed in her enormous coat, being helped into a hansom cab by a thin man whose age was hard to determine since his face hidden in shadow. He clambered up inside too, and slammed the door.

Holmes took another few steps forward, then, as the cab moved off, he broke into a run, elbowing his way through the crowd. Ida hesitated an instant, then hitched up her skirt slightly and sprinted after. She felt her new hat slipping off, tried to clutch at it, but too late. There was no time to pick it up - she had to keep Holmes in sight. She hadn't liked it that much in any case.