Chapter Nine: Musical Chairs
30th April, 1889
"Helen?" Mrs. Mary Watson addressed her friend, frowning slightly at her small armful of parcels while the two women walked up a Marylebone Road currently bathed in April sunshine, heading towards her husband’s now secondary place of occupation. "Do you still have that small red and white wrapped package I picked up at Madame Fleurette's?"
Glancing down at her own stack of boxes and packages balanced precariously in her arms, Helen craned her head to see. "I believe so..." Raising her arms and burden slightly, she wondered if she would ever get out of the poverty instilled habit of not hiring a cab when walking around the streets of London, and managed to spy the prettily dressed box between two others. "Yes...I have it here."
"Oh good," her friend breathed, exhaling a soft sigh of relief. "It wouldn't do at all to have left them lying around in the cafe."
Helen's eyebrow arched, her curiosity having been piqued ever since Mary had diverted quickly into the French woman’s rather exclusive little boutique off Oxford Street, leaving her standing outside. "No, I suppose not. Though of course,” she reminded her with a mischievous smile, “I remain at a perfect loss as to what 'they' are."
Mary's expression immediately became somewhat cautious, and she hesitated for a few seconds, before glancing around to check the proximity of others around them as they walked. She was sotto voce when she turned back and leaned towards her friend. "I should not of course be speaking of such things...but well...in all honesty, Helen, they're just a little treat from Paris...they're…um…rather decorative...garters," she explained quickly, hiding the small smile and flush of her cheeks with a dip of her head.
Both of her friend's eyebrows rose almost to the hairline. "Really?” she breathed, before catching the immodestly intrigued tone of her own voice. “I mean...oh...well..." Her cheeks turned crimson at the connotations and her reaction, causing her to cough a little in embarrassment. "I am sure your husband will be pleased...I mean...that is to say...oh…oh dear..." she stumbled, digging herself in deeper with every syllable.
Mary bit her lip at her friend's nervous words, before leaning towards her once more. "Yes..." she whispered. "I dare say John will." A rather nervous, if girlishly impish, laugh emanated from the pretty blonde, as her auburn headed friend’s eyes widened, causing Mary to giggle again. "Oh dear, that was rather wicked of me to say, wasn't it?"
Hiding her smile as best she could, considering her hands were occupied, Helen nodded vigorously. "I dare say so, Mary, however, I shall not tell anyone if you do not." Her voice was the very essence of conspiratorial bonhomie, before she moved the conversation along naturally. "So, married life is treating you both well then?"
"Very." Mary's face took on a happy, distant appearance in conjunction with her most decisive of answers. "These past few weeks have been...well..." With a shake of her head, she gave up, unable to find the words to express them. "Helen…John is just the dearest, sweetest, gentlest man….patient, attentive, romantic, and ardent. I am the most fortunate of women in my choice of husband…and in his of me." Her smile on thinking of her husband was soft and almost wondrous, and after a moment, she attempted to break herself from her reverie with a quiet clearing of her throat, glancing somewhat embarrassedly at her friend. "That is not to say he does not have his faults,” she continued, trying to sound like a good, prim, Victorian wife intent on ‘gently’ remodelling her husband into the perfect Victorian man. “But I must confess they are quite minor.” She lapsed into a smile again, the manner of the newly wedded unable to be repressed for long. “John is, unusually for a man, a remarkably good and earnest listener...something I can only attribute to his literary abilities and time with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Her friend sighed happily next to her. "I am so very pleased for you both, Mary. Truly, I am. You both deserve to find happiness...and to see two people so clearly made for each other...it gives hope to the rest of us."
"Hope is not something you need to cleave to, dearest Helen," Mary replied, smiling at her. "You will find someone. Of that, I am sure of."
Her friend's lips pulled into a wry smile. "Possibly, however, I do not think that will occur anytime soon."
"Oh?" Mary watched her closely. "And what makes you sure of that? One never knows where one will find one's match. You may have already met him…or he could walk around the corner at any given time only to sweep you off your feet...look at John and I and how we met? Hardly the usual method of introduction."
"Ah, but your meeting was a rare event indeed. Yours is a tale of adventure and romance with your champion knight and his medical bag. That is unlikely to occur for me.” Helen shook her head ruefully. “Besides, I am hardly in a position to actively entertain anyone. My life is far too active as of late…and never mind that most men I meet these days seem only to show true interest in what money I will bring to the match," she pointed out, wrinkling her nose. "And others are simply rather...dull."
Mary nodded sympathetically, as they walked on. "As you say, and indeed, from your descriptions of one or two, I'm somewhat surprised you did not fall asleep mid conversation with them," she agreed. However, a moment later, though she faced straight ahead, her blue eyes gradually moved surreptitiously towards her friend, her voice light and airy. "Still at least, for the moment, for stimulating conversation there is always Sherlock."
Helen nodded with seeming absence at the comment. "Yes, well...he most certainly keeps one on their toes…and there is always something new to discuss." She cast Mary a slight smile. "I suppose for now, he will have to do," she said evenly, though inwardly her mind whirred rapidly at Mary’s remark, wondering if her friend had somehow picked up on something from her. Whether there had been some careless outward betrayal of the fact that her thoughts of late had been returning more and more to Dr. Watson’s colleague, and dwelled there in a way she was increasingly uncomfortable with.
"He most certainly does keep one alert," her friend concurred with a smile. "I must confess, I am quite in admiration when John tells me how you converse with him, and he with you. He is a fine man, a genius in many ways, but somewhat intellectually intimidating. I find your ability with him highly commendable."
Helen felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. "Well...I don't know about that...it is not as though I do or say anything special. Most of the time, I fear I shall place my foot squarely back in my mouth again."
"And, knowing my husband’s closest friend, I have no doubt that he will be the first to inform you of your foot's precise whereabouts, what style of shoe you were wearing, and what you had for breakfast that morning because of it," Mary replied with a chuckle, before giving her a friend an affection glance. "But, for the most part, he does truly seem to appreciate your company...both John and I are firmly of that opinion."
The young woman quickly glanced away, fearing her pleasure at that statement would show in her eyes. "That is certainly gratifying to hear...he is a good friend to me and my family."
Her friend watched every reaction keenly without ever giving any indication that she was doing so, and as the two women turned onto Baker Street, she moved her eyes back to their destination. Her husband's recounting of the events at Pendragon House in Somerset, and the ease of Holmes and Helen’s subsequent conversations in its aftermath had only convinced her of what had occurred to her about Helen back at the Foundation Christmas party. Here was a woman who had, at the very least, the potential to divert the great and coolly aloof intellect of Mr. Sherlock Holmes from the sole pursuit of his work...and encourage him to look further inwards to more personal pursuits. She was sure of it.
Mary had become, in the aftermath of her own case with Holmes, as intrigued with the detective and his manner as she was enamoured of his friend and colleague. She and John had spent more than a few hours of their engagement on the topic of Sherlock Holmes, and she knew as much as John had been able to tell her, including the unfortunate tendencies towards the use of drugs which her husband fretted over greatly.
Over time, she had gradually formulated the hypothesis, and voiced it long since to him, that Sherlock Holmes had suffered some unhappiness in his never spoken of childhood…something undoubtedly to do with women or a woman in particular.
She had deduced it must be his childhood, for the younger man spoke so infrequently of his family, that close ties and a tight emotional bond seemed farfetched in the extreme. And since her husband was completely adamant that his friend had never been in love, his attitude towards women and from there to the subject of any involvement with one could not possibly stem from a broken heart, as so many men who professed a deep mistrust of women would often claim. Her experience as a governess made it easy for her to look back and envision what type of upbringing a man or woman may have had as a child, and conclude how that rearing influenced their personalities and natures to make them what they were currently…and in the great detective, she sensed a vulnerability with regard to his own emotions and the display of them that underlay his continued protestation of their necessary repression for logic’s sake, a vulnerability that spoke of a fear brought on by some deep hurt.
She knew, of course, that she could be most profoundly wrong, but her instincts had seldom failed her these past years and she relied on them almost as much as Holmes did upon his facts, data, and logic. And those instincts had been telling her for quite some time now, that Helen Thurlow was the rarest of creatures to a man like Sherlock Holmes…a woman he could trust. And with trust, everything was possible…even the seemingly impossible.
Mary was not a meddlesome woman by nature, quite the contrary in fact, but though undoubtedly influenced by her own blissful state, she saw in front of her a very strong chance for happiness for two people that she cared about, and one that could easily slip by, if not taken advantage of quickly.
"I must admit to being happy for your friendship with him, for personal reasons," Mary added with complete nonchalance. "With your presence and its aftermath...John’s subsequent absence is felt a little less by Sherlock," she said thoughtfully, before smiling. "Which I must admit in turn, affords us a little extra time together. I know that John will not always be able to resist his friend's call for aid, nor should he, considering the importance of their work together…but I think he would be inclined to spend even more time at Baker Street, quite apart from cases, if he felt Sherlock was in want of personal interaction. Your visits and discussions over tea after your meetings with John have provided an extra social stimulus, which for so solitary a man can only be a good thing.”
Raising her head, Helen gazed at her friend. "Well, then I am certainly glad I could help," she replied with a smile. "As newlyweds, you should have as much time together as possible. And it would not do to let your husband's partner be lonely...or heavens forefend…bored!" She shook her head at the memory. "The last instance of that was nerve wracking enough. The onset of ennui in Mr. Sherlock Holmes can be a danger to both life and limb!"
"The last instance? Ah..." Mary nodded in remembrance. "The gunpowder incident. Yes. Another reason why I couldn’t even begin to react to him the way you do. I would've fled for my life!” She exaggerated for humour.
Chuckling, her friend shook her head. "No, Mary, I am sure you would have handled it perfectly well."
"Perhaps,” she replied with a wry smile, as they arrived at their destination. "Though, I doubt I would’ve handled it quite the way you did. Imagine aiding him in the making of explosives! Heavens, what an anarchist you would make, Helen Thurlow!” she exclaimed with a laugh, and after a sheepish glance from her friend was joined by her so that their laughter filled the air before the entrance to 221b. With a jovial sigh as their mirth faded, Mary nudged Helen softly. “Still…for all that, I can only hope we find him in good spirits today." She glanced up at the windows above them. “I would much rather tea awaits us than high explosives.”
Following her gaze, Helen again shook her head in amusement, as she manipulated the bundle in her arms to ring the buzzer and announce their arrival.
On Mrs. Hudson's greeting and admittance of them, and their divesting themselves of their parcels, hats, and coats, both women made their way upstairs to find the two men in question not in the midst of some exotic experiment but awash in a sea of paper.
As the door opened, Watson looked up from the sheaf of papers he was sorting through with a decidedly bored look on his face. "Mary!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up as if someone had just shown him a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. "Miss Thurlow! I...that is...we…weren't expecting you for another hour or so." Rising up, he walked over to the ladies, taking his wife's hand and kissing her cheek, his eyes flashing with happiness at the sight of her as he pulled back.
"We finished our lunch and shopping a bit early," Mary replied, smiling with barely restrained devotion at her husband, while Helen ducked her head to hide her amused smile at the pair, as she moved more fully into the room.
"Not a moment too soon for your husband, I'll warrant." Holmes's mildly acerbic tone cut across the reunion. "He's only just now sat down to aid me with my filing...you ladies arriving gives him a whole new world of avoidance to explore!"
By the door, his hand still with his wife's, the doctor looked mildly abashed.
"Do you require some aid, Mr. Holmes?" Helen asked politely, stifling a surge of eagerness to remain in his company, as she glanced over at the couple.
The detective glanced up at her. "I thought I had some, Miss Thurlow," he replied, flashing a mildly accusatory look towards at his colleague. "But my junior clerk’s attention today is as wayward as that of a runaway horse and four. In short..." Holmes finished as she approached, "yes, Miss Thurlow some assistance would be welcome. However, you have your appointment with Watson, do you not?"
Helen turned back over to her advisor and his wife, who was also flushing at the detective’s words. "That rather depends on the good doctor and his wife," she teased with a twinkle in her eyes, while in response Mary surprisingly glanced up at her husband with such a knowing look that it made the other woman frown for a moment.
Leading his wife to the couch and not releasing her hand until she had seated herself, Watson turned to his colleague. "Actually, Holmes, as Miss Thurlow has offered you her assistance...if you both wouldn't mind dreadfully, I do have some things to attend to at the practice. Teething problems that are inevitable in the early months of any new business....and Mary said she might help me." He lowered himself onto the couch next to his wife. "I'm afraid there's plenty of filing and re-filing to be done there too. I’ve been working at it myself for the past few evenings...which is why I'm so deucedly unenthused about helping you with yours, old man...I do apologise."
His colleague put down his own filing, which he had scarcely ceased working on since the ladies arrival. "You should have said, Watson. Of course, you must go." His reconciled tone showed no surprise whatsoever at this particular turn of events, and though not doubting for a moment the veracity of his friend’s words regarding his own work at the surgery, knew all the same that his statement was not the entire truth.
Similarly, Helen noted that Mary's enthusiasm was perhaps slightly more than one attributable to a woman solely about to aid her husband in filing. However, she merely smiled, as her friend caught her eyes and nodded, unable to begrudge them any happiness at all. "Of course, Doctor. Shall we reschedule for next week?"
He nodded eagerly, before somewhat contritely pausing to enquire, "Unless, there is something of great import you would like to discuss? Then, of course, I am at your service."
She shook her head, and moved over to the detective. "No, all is rather calm as of late, though next week I should like to discuss a couple of events that are coming up in June," she answered, giving the couple an amused glance.
"Of course, I'm quite sure I'll be at your complete disposal by then," Watson assured her, before clearing his throat. "In the meantime, however, I believe the filing system in my practice is in such a mess that it may well take the bulk of the week to sort through it all," he lamented awkwardly, shifting a little in his seat as he turned back to his friend. "It may well be, Holmes that I won't be able to attend the concert young Sharapov is giving tomorrow that you were so keen on."
There was no denying the momentary flash of disappointment that cut across the detective's eyes as he sat back in his chair. "I see..." he murmured, "that is...unfortunate."
Standing so near, Helen could not fail to see the truth of his reaction, causing her to wish there something she could do, and with an expression of immediate sympathy, but knowing it was not her place to intrude, she turned to the papers to examine the method he was using to file them so as to give them some semblance of privacy. However, her own reaction was not entirely unobserved, for it was noted by Mary before the other woman could completely turn away, and catching her husband's eyes, shifted her own to Helen and then over to the detective, an unspoken prior conversation between husband and wife revisited in that one gesture.
"Yes...it is rather," the doctor agreed with his friend's summation, straightening in his seat after his wife’s silent communiqué. "Dashed unfortunate. Perhaps, Holmes…" he suggested hesitantly, "rather then waste the opportunity, you should go on your own?"
"Alone?" Holmes repeated, glancing up at him. "Perhaps..." he murmured, thinking on it. “Though, I believe the experience to be a more rounded one when there is another to exchange thoughts with."
Helen nodded, as she shuffled a stack of papers. "I completely agree, Mr. Holmes," she added distantly. “On the few occasions I ever managed to go, it was alone, and though the experiences were still enjoyable, there is nothing like discussing the intricacies of concert with someone who has shared the experience. Afterwards, you may as well be trying to describe a painting to one who has never seen colours..." She glanced up from her abstracted comments to see them all watching her. "Oh...” she murmured self consciously. “I did not mean to interrupt your conversation...I apologise."
"No...no..." Watson responded hurriedly. "You did not. That was most succinctly put, Miss Thurlow, and it gives me pause for thought." His eyes found his wife's once more, his hands flexing somewhat anxiously. "Perhaps you might accompany Holmes in my place?” he ventured, before adding hastily. “It would not be untoward…as a friend of the family, I doubt anyone would find Holmes accompanying you inappropriate."
Holmes stiffened in his chair immediately; his eyes finding his colleague’s and narrowing just as quickly, while Helen stared at the doctor as though he had just spoken of oysters taking over the world. After blinking several times, she found her voice, though her mind was still in shock. "I...I...do not know...I mean I do have to get home tomorrow to meet with the boys' music tutor...and I am not nearly qualified to discuss music as in depth as Mr. Holmes undoubtedly can..." Her voice trailed off, as she caught a glimmer of something in the doctor's eyes, causing her to wonder what the man was planning.
Holmes’s thoughts, however, were already advanced far along on that path, and his eyes shifted to Mary, who suddenly found the pattern on the rug by her feet rather charmingly fascinating.
"Miss Thurlow, you underestimate yourself," Watson assured her with a smile, as he purposely avoided his friend’s eyes. "You spent an entire evening together at Christmas doing just that. Holmes has an ear for music...and you have said often it is something you would like to cultivate in yourself. How much better to attend a concert with someone like that? And..." He sat back against the couch, his voice gaining confidence. "We had planned a matinee...not an evening performance. You could, if you wished, easily return home from the hotel afterwards?"
"Even so," she returned, catching his meaningful glance to his wife as he finished, and knowing for certain now that the doctor, undoubtedly under the sway of her well-meaning friend, was indeed up to something, "I am sure Mr. Holmes has much better things he can be doing with his afternoon..."
She wasn't entirely sure why she was arguing quite so strongly against this outing, for inwardly she greatly desired to attend the concert with him, both for the music and his company. Though, upon seeing his reaction to the suggestion, it seemed obvious to her that it was not what he wanted.
However, her last comment was precisely the opening Watson was looking for...giving him as it did an almost unassailable edge, and like a master chess player, he made his move. Arching one eyebrow, he smiled at her. "Other than being on a case, I fail to see how Holmes could possibly say he would be better employed, especially given that going to the concert was what we had planned for the afternoon in any event. But what say you, Holmes?" He turned that arched eyebrow slowly towards his friend, his nervousness forgotten in a sudden flush of enjoyment at his social coup de grace. "Have you anything better to do than escort Miss Thurlow?"
Holmes's eyes did not so much as blink as he regarded his colleague. He had never expected Watson to be so devious a manipulator as this...and yet his Boswell had successfully manoeuvred him into a position he could not extricate himself from without embarrassing and belittling his guest and making himself appear to be a callous and arrogant buffoon.
His glare was gimlet-like as he watched the newlyweds, their plot now clearly unfolded to him, and he barely contained a growl of exasperation at their meddling, as he forced himself to relax. "Of course not, Watson," he replied, his words and manner even. "I had that time put aside as you said...and I would be glad to escort Miss Thurlow, if she so wishes."
Helen watched the play between the two men, and felt her own levels of discomfort rocketing. If she were to decline, she would be insulting her detective friend, even though she firmly believed he would be more relieved than wounded. However, she was not exactly on firm footing around him, and still found it difficult to predict what he took to be an offence or not.
Inwardly sighing at the futility of it, as well as adding in her own very real desire to attend the concert with him, which in actuality only increased her anxieties, she swallowed and nodded, clutching the stack of papers like a lifeline. "If you do not mind...and are not averse to the fact that I will very likely have many questions...I would be honoured to accompany you, Mr. Holmes."
The tall man nodded slowly. "Then, I shall meet you at Brown’s Hotel tomorrow at say, one o’clock? If that is convenient?"
Feeling entirely wrong footed and confused, she nodded. "That will be fine...I'll telegram Mr. Sommers, the boys tutor, and travel to meet with him instead."
With another brief nod to her, he directed his attention back to the newlyweds. Mary, on seeing his look, rose gracefully if quickly to her feet. "John, we should depart. There is still work to be done, and I must prepare dinner," she told him smoothly, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"Yes..." Watson agreed, all sense of cleverness dissipating rapidly under Holmes continued glare, as he rose up out of his chair. "We'd best be off."
His colleague barely moved a muscle as he replied, "Perhaps you'd best at that. Miss Thurlow and I will undoubtedly deal with the predicament you are leaving us with quite admirably." His words were laced with a dual meaning as well as a sharp edge. “Though, of course, we shall be discussing it at length next time we meet, my dear fellow.”
The doctor offered him a weak smile, suddenly wondering how on earth Mary had convinced him that such a move was in their mutual friends' best interests, as he moved his way to the door and opened it for her. His wife, who was doing a slightly better job at hiding her nervousness from the detective, though she felt it all the same, gave him a quiet smile and farewell, before heading off down the stairs. Following her out hastily, Watson closed the door behind him.
Holmes regarded the portal in silence for a moment, before his eyes slid slowly back to his new concert companion for the morrow. Picking up his sheaf of papers again, he inhaled softly, and offered her a small blasé smile, indicating that nothing remotely untoward had happened. "Shall we?" he enquired, nodding towards the filing as he commenced to work once more.
1st May, 1889
The hansom drew up outside Brown’s Hotel on Albemarle Street in the heart of Mayfair, stopping right outside the front entrance of the grand establishment in the heart of the city.
Stopped, but retained its passenger.
Inside, Holmes sat, his hands resting on his cane and a slight glower on his face, as he was faced with the rendezvous that Watson had deliberately engineered.
Just as he had feared, marriage and life with Mary had made his friend almost nauseatingly romantic...and like so many others in such a confused and debilitated state, he was determined that others should join him in it.
If misery loved company, then the romantically inclined were fanatical proselytisers determined to sweep all before them in a massive recruitment drive to their cause. He wasn't entirely sure what the Watsons’ amorously hazed minds had drawn up with regards to Helen Thurlow and himself, but the scent of the matchmaker hung heavily over all this.
He was in half a mind to get the cabbie to drive on, and send a message and his apologies by saying he'd been delayed or called away, and in fact delayed so long on this thought that finally the cabbie tapped on the roof of the carriage.
"Brown’s 'otel, guv," he called down.
"Yes, driver..." Holmes half snapped at him. "I am fully cognoscente of our location, thank you."
"Right you are then..." the cabbie replied, and after a long moment of silence, enquired, "Waiting for someone to come out, are we, sir?"
Holmes huffed, and went to alight, the driver’s words forcing him to make some kind of movement. "Wait here. I'll be back in a moment."
"No problem, sir," the cabbie chirruped at him.
After climbing the four short steps, and moving through the door, which the porter had opened upon seeing his arrival, he removed his hat, and entered the large ornate foyer, only to see the young woman herself moving about in a mildly agitated looking state. "Miss Thurlow," he addressed her as he approached. "Good afternoon."
Helen stopped in mid pace, and turned to face him, trying to push back her very nervous thoughts and misgivings about the entire outing. "Mr. Holmes," she returned, praying her voice was at least calm and level. "A good afternoon to you as well."
"Is there something amiss?" he asked her, checking the time on the wall, and noting he was a good five minutes early.
However, she had already quickly crossed the room to arrive at his side. "Mr. Holmes," she began, formulating the thoughts that had been racing in her head since she had awoken that morning. "It was very thoughtful of the good doctor to think me a suitable replacement for himself this afternoon...but...I would completely understand if you wished to continue on by yourself. I fear Dr. Watson had some noble...if misguided...intentions, and though I appreciate your coming here, I would not want you to feel obligated in this situation."
He listened to her with a slightly arched eyebrow, as she pre-empted and voiced his thoughts before him. "I would be lying..." he replied truthfully, some of the tension ebbing out of him, and offering her a small smile, "if I did not say that I did not have adverse thoughts about this afternoon, and Watson’s intentions in this regard. And I offer my most sincere apologies if you find this awkward in anyway. You may rest assured that my good friend will not, once I have spoken with him when next we meet, be making such suggestions again.” His eyes glinted adamantly. “However, now that I am here, I am reminded that your company is in general quite welcome to me, and I see no particular reason why we should not attend a simple Mozart recital as friends."
She visibly relaxed at his apparent appeasement on the subject, and nodded. "Then if you are quite sure, I would be pleased to accompany you," she replied, returning his smile, as she buttoned up her tailored lightweight coat.
"Good," he returned, proffering an arm towards her. "I understand Sharapov is quite accomplished, and his rendition of the chosen concertos should be interesting and entertaining." And with that, he led her outside and to the awaiting carriage.
A short time later, they pulled up outside St. James's Hall and disembarked, as were others arriving for the recital. "There appears to be a good attendance for an afternoon session," he observed.
"Yes," she agreed, taking in the interesting mix of the crowd, as they entered the building presented the tickets, and took their seats. "According to the program, he has played in numerous countries." Her tone was appreciative as she turned to look at her companion. "You are quite accomplished yourself…the doctor is quite vociferous in that regard."
"Watson, as usual, overstates the case," he replied, as he took in the venue around them.
"But I have heard you play…" she pressed with a frown, her eyes puzzled.
"I play...I am not however what I would describe as accomplished," he informed her. "I play to help motivate my mind...I find it relaxing."
"I see," she answered with a nod. "Then it is not only a past-time but a useful component to your work. Would it be bold of me to say I hope to hear you play someday? Apart from the short pieces I’ve heard on entering your building or outside on the doorstep."
"Not bold, no," he responded lightly. "Foolhardy perhaps."
Helen dipped her head, as she smiled. "Nevertheless, I'll look forward to it."
"If you are set upon it," he acquiesced, though silently pleased. "In the meantime, let us hear how a truly accomplished professional performs." He nodded towards the stage, as the small accompanying orchestra took their seats to be followed on stage by the visiting Russian violinist to polite applause all around.
The dark, long haired young man began to play the Rondeau Allegro that signalled the beginning of Mozart’s 2nd Violin Concerto. By halfway through the following Allegro, Helen was sitting forward in her seat, her face in rapt attention as her eyes watched how he played, occasionally closing as the music washed over her, a tiny blissful smile on her lips.
Holmes, while enjoying the music, found himself distracted by his companion's actions. Watson, though appreciative, was in general as reactive as a stone during events such as this, for the doctor enjoyed the music, but that was the sum total of his response for the most part. He was unused to being with someone whose responses were so natural and wholehearted as he was witnessing, and he found his enjoyment and anticipation of the proceedings gradually increased as he saw her own. Stifling a small smile, he sat back and steepled his fingers, his index fingers rubbing lightly over his lips as he pondered the music, and the unexpected pleasance of a different musical companion such as she.
As Sharapov paused between selections, Helen's eyes opened as she sat back in her chair, though catching her companion's gaze on her, blushed slightly, and gave him a tiny smile, before focusing her attentions once more on the stage. As the violinist began anew, she again found the music intriguing and capturing her, and yet, could not completely lose herself to it as she had before. Instead, she found herself sneaking tiny glimpses at the detective, only to see his eyes were now tightly closed, and his head was dipping and bobbing along with the notes, as if he was seeing the sheet music in front him.
The look of serenity on his face, however, was what really caught her attention. It was a sight she had never remembered seeing on him before. It was as if all the cares in the world had melted away, and there was only the music and him, and in spite of herself, she felt a surge of emotion for the man.
Turning her eyes away from him quickly, she berated herself thoroughly. Yes, he was an intriguing, interesting, and imposing man…and the manner of his handling the Lucifer Hunt case had made a lasting impression on her, what with his focus, drive, and athleticism. He was a unique man...and he was her friend...nothing more. With a firm, inward nod at thought, she focused again on the music, and let its sweet tones carry her away from those confusing and intriguing thoughts of her companion.
The recital proved to be excellent in his estimation, and as it came towards its finish, Holmes glanced once more at the woman next to him to see that his own conclusions had apparently been drawn by her as well. Her smile broad and contented, her eyes bright and appreciative, she was, he decided in that moment, a most handsome young woman...her innate intelligence, combined with her curiosity about the world in general and thirst for knowledge, only added to the attractive air around her.
Money or no money, it seemed surprising to him that no man had ever sought to take her for a wife, given what else was in offer in the female line, they could do a great deal worse in his experience. Standing to applaud as Sharapov ended his concert, Holmes was joined in his "Bravas and Encores" by her, her appreciation just as great as his, and it was with a small smile and a slight bow, he indicated for her to take her seat before him, as Sharapov returned to play once more.
With a smile of her own, Helen resumed her seat, her eyes not leaving him until he had as well. Settling back, she folded her hands on her lap, and once again focused her attention on the young Russian. However, upon feeling the subtle tingling up her spine that was a clear indication that she was being watched, she turned her head just a little only to meet her companion’s gaze full on.
His eyes held hers for a moment, though his own were enigmatic, until another small hint of a smile touched his face, and he turned his attention back to Haydn's Serenade, which the young maestro was so adeptly playing with the aide of the string section of his small orchestra; the rather light, gentle, quiet piece seeming to fit the moment rather nicely.
With a tiny smile of her own, she turned back to the recital, her mind pondering and curious to know what that had been all about. Deciding to take his interest as a compliment, she closed her eyes, and let her thoughts drift away on the tide of the music.
As the recital ended and Sharapov went off stage for the final time, Holmes moved to help her on with her coat, holding it up for her to slip her arms into. "You enjoyed it," he stated rather than asked.
"Oh yes!" she enthused with a broad smile. "He was excellent!" Seeing the expression of amusement on his face at her emphatic words, she blushed lightly, and forced herself to regain her composure. "You appeared to enjoy it as well," she added, her tone more its usual soft level.
"Yes," he agreed, sliding his own coat back on and picking up his hat and cane. "He melded technique and emotion exceptionally well, I thought." His eyes turned to the stage, as he pronounced quietly, "When cool clinical art can be married with just the right amount of passion and emotion, it can prove to be a sublime and memorable combination."
"It's all about balance," she agreed, her tone as soft as his, as her eyes followed his.
His gaze was thoughtful for a moment, before he glanced back at her quickly, his words brisk but friendly. "Would you care to take tea with me?" he asked. “If you have time before you must return to your hotel, that is?"
Fighting back another surge of warmth, she inclined her head in agreement. "I have time before I must pack and catch the train home. Tea would be most welcome," she accepted, focusing her eyes on his, and not the line of his jaw, or the long aquiline shape of his nose, or how his eyes glinted in the light with a fire all their own.
Nodding his head in silence, he reached out and offered her his hand to help guide her out of the row of seats, and with a soft smile, on impulse she daringly pocketed her gloves and slid her hand into his. Her un-gloved hand slipping into his brought with it an unusual warmth that did not stop at the touch of her flesh on his, the heat spreading outwards over her in small spikes.
Still placid and composed, seemingly unaware of her societal faux pas, he led her from the row of seating, and once out onto the aisle, he wrapped her arm around his and they walked in tandem from the hall and back out onto the streets beyond.
"I believe..." he mused, as he found his bearings, "if memory serves...there is a small tea shop on St. Martin's row, the next corner but one."
Walking on, they continued their conversation on the concert, until they arrived, and settled into the small and cosy local tea shop known as Mrs. Burton’s. There, neatly cut sandwiches and a variety of scones with homemade strawberry preserve and Devonshire clotted cream were presented to them along with their tea.
Taking a bite of her scone, Helen made a small hum of approval. "Very tasty," she murmured appreciatively, after she'd swallowed.
Choosing not to eat, he nodded in reply. "So, shall I report to Watson that his mission was at least partially a success, and you enjoyed your afternoon?"
She chuckled, and took a sip of her tea. "You may report what you like, Mr. Holmes, in terms of his mission. But yes, I did have a most enjoyable afternoon."
"One should always endeavour to widen one’s social circle, I am told," he pondered, watching her as she ate. "I have never been one to follow that advice, however, and have always found a few close intimates to be infinitely preferable to a wide circle of acquaintances...however, on this occasion, I believe I am glad to have extended my admittedly small list of concert going friends."
A slight blush spread over her cheeks, which was followed closely by a pleased expression. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she returned sincerely. "And if it not a liberty to say so, I hope that this will be the first of such outings."
"I'm sure there will be other occasions," he assured her, almost sure of it, given that he was certain Watson would, for the time being at least, be more absent than usual from his life.
She smiled and took another sip of her tea. "How goes your work?" she asked, always interested to hear about his cases, and not just the exciting ones and tidbits.
"I am in the process of writing several papers at the moment, and my last case finished just under a month ago. The apparent suicide in Exeter of the young heir to a diamond mine in Southern Africa," he replied.
"What are they about?" she enquired. "Your papers, I mean."
"One involves investigating the usage of a person’s physical idiosyncrasies for the purpose of detecting whether or not they were implicitly involved in a crime," he answered, picking up his tea.
"Like facial expressions and nervous looks in the eyes?" she asked, taking another bite of her scone.
"No...not quite...something far more basic than that...may I?" he queried, holding out his hand to her, and after wiping the corners of her mouth quickly, she placed her hand in his.
Turning it palm upwards, he stretched out her hand. "A young French scientist discovered that much like each snowflake that falls upon the earth has a unique pattern all its own, so too do humans. Not just in their facial features, but here..." his finger brushed the palm of her hand gently, "and most especially here." His touch swept upwards, extending to the fingertips of her hand, his mind so purely focused on his explanation of scientific fact that he was unaware of the affect he was having on his subject. "If you look closely, you can see a swirling pattern on each finger tip. In every human that walks this earth that pattern is different…distinct. I am extrapolating on the work of Dr. Henry Faulds, a surgeon based in Tokyo, and have been in contact with Sir Francis Galton, a relative of Mr. Darwin, who is interested in working on a book on the subject of ‘fingerprinting.’ However, while he talks of using them to ascertain racial and intelligence quotients, something I have my doubts about…I am looking for a more practical context for the use of such unique identifying markers."
Swallowing lightly, Helen forced her eyes to her fingertips and nodded. "Fingerprints...so when one finds these at a crime scene...you can trace it back to the individual who made them?" she asked, seeing where he was going with this, and forcing herself to keep from shivering as his finger brushed over her hand.
She cursed herself once again for her reaction. The man was a confirmed bachelor. He spurned the idea of love...it was not even a part of his life. He was also her friend, and she was thankful for that. She had few true friends, especially ones that stimulated her mind as much as he. Yes...she was just reacting to that, she told herself. There was nothing there...there could be nothing there...there would be nothing there.
"Yes..." he replied, oblivious to her inner remonstrations, "it is something I have already talked to Scotland Yard of, so the idea has been percolating for some time in the force, but my thoughts are more coherent and far ranging in this paper. I believe one can create a filing system, a data base of fingerprints, and every criminal that is arrested must have his or her fingerprints put on file...then if a crime is committed, they can be checked against them if they are suspected. Or all suspects criminal or not can be tested to discover the truth." Releasing her hand, he leaned back once more. "It will take time to achieve such a thing...but it could cut the length of police detection techniques quite considerably.”
She pulled back her arm, and quickly retrieved her tea cup, trying not to shiver. "Ingenious," she commented, her tone showing how impressed she was. "I can definitely see the benefits of such a system. What is the other paper?"
He hesitated, before answering. "The other paper is for a criminal psychological journal," he said softly, as he took a sip of his tea.
Her eyebrow quirked up in interest. "Really? About what?" she asked full of curiosity.
"It is perhaps not a subject suitable for a lady's sensibilities or public discussion," he said quietly.
With a frown, she glanced down, the disappointment seeping onto her face. "Oh...I see," she replied quickly, and took another bite of her scone.
He could see the expression on her face, and pursed his lips slightly, weighing a decision. "You wish to know?"
Her eyes almost shot up back to meet his, causing her to feel a twinge of embarrassment that she hadn't been quicker to hide her thoughts. "Only if you wish to tell me," she assured him.
He lowered his voice considerably. "It is a paper regarding the link between violent criminals and the carnal act."
Her eyes widened in interest, already suspecting from his reluctance to speak that it would either have to do with corpses or sexuality. "Really?" she whispered back, her curiosity once again overriding her propriety. "There's a link? What kind? And how?"
He gazed at her in mild surprise. "Your curiosity is unusually high, Miss Thurlow."
A deeper blush spread over her cheeks, as she remembered herself. "I...I apologise," she said hurriedly, retreating back in her chair. "It was just rather fascinating to me that an act of love and devotion should be responsible for violence. I am aware there is a...seedy...side to it...but not to violent criminals." She glanced down at her tea. "I'm afraid my mind once again worked faster than my mouth...again...I apologise."
"There is no need to apologise," he told her. "It was not an admonishment, merely an expression of surprise. Most women would not have been interested in the papers in the first place, and would have feigned a kind of fake modesty that frankly is quite annoying when you know the truth is they wish to ask the questions you did without hesitation. I admire that."
She turned her eyes back to his, before giving him a hesitant smile. "Oh...well...as you know...I don't ask things I don't want the answer to...and if I was not interested, be sure I would not have asked at all or I would have said so."
Knowing that was true, he nodded, keeping his voice low. "Very well…the connection between the acts starts in the fat that the act of carnality itself is a culmination of basic animalistic needs. The urge to violence is also an animalistic response...and throughout nature both are entwined. The theory goes that in some criminals, they are so entwined that the act of violence is in and of itself an attempt at sexual gratification. The paper is in essence an exploration of that theory based on research I have done."
Her brow furrowed, as she took that in. "So you are saying that the pleasure that comes from the act of love...or lust in this case...is the same sort that these criminals feel when they commit a violent act?"
"In some cases, yes,” he replied with a nod. “There is the thrill of sexual gratification...sex and violence becoming one in their minds...violence often subsuming the other so that the only gratification they can get is through it."
"Interesting," she mused, shaking her head slightly, before biting her lip, her voice hesitant as she asked, "You said you have done...research? Did you interview such men?"
"Over time, yes," he answered, before taking another sip of his tea.
She nodded, and leaned forward. "How long has this taken you? It sounds very in depth. In fact, both your papers seem very in depth."
"The fingerprints are a recent discovery...the other paper, well interviews would go back almost six or seven years now, both free men and incarcerated."
She appeared nothing short of impressed. "Amazing...I would think it is very gratifying to see it all coming together now."
"It is," he agreed. "That is why I am not too upset at my current case load being somewhat shy."
She smiled, and took a sip from her tea. "Oh...and you mentioned you just finished up a case...a possible suicide?" she asked, as though just remembering that, having been more interested in the other pursuits. "Was it a suicide?"
"No...sadly it was not..." he answered, wiping his hands with his napkin. "The boy was killed by his uncle."
She sighed. "Ah...for the fortune, I take it?"
"The lack of it..." he said, his expression regretful. "The uncle was in charge of the firm for sometime, and had squandered and gambled most of it away. The boy was on the verge of taking up his position, and there was only one way his uncle could keep his profligacy under wraps...and keep the position he had become to regard as his rightful one.”
Shaking her head, she sighed once more. "Dirty secrets are like bad pennies...they always turn up in the end."
"True,” he agreed with an incline of his head. “You can plan and scheme to hide things...however, sooner or later a trail is always exposed which I and others who hold to my methods follow to their inevitable conclusion."
"I suppose we should all pay more attention to the lesson of honesty being the best policy," she voiced with a smile.
He chuckled a little at that. "Yes...it seems wisest...especially around curious people like ourselves."
Her smile widened, as she took another sip of tea.
"And now I must be honest and suggest that you should return to Brown’s and prepare for your train trip home," he told her, glancing at the clock on the wall behind her. "Time is fleeting, as always."
Following his gaze, she turned and glanced over as well, her eyes widening a little. "Oh my...yes...tempus fugit," she agreed, turning back to him.
"We should find you a cab," he stated, reaching for his wallet to pay for tea.
With a nod, she rose to her feet, and sliding on her coat, a little disappointed he would not be accompanying her back to the hotel, but not letting it show. "Of course," she agreed.
Standing as well, he left a most generous ten shilling note on the table, before following suit with his coat, and making his way to the door to open it for her.
With a nod of thanks, she stepped outside into the warm May afternoon air, and glanced around for a cab.
After a few moments, one rounded the corner on the far side of the road with its sign reading ‘For Hire.’
"Cab!" Holmes called out, moving towards it, as he hailed it down.
"One to Mayfair, Brown’s Hotel," he instructed, as the driver pulled in.
"Yes, sir," he replied with a nod, as the detective opened the door and beckoned the young woman over.
Crossing over to him, she held out her hand. "Thank you again, Mr. Holmes. I had a lovely time."
He took it, and after a moment, kissed it briefly and in a gentlemanly fashion. "It was enjoyable," he admitted, helping her into the carriage and closing the door. Taking her in through the open window, he shot her a small smile. "We shall do it again some time. Good afternoon, Miss Thurlow. My best to your family, and safe home."
She smiled and nodded. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she returned, before the cab sped off down the street.
Swinging out his cane, Holmes made to walk home, reminding himself not to appear too content when he arrived there so that Mrs. Hudson couldn't inform on him to Watson as to his relatively good mood. The doctor was scheming, of that he was sure, but this was one scheme that would not come to fruition. Yes, she had proven to be a most amiable of companions, intelligent and curious enough not to bore him, and she was, as he had decided, an attractive woman...but whatever Watson was hoping for, that would be as far as it would go. On the subject of love and romance...Sherlock Holmes was not for turning.