Chapter Twelve: The Very Best of Intentions
6th July, 1889
Removing his hat, Holmes gave a tight smile of thanks to the irritable Lord Jeffrey Coombes, and donned the armband he had just been given by the straw boater-ed peer of the realm, and which would be his pass for the day. Tucking his own boater bearing the colours of his alma mater under his arm, he fell into a long, easy stride behind the older, portlier man, as Lord Coombes, po-faced, moustaches quivering slightly from annoyance at having to deal with a man like Holmes on this of all days, led him towards the legendary Steward's Enclosure at Henley.
As he walked along the verdant river bank, taking the time to straighten his old school tie, brush a speck of lint from his blazer and confirm that his cream flannel trousers and matching canvas shoes were grass stain free, Holmes afforded himself a moment’s leave from his thoughts about the reason he was here to reflect on both his journey and the great occasion that was Henley Royal Regatta, now in full swing about him.
With thousands down from London to attend this grand event, the streets of the great Metropolis he had left hurriedly that Saturday morning were appreciably quieter than they normally would have been. The race days of Henley regatta were short, just two full days in three, and the populace flocked to them accordingly, leaving London’s parks, libraries, and museums emptied, the thoroughfares denuded of people and traffic, and some shops closing due to the fall off in activity.
It was, like Ascot or the Derby, one of the great days of English sporting life with the added attraction of fun upon the river.
The journey down, last minute as it had been, had not been a comfortable one, the unavailability of a first or second class ticket meaning he had to stand in the packed carriages for the entire hour and a half ride from Paddington. But given the enormous crowd at the station and the demand for any ticket of any sort, he had been fortunate enough to even catch a train, and the lack of comfort had more than been made up for by the colour of the ride.
Eager rowing aficionados and those merely keen on an outing to remember mixed and exchanged news, banter, and even food and drink, entertaining each other with song, while banners and bunting meant for the races temporarily decorated the interior of the carriages. The demand for transportation meant that there was a great deal of mixing of people who would normally be kept apart from each other due to varying degrees of affluence. Here guardsmen, seamstresses, bankers, butchers, milliners, brokers, college undergraduates, and school boys from Eton, Harrow, Rugby and The Priory, their hat bands like his designating the club, school, or college to which they belonged, all mixed in a great mass of anticipation and liveliness. The men dressed as dapperly as he, while the women were delightful in white muslin, gloves, shoes, and parasols - the journey’s discomfort put aside in an eagerness to make the experience an enjoyable one.
The day was a fine one; the sky predominantly blue with the sun only occasionally shadowed by a scudding cloud, and the good weather had shown the passing English landscape to its best advantage. Meadows and farmed fields lined by neat hedgerows, watched over by farmhouses and small villages, stood out in the July sunshine, while the railway banks on either side of the tracks were carpeted with blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies, adding to the sense of a very British occasion.
As they travelled on and the Thames had slipped once more into view, the sheer scale of the pilgrimage became apparent to all, as the country clear waters of the river teemed with a flotilla of boats of every kind and size, transporting thousands more down the slower but far fresher and more comfortable river route to Henley on Thames, a hub which saw three counties - Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire, and Berkshire in close convergence along the river.
With richly farmed lands on one side and densely wooded banks on the other, luxurious houseboats lined the riverbanks closer in to the village and race course itself, the wealthy and fortunate often maintaining these colourful and large structures almost for this event and this event alone, each one designed to accommodate and to entertain.
For Henley, unlike virtually every other prominent sporting event, was as much about being seen as it was about the sport being staged, the outcomes of the events of far less import then the event itself, and as such, it was prominently attended by the great, the good, and the rampantly social climbing. The latter, generally wealthy and eager to rub shoulders with the class of the former and most of all, longing to enter the Steward's Enclosure - the most desired and rarefied of social stratospheres in sporting social life.
While it sounded plebeian enough, the Steward’s Enclosure was in fact the very essence of patrician life. The stewards were, for the most part, no longer the local aldermen they had been when this rowing meeting, designed to boost tourism to the town of Henley, had begun fifty years ago this very year. Now almost every steward was a man of import or renown, mostly aristocracy or parliamentarians, and each prestigious stewarding position was vied for with great keenness as they became available.
This year with the fiftieth Anniversary of the event being celebrated, entrance to the upper echelons of the event and the ultimate enclosure was especially in demand. The first patron of the regatta had been the Queen’s beloved consort, the late Prince Albert, the position having been taken up by his son the Prince of Wales upon his death. The patron always attended, but this year not only was Prince Edward present but his wife, the Princess Alexandra, all their children, a great many of the Queen’s other children, Prince Edward’s brothers and sisters, their children in turn, and a small army of close relations, making this a Royal family outing.
It was their presence here, or rather the presence of one of them in particular, that was the precise reason Holmes found himself harassing poor Mrs. Hudson into airing and pressing, with great rapidity, this outfit…one he had not worn for several years.
The telegram from his source in Whitehall that had brought him here had arrived at nine thirty in the morning, just as he was finishing the late breakfast he had been taking after working late the previous night. The short message confirmed that his suspicions about police activities and intentions in the area of a private gentleman's club on Cleveland Street in London had proven accurate, and a raid on the establishment was planned for that very day, with the Metropolitan Police blissfully unaware of just what such a raid would uncover.
Holmes himself had become conscious of the possibility of such an occurrence when visiting Scotland Yard two days previously to discuss an entirely separate matter with Inspector Gregson. On doing so, he had overheard a group of detectives discussing a man called Hammond, as well as several remarks about the club at 19 Cleveland Street that he ran. As Holmes was aware that at least two gentlemen of his acquaintance, former clients and upstanding men both, were members of that club, he had felt it prudent under the circumstances to make further discreet enquiries about the place.
What he had subsequently learned had not surprised him…at first. Like brothels, though far less tolerated and far more brutally rooted out, 'Gentlemen Only establishments' existed around the city for those men who preferred the intimate company of their fellow man. Generally, they were very well hidden and often in more affluent cases discreetly disguised as reputable establishments, as was the case here.
However, such disguises were all too easily ripped away and sometimes in the most accidental of circumstances. Due to a case involving the theft of some cash from the London Central Telegraph Office and a telegraph boy suspected of a hand in it thanks to the abnormal amount of money he had been found to be in the possession of, the seemingly far removed Cleveland Street Club’s façade had been eliminated. Facing years of imprisonment for a crime he did not commit, the terrified young man had confessed that he had received the money not by theft, but for illegal and immoral services rendered to the gentlemen at the Cleveland Club, leading them ultimately to his secondary employer Mr. Hammond.
Under normal circumstances, Holmes would have left it at that, and allowed the police under the direction of the redoubtable Inspector Abberline to do their duty under the law. But one of his former clients, he knew, was a married man, Holmes having made his wife’s acquaintance one or two occasions, and finding her a pleasant, solid, young woman with a good head on her shoulders. Worse still, he also knew they had since started a family, and he was obtaining a prominent position for himself in the city. Should he be caught in the raid, he and his young family would be quite ruined.
Knowing discovered shame to be the most potent of forces, Holmes waited till late one evening, followed his man to Cleveland Street and intercepted him. Warning him away from the place, and informing him of the police’s discovery of its true nature and what awaited him should he continue to deceive his wife this way, he had released the humiliated man, who was now terrified and now desperate to return home, and made to do the same, only to catch sight of three more men disembarking from a darkened brougham outside the club, the flash of the face of one of them in the lamplight stopping him dead in his tracks.
Shock flooding his system, he had stepped back once more into the shadows, trying to deal with the implications of what he’d seen. On returning to his cab, he had left a message with the night porter at Whitehall and returned home, so jarred by what he had discovered that his mind had not afforded him sleep until the wee hours of the morning, till such time he had distracted himself with small experiments and filing, when not pacing the floor, and smoking.
With confirmation of the time of the raid planned by Inspector Abberline for that very day in his hands, Holmes had full knowledge that with such a name on the books of their clients, either Hammond, his associates, or the press could bring a scandal down on their heads the likes of which would shake the Empire to its very core.
With most of the elite of London and indeed virtually the entire upper echelons of Government either at or making their way to the banks of the Thames at that moment, there was little recourse left to him other than to make haste to the same place to alert the individual and his private entourage to help avert that disgrace. Steps had to be taken in advance, and given Abberline’s determination and efficiency, there was little enough time left for that.
By eleven, Holmes had dressed for a day at the regatta, and was on the next train to Henley with an hour and a half train ride ahead of him. On his arrival, his long legged gait had allowed him an advantage in beating the crowds from his train to the few carriages waiting nearby, and he had arrived here at a creditable one in the afternoon.
In general, his growing celebrity was a discomfort to him, but on occasion, as with Lord Coombes, the weight his name carried allowed him to gain access to areas he naturally would have been precluded from. Gaining an audience with the rotund Chief Steward, but finding himself unable to make mention of it being a State Emergency without alerting Lord Coombes to the exact nature of his business when the papers broke the following morning, Holmes had convinced him that it was imperative he gain access to the Enclosure, doing so with answers to Coombes’s multitude of questions that so deftly avoided a straight answer that the greatest politician might have envied him his alacrity of thought.
"This had better not be about some woman or other, Mr. Holmes," Lord Coombes huffed, as he barrelled his way towards the Sanctum Sanctorum of Society. “Though I’ll warrant it is!”
"Alas...how well you know me, your Lordship," Holmes, replied, his lips quirking upwards.
Shooting a glance at him, and not missing the underlying tone, Coombes huffed again, "I meant some..." he lowered his voice, "damn sordid adultery case or other. There is a time and a place for dealing with such private matters, and Henley is not one of them!"
"I quite agree, Lord Coombes," Holmes agreed with a nod. "And I do not take such cases...as a rule."
The portly man reached the enclosure, and stopped. "I have to return to the Judges area before the Steward's Challenge Cup begins...I have your word that whatever it is you have to do, you will do it discreetly?" he demanded of the consulting detective.
"You may take it as already given," Holmes replied with an incline of his head.
The peer took a step away and stopped again, a still worried expression on his face. "Because I won’t have Henley brought into disrepute!"
Holmes was calmness itself. "You may count on me."
"You are quite sure?"
"Quite."
With yet more hesitancy in his advance, Lord Coombes finally turned with an explosive "Bah!" at the temerity of people's lives intruding on the event, and stomped away.
The mild expression on Holmes's face, which had been fixed since his arrival, melted into one of businesslike determination as he turned and stepped inside the Enclosure, his armband allowing him access, his eyes sharp as he scanned the impressive gathering ahead of him.
Highborn men from England and abroad again dressed much as he filled the enclosure. Like the boys and undergraduates on the trains, the distinctive colours of Rugby, Harrow, The Priory, Eton, and colleges like Cambridge, Oxford, Trinity, Harvard, and Yale, amongst others, were prominent on their hat bands and ties and even on the silk sashes many of them wore around their waists. When not watching the rowers striving mightily in their racing down from Temple Island to Poplar Point and the finish line, the cream of male English society mingled, chatted, and brunched with their ladies, who were dressed in such cool finery as to leave one stricken with admiration…had one the time to stop and do so.
Moving inwards, Holmes headed for the area near the riverside and the Pimms tent, the purveyor of the famed and traditional Henley beverage, where the Crown Prince and his family were reputedly always to be found. Even had he not been aware of this, the discretely placed ‘invisible barrier’ formed by a densely packed number of people hovering while pretending to watch the races in an almost perfectly circular formation some twenty feet back from the true target of their attention, lapping up the Royal presence without entering its perimeter, was a most decided clue.
On slipping through to the front of that respectful circle, and garnering some sharp looks from several wealthy foreign matrons and their husbands, who deemed him an impudent upstart clearly only there to try and get his face seen, as opposed to they themselves who were loyal supporters of the Royal Family, Holmes waited at the edge of that self imposed circle until he caught the attention of Sir Henry Ponsonby, who smiled in surprise and beckoned him forwards, much to the chagrin of the aforementioned matrons.
Reaching his side, Holmes bent his head and whispered urgently to Ponsonby, whose smiling visage disappeared in an instant. Staring at Holmes, he glanced towards the Royal party and the tall figure of the Duke of Clarence, Prince Albert Victor, second in line to the throne and back at the detective, before pulling him further to one side.
"Are you sure?" he whispered.
Holmes nodded. "Eminently so...it will happen…my source is rarely wrong, less so than I, and on a subject as crucial as this...never."
“Can we stop it?”
Looking at his watch, Holmes shook his head. “Abberline’s aim is to catch Hammond and those that work for him, take them and you have all the names too. The Inspector is a clever man. He knows that last night, prior to many of the members departing for Henley today, business would have been brisk and there will be a recovery period this morning. He plans an early raid to catch them unawares while the streets of London are less crowded thanks to events here, and the chance of losing oneself diminished. He has no doubt already moved his men into place.”
Removing his hat, Ponsonby patted his grey head, smoothing his hair as he dropped his gaze to compose himself. "Dear God...the fool! We knew his private life was increasingly dissipated, and it’s not the first time he's placed himself in trouble as you well know! Those appalling rumours about the Ripper murders thanks to his being spotted in his indulgences with…street girls…were bad enough. At least they were untrue," the secretary muttered to Holmes. "But this?” He shook his head in disbelief. “The owners, the boys, other members…they’ll name names for sure in an effort to avoid prosecution and disgrace!
“I should have pressed the Prince of Wales to keep him under tighter control. The boy is a menace! He hasn’t the sense God gave him! How could he be so indiscreet and foolish to pander to a vice like…this…in such a place?” he asked himself with bewilderment. “Holmes, this could destroy the Monarchy if it's not dealt with!"
"We should talk with the Prince and his father," the other man agreed with a nod, glancing towards the Crown Prince and his son whose private excesses put even his libertine father to shame. "Provisions...steps need to be taken. I object to justice being thwarted no matter what the situation…but this is not about justice. This is the law. And the law in this case can only do more harm than good."
With grim agreement on his face, Ponsonby patted the detective on his arm and led him to the Royal family.
About an hour later, the Pimms tent nearby having being summarily appropriated and evacuated, the two Princes and a number of trusted aides retiring inside for a ‘private party,’ Holmes emerged into the sun dappled landscape again, the continued absence of the most central part of the Royal Party, for the moment, unmissed the crowd cheering on the College Crews as they strove for the finish line beyond.
The discussion going on inside was quiet but critical. The Crown Prince’s fury at his son's behaviour masked, and contained for a time when they would be more privately quartered, and away from those that were not royalty.
Moving away, his job now done, and all information imparted to the Royal party, Holmes’s thoughts lingered on Prince Albert Victor and what kind of man he was, specifically with regards to his suitability to the throne.
His father was no paragon, but he at least at the good sense to keep his affairs manageable. Albert Victor was another case altogether. He was a victim of his passions, and they were more varied now than anyone had ever suspected. But there was more to him then mere debauchery…a secret that outside of the Royal family itself, only a very trusted few were privy too. The man who would someday inherit the throne of the greatest Empire on the planet suffered from a severe mental deficiency which bordered on clinical idiocy, which made it hard for him to remember the necessity of restraint in his actions and his emotions. And as history was testament to time and time again, a king incapable of restraint was a greater danger to his people than a horde of invaders. England and the Empire were looking at uncertain times.
Wishing the Queen many years of good health yet, he wandered through the enclosure, his gaze took in the environs around him though his thoughts stayed with the company behind him. So much so in fact that he had to move quickly to avoid the small group of four that he almost walked into, three moving hastily to the side, but the last, her large wide brimmed hat obscuring her vision did not, and he was unable to help having their shoulders collide.
With a gasp of surprise, she staggered back a step, reaching out a gloved hand to him in order to steady herself.
"Your pardon, Madam," he apologised automatically, his focus returning to the unsteady form ahead of him as he took her arm quickly. "Entirely my fault...my attention was elsewhere."
"Oh no! It's entirely mine...I should have been paying more attention..." the lady insisted, raising her head, her grey eyes meeting his and widening in shock. "Mr. Holmes?"
Taken unawares, Holmes stared at her for a moment before recovering himself, his mind already searching for a reason for his presence there. "Miss Thurlow. I had no idea you were a rowing fan," he returned with a slight frown. "What an unexpected surprise."
She blinked several more times, before regaining some semblance of composure. "A painful one I’m sure…I am sorry. I’m really rather surprised you aren’t Dr. Watson…he and I have history of this kind of thing.”
His expression was one of mild surprise. “Oh?”
She laughed softly and somewhat self deprecatingly. “Yes, I’ve already bumped into him twice in somewhat similar circumstances to this. This, had he been you…or you him,” her brow furrowed, as she wondered which was correct, “well, that would have made the hat trick!” Giving him another smile and taking a deep breath, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m rambling. It is good to see you...and..." Her voice lowered as she remembered her three companions. "I am not really a rowing fan...merely an inheritor of a ticket, I fear."
"Helen, is everything all right?" came a soft voice from behind them, and the young woman's eyes darted over to the lady standing a few steps back from the detective, her large brown eyes taking in the scene, as she held her husband's arm beside her.
"Yes, Sarah. Everything is just fine," she replied with a small smile, before releasing Holmes's hand and straightening. "Sarah, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes of whom you have heard me speak. Mr. Holmes, this is my cousin, Sarah Pembridge-Howley, her husband Sir Roger Howley, and their friend, Lady Elizabeth Grosvenor."
"Ladies. Sir Roger." Holmes bowed in turn. "A pleasure."
"Holmes...Holmes...?" the tall, athletic, handsomely blonde Sir Roger, a man of about thirty, frowned as his wife and her friend returned Holmes greeting. "Why does that sound familiar?" Stepping forward, he extended his hand to Holmes, even as he looked back over his shoulder to his wife. "Sarah...why do I know that name?"
"The detective, Roger," she replied, before smiling at Holmes and offering him her hand after her husband. "How do you do? I am afraid I have only heard of you by name, and via your acquaintance with my cousin, sir, but it is a pleasure to put a face to the name."
"Of course! The detective!" Sir Roger exclaimed, before smiling broadly. "I knew the name was deucedly familiar!"
While Sarah was all restraint and ignorance of Holmes, the same could not be said of Lady Elizabeth Grosvenor. A small fragile looking creature, her delicate frame belied the sheer amount of energy and vitality she exuded. It was an energy that was made manifest in the manner she was almost bouncing on her toes in anticipation of her meeting the detective, her large blue eyes clearly shining in admiration, as she patted her carefully coiffed blond hair, and almost rushed forward as soon as he had released her friend's hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Holmes! It is a real pleasure to meet you! I have, unlike my friend here, heard a great deal about you!" she gushed, as beside Roger, Helen stood quietly, trying not to wince, and being very aware what Holmes thought and felt of too much public attention, and on his quick look, sent him a sympathetic smile of apology.
With three to respond to, Holmes’s forehead creased a little, and he coughed before taking the hand of the lady before him and bowing. "A great deal of it exaggerated, I'm sure, Lady Grosvenor," he replied.
"Fiddlesticks!" she replied, smiling beatifically up at him, before continuing, "I must go fetch my husband! He's is quite an avid reader of your stories! Oh yes, wait right here!" And with a quick turn, she raced as quickly down the path as was remotely possible for lady of her station, as Helen cringed again.
Straightening and watching her rapid departure, Holmes turned to address Helen, instantly ready to make some excuse to depart to her, when he was cut off again by the soft voice of her cousin.
"Please forgive my friend, Mr. Holmes,” Sarah apologised, having caught her cousin's expression. “She is of rather an excitable nature, I fear." She sighed a little. "Despite her commands to you to the contrary, may I suggest we walk on all the same? We were heading for a stroll, and as my cousin no longer has a partner, and you and she are of long standing acquaintance, perhaps you would you be so kind?"
Helen wasn't sure whether to be mortified at the suggestion, or shocked at her usually quiet cousin’s increased vocalness, part of her wishing now that she had confided her currently conflicted state to her. It seemed whether she did or did not tell those closest to her of the state of her affections, they all contrived to push her towards him anyway!
Holmes, for his part, glanced after their departing friend again. "Lady Elizabeth would not be offended by your departure?" he asked, his frown increasing a little, as his eyes shifted from Helen to her cousin and back again.
"Elizabeth?" Sir Roger exclaimed with a laugh. "She's such a scatterbrained thing, I'll dare say she'll have forgotten why she went running to fetch Piers before she even finds him, never mind navigate her way back here again. Wouldn't worry about it, old man." He shook his head, as he took his wife's arm, towering over her by a good foot and a half.
"I see," Holmes replied, slipping his boater under his arm once more. "I hesitate to impose on your company, however." He inclined his head once more politely. "You must surely have plans for the day."
Helen gave him a small smile, and shook her head. "You would not be imposing in the slightest, Mr. Holmes, but I have no desire to hold you up either."
She fiddled with the handle of her parasol, and glanced back to the festivities; her eyes resigned at having to face to mob again, never mind the possibility that the seemingly ever present Duchess of Monmouth had proven that her behaviour at the Rose Ball was no singular event. It was quite clear now that the elderly matriarch had decided to make the eligible heiress her pet project and marry her off to some prominent bachelor who was well positioned but whose old and painfully noble family was patently in need of a cash infusion. With the eyes of a hawk, she had spotted Helen’s entry, and had periodically, and with great determination, introduced her to yet another suitable match.
Holmes’s gaze turned once more towards the exit when he saw Lord Coombes enter, the man’s eyes falling on him and narrowing almost instantly. Observing the group he was with, the peer eyed them suspiciously, quite clearly trying to decide if these people were the case Holmes was involved in. On seeing a convenient smokescreen for his purpose here, and feeling it best to distance himself from the Royal Party as much as possible, Holmes came to a decision.
"No..." he said to Helen with a smile, "you would not be holding me up. My business here is in fact concluded, and so I am free and at your disposal, Miss Thurlow. I merely wished to avoid discommoding any plans you might have had. If I am not, I would happy to join you."
As her eyes almost shot back to him, she barely remembered to restrain her pleased and happy smile. "Not at all...as I have told you before on several occasions now, I believe,” she rebuked him lightly, her voice carefully friendly and level. “I greatly esteem our conversations."
"They are quite diverting,” he agreed, offering her his arm with a smile. “I find you ever increasingly to be a woman of refined and excellent taste, Miss Thurlow.”
With a chuckle, she took his arm, as her cousin, offering them a genial smile, allowed her husband to turn them back around to follow the path.
"So?" he enquired, taking in the distance between her and her cousin and husband, and lowering his voice accordingly. "Must I assume you were influenced into your attendance?"
She gave him a rueful look. "Sarah, in her well meaning way, thought it might be good for me to, as she put it, meet people. The right people of course." She sighed softly. "It is not the outings that I mind...nor meeting people...but ever since I arrived I have been, well...bored...or..." Her shoulders noticeably slumped, as she glanced at him awkwardly. "Well…you see…that is to say, Her Grace the Duchess of Monmouth is here and…and it rather seems as if she…well…as if she remains bound and determined to…” she grimaced slightly at saying this to him, “quite simply, marry me off!”
Glancing up at him, she could not help but notice the twitch of amusement about his lips and sighed plaintively. “Oh really, Mr. Holmes,” she chided, lamenting the situation. “It’s not amusing. No, not in the slightest. All morning it's been a parade, one after the other...and all frightfully dull. I feel rather like a prize goose on display just before Christmas!”
His chuckle was barely restrained. "Come now, Miss Thurlow! Not one, bright spot amongst them?" he asked, his eyes dancing. "No dashing young knights or officers, foreign princes, or American tycoons?" he teased her. "No one amongst all these fine specimens of manhood?"
She arched an eyebrow at him, not sure if she was annoyed with him for his gentle joshing at her expense, or found it endearingly intimate. "Well...” she responded, providing him with the facts, “several asked about my trust fund in under the first five minutes. Others were slightly more tactful the subtle questioning about my father's business not appearing until…oh…at least ten minutes into our acquaintance. One appeared to me to be mildly inebriated...” Her brow creased a little in remembrance. “Although that might just have been how he spoke. And the remaining two...well..." She trailed off gazing uncomfortably around.
“The remaining two?” he prompted.
After a moment, Helen’s chin rose, and she sniffed indignantly, "Did not look like they had appropriate thoughts on their minds."
Her eyes slipped sideways to him on feeling a short shudder through his arm, and she realised that he was fighting valiantly not to emit what he felt would be an ungallant expression of amusement.
With a short inhalation and a shake of his head, Holmes expressed his sympathy at her experience. "An unfortunate batch of suitors to be sure. The worst since Odysseus’s poor Penelope’s, without a doubt. At the very least, I would have thought the delicacy of the upper classes better developed. To be so discovered so quickly is either a true indictment of their lack of tact and mannerly behaviour...or a measure of your perspicacity, Miss Thurlow."
A tiny smile formed on her lips, as she gazed out ahead of them. "Perhaps a little of both...I suppose I have become rather cautious. It is not as if I do not want to ever marry, as you have heard me say...but if and when I do, it shall most certainly not be for financial or status reasons." She nodded with determination before the ridiculousness of her situation struck her - complaining as she was about the men seeking her to the only man she wanted to be sought out by, and whose only apparent reaction to her plight was not exactly filling her with hope that he disapproved of others seeking her out. Kicking herself quietly, she focused her thoughts once more, fearing the topic might soon bore him. "But quite enough of that, how fares your work, Mr. Holmes? Any interesting problems or research keeping you content?"
His lips pursed a little in thought. "There is one I have recently completed that you might find intriguing. Watson was quite delighted with it, which no doubt means I shall have to sit through pages of hyperbolic prose in the not to distant future. Though,” he added thoughtfully, “as Watson would no doubt say, beyond the importance of the solution of the case itself, certain other factors in the events might help restore your faith that there may be a man who thinks more of the well being of the ones he loves than himself or his dignity." He glanced at her, judging her interest. "It involves a rather notorious beggar with a distinctive disfigurement."
Her eyes widened, her expression perking up instantly. "A beggar? What kind of disfigurement?" She blushed a little on hearing her response in her head. "I mean...I would love to hear more, Mr. Holmes."
"Ah me.” He shook his head with exaggerated ruefulness, internally enjoying himself thoroughly as he teased her again. “You have betrayed yourself, Miss Thurlow...your time with Watson has corrupted you, and aimed you towards the hook of the tale rather than the problem contained therein.”
Her face grew even more scarlet. "Well...I do not have many clues yet, Mr. Holmes, and….” she paused mid scramble, her eyes narrowing slightly, as she turned them slowly to him, “I believe you were the one that baited the hook thusly?”
His lips quirked upwards. “Touché, Miss Thurlow.”
With a slight huff, though inwardly delighting in catching him, she raised her chin again a little imperiously. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning?"
"Very well," he agreed thinking back. "I believe Watson and my involvement in the case began with the visit of two entirely different women to our respective homes. Both women unconnected, yet joined in a common concern for the welfare of their particular husband…and both with good cause. Watson's case of a missing spouse came to an end in an opium den where he joined in mine, having discovered me there pipe in hand." He smiled a little at the memory.
Her face shifted into one of concern. "Opium? I have heard that to be a most addictive drug, and that the unfortunates once under its sway become most desperate.” She glanced up at him. "Such establishments are most hazardous. It must have been an important case indeed for you to go to such a place."
"Crucial," he agreed. "Feeling as I did that a man's life had ended there."
In the following minutes, he described the events witnessed by Mrs. Neville St.Clair in Upper Swandam Lane regarding her missing husband, up to and including the discovery of his clothes in the house of the Malay, and the arrest of the erudite crippled beggar with the twisted lip, Hugh Boone, for the murder of her husband, whose body had never been found.
She listened carefully to the details, and when he had finished, mulled what he had said, her lips pursed in thought. "So, they found his clothes but no Mr. St.Clair." She tapped her finger on the handle of her parasol. "Something is not sitting right...I find difficulty in believing this beggar to be guilty of such a crime."
"What makes you feel the beggar might be innocent?" he probed quietly.
"Well," she voiced her musings, "there is, as I said, no body, nor is there any apparent motive for him to kill or even hurt Mr. St.Clair...and...one must consider that he is a cripple and the apparent victim was a healthy, young, active man in the prime of his life. From what you have said, Mr. Boone is an eloquent and amiable beggar at that...none of these facts readily lends itself to either murder or murderous intent."
"Indeed," he replied, smiling at her reasoning, "and his indictment in the murder of Mr. St.Clair becomes more dubious still, when you consider his death occurred that Monday and yet, some days after that his wife received a letter from him, assuring her of his safety and enclosing his signet ring." He glanced over at her again to view her reaction.
Her face grew even more contemplative at that before she turned her head tot him with a frown. "So with what evidence can they even hold this man? He is clearly not involved in this murder, if there has even been one," she said with a little exasperation. "I would call it a wild goose chase, if not for the fact that the poor man is certainly missing."
"But you fail to consider however, Miss Thurlow, that the letter was no proof of his continued survival,” Holmes pointed out. "The envelope was written by a foreign hand, most probably that of the Malay lascar's...and the contents could have been written before his death, for there was no date on the letter itself. As for the signet ring, it could have been taken from him by force, like his clothes. And whatever the situation regarding murder, the fact remains that Neville St.Clair disappeared from that room, Boone's room, that day moments after his wife had spotted him...his coat was found weighed down on the river bed of the Thames with Hugh Boone's copious amount of coins...who then lied barefaced to the police about St.Clair's presence there. Boone was and remained the chief suspect."
Suitably chastened, she nodded. "All very good points, I agree. So, how were you able to put the matter to rest?"
He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders somewhat. "You were quite right...something did not sit right with me about the whole thing...and the letter only added to the feeling. It took me all night and a great deal of shag tobacco to light upon the one piece of the puzzle that afforded me a glimmer of insight into the entire matter."
She gazed at him expectantly when he did not answer right away. "And that was?"
He turned his eyes upon her once more. "Why does a beggar beg, Miss Thurlow? To what end?"
She frowned at the question. "Why for money...for food...for the means to support himself..." She stopped. "The money!” she breathed. “All the money in his pocket, how would…”
Holmes soft laugh cut her off. “A keen insight, Miss Thurlow…excellent in fact.” He nodded, before continuing, “The money in St.Clair's pockets...Boone's money. It came to a most tidy sum on being counted. Quite a sum, indeed...it struck me as odd that he would have that much. Beggars rarely have that much to hand. Nor do they easily attain loyalty from men as vicious as the lascar was. Similarly beggars rarely quote Shakespeare and the Bible and seem well up on the latest publications and news. It struck me then that Hugh Boone was a most unusual beggar...and little about him conformed to what you would expect.”
Fully aware that he rarely said anything that did not have some meaning behind it, Helen’s brow knitted gently in concentration, deepening momentarily as a flicker of conflict appeared there, as something occurred to her that she found impossible to accept at first. But then gradually, her head rose and she looked at him with a tentative eagerness replacing her frown. “Before...” she said slowly, “you mentioned what a man would do for the well being of the ones he loves...?"
Glancing towards her cousin and her husband, Holmes let them walk on, before turning to face her. "Yes," he agreed, waiting.
She inhaled slowly. "A man would fight for them…die for them…might he not…beg for them?” she ventured, still finding it hard to believe, but when her faltering thoughts were met not with discredit but that glint of light in his eye, her eyes grew wider gradually. “But...how?” she breathed. “The beggar was deformed and crippled...and Mr. St.Clair is not..."
"No...he is not. However, he was in his time an actor. One to whom I feel I may well turn to for a lesson in the art of make up and disguise in the future," he mused.
Her hand rose up to her lips as though to hide her smile. "Amazing," she murmured with a shake of her head. "Is there so much money to be made in such a fashion that he could live so?” she asked him.
“If one is as entertaining and clever as Hugh Boone…it would seem so,” Holmes answered with a nod. “He kept his wife and family in a very comfortable fashion.”
Despite herself, she started to laugh at the oddity of the entire thing. “So, he was the beggar all the long...”
“Indeed, a situation that eluded me until I focused on Boone’s peculiarities in earnest. Once I struck on that, incredible as it seemed to me, I began to strip away all preconceptions about him including physical features." He shrugged. "Never judge a book by its cover...nor a man by his appearance. Still...washing away one man and finding another waiting beneath will rank as one of my most memorable moments in detection."
"Indeed," she agreed, flashing a smile up at him. "It must have been quite the sight. But why did he not simply tell his wife?"
"Why does any man hide a secret from someone he loves?" he asked, before turning back to walk on. "For shame. For guilt. He was a respectable man earning a living by disreputable means...one for which he had been arrested several times. In addition, he had lied to his family for many years. He would rather have gone to the gallows than have the truth become public and have them shamed."
She sighed and shook her head. "Of course," she murmured, thinking for a moment of her father and his own hard kept secrets. "Though, were I his wife...I should prefer to know my husband was alive and well more than worrying about our reputation."
"Precisely the attitude Mrs. St.Clair took," he remembered, "but then women are less easily shamed by their husband's deeds than the men themselves. The two genders view what constitutes disgrace very differently."
"So, what shall happen to Mr. St.Clair?"
"He shall return to a more humdrum existence, I hope...pursuing the journalistic or theatrical life. He has taken an oath that Hugh Boone will be no more," he answered, smiling a little. "And so it is that one of London's more colourful characters breathes his last. As long as he remains so, Neville St.Clair will be a free man, and the police will refrain from taking action for his fraudulent waste of their time and begging...after all, no other more serious crime was committed."
"Indeed, and I am sure his wife is pleased and delighted to have him home!" she agreed.
"No doubt," he returned, nodding absently. "No doubt."
Her expression grew puzzled at his look, and after a moment, she squeezed his arm a little. "Is everything all right, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired, a fear rolling in her stomach that she was in some way boring him.
Glancing back at her, he nodded. "Perfectly, I was merely ruminating on how little in life is what it appears to be at first. And even fewer people. Be they beggar or prince."
She gazed at him curiously at that, but let it drop as they continued down the path to the river, and as they strolled, Helen's thoughts began to turn ever inward, her mind pondering their conversation for perhaps some inner meaning or subtle undertones that may show a hint of a faint, if highly unlikely, interest in her. Though with a private sigh, she was forced to admit there were none.
His intentions were as plain as his speech...he viewed her as a friend, an amiable companion, and nothing more. He had not even commented, or likely noticed, that she was no longer in mourning for her father. She glanced down at the pale blue and white dress she had picked out for today's events. No...not even a glimmer of awareness.
Nibbling her lip absently, she began, and it was not the first time she had done so, to question her sanity. She had always been a sensible woman, and had yet here she was again putting herself into a situation that she knew was hopeless and still endeavouring to find the way for it not to be. The sensible and logical course would be to bid him a good afternoon and go home, to walk away and not look back. Yes...that would be the best option for all.
And yet still, she could not find the will, the impetus, to move herself away.
Glancing up at his face and recognising the expression on it, she felt another surge of sadness wash through her, for it was obvious that not even his thoughts were here with her now and that some problem somewhere had now gripped the detective’s mind.
Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as she turned her head to gaze out at the crowds on the banks of the river and other couples strolling about as they took in the warm summer air…and groaned, as an older woman turned from where she was speaking to a striking young man in a military uniform, and caught her eye, the woman's features breaking into a most charming and meaningful smile.
“Sarah,” Roger’s loud voice came back to them. “Doesn’t that young army chap with the Duchess remind you of William?”
“Yes, he does, dear,” the petite woman agreed with a nod. “Which reminds me? When is he coming home again? I must get the dinner invitations printed.”
"Oh no..." Helen breathed in as her cousin and husband discussed future dinner plans for their returning friend, her mind utterly focused on the shimmer in the Duchess’s eye behind the pince nez she was using. "Not again." Turning away quickly, she smiled widely up at her walking companion, and moved a bit closer to him, her hand squeezing his arm a little to get his attention.
The Duchess slipped her arm into that of the officer by her side and with a studiously determined air and the regality and freedom of age, judiciously and unselfconsciously used her parasol in a way it had never been intended, commandingly clearing a path for herself through the crowded enclosure toward her pet project.
Distracted from his thoughts on his earlier case, Holmes looked down at the arm currently being squeezed and up at the perpetrator, to see the look of sheer apprehension on his companion’s face. Following her gaze, he looked across the area to see the formidable Duchess approaching them, her bearing that of a woman upon a mission. Turning his head back to Helen, he observed both her nervousness and her increased proximity to him, and arching an eyebrow, he asked with a small smile a silent, if mildly amused, question of her behaviour.
Helen had never been particularly good at flirting; her lack of charm school and the harsher life she had led for ten years ensured that she had no real practice at the art. So instead of doing what came so naturally to her cousin and her other female friends, she settled on a rather shaky smile and a very honest glance behind them and an almost desperate look that pleaded with him to be her Odysseus as another suitor rode into view..
Gazing down at her, Holmes observed the rather charmingly nervous petition, and after a moment, he raised his hand and patted hers where it lay on his arm, though leaving it over hers as he took a step forward to move them on again, her cousin and Sir Roger having gotten some distance ahead of them. He stopped again, of course, as soon as the Duchess's inevitable call made itself heard.
"Miss Thurlow! Miss Thurlow! Be so kind as to hold for just one moment," she quasi demanded, the stately voice ringing out towards them.
Somehow, Helen found the strength not to flinch bodily, though her eyes closed and opened slowly at the command. Giving an apologetic but extremely grateful smile at Holmes, she composed herself, before stepping even a tad closer to him, and turning her head towards the Duchess. "Yes, Your Grace?" she replied sweetly.
"Helen, my dear..." the Duchess began as she swept up to them, "Oh!" She paused. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she greeted him with some mild surprise, and before he could respond, turned her attention immediately back to the young woman beside him. "Helen, I have someone I believe I would like you to meet!" she sniffed, turning to the man beside her, and patting his red tuniced arm. "Miss Helen Thurlow, this is Lieutenant Andrew McMurray, 4th Lancers." She smiled over at her project knowingly. "His father is Lord McMurray of Aberdeenshire."
Biting back a real desire to just run or tell the well-meaning dowager to please leave her alone, she smiled amiably at the soldier and inclined her head in greeting. "Charmed, I'm sure," she replied, her hand tightening just a little on Holmes's arm.
"How do you do," the young man replied with a somewhat awkward smile. "A pleasure, Miss Thurlow." Inclining his head politely, and noticing her arm about Holmes’s, his head turned to the Duchess in confusion, who was gazing at him with some mild irritation for his hesitancy until she finally noticed what he was reacting to, and turned immediately to Holmes, somewhat aggrieved.
"Mr. Holmes...what brings you here?" she demanded, the unspoken question about his consorting with her mission quite clear.
Praying he would not admit he was here solely on a case, Helen looked up at her companion with a soft, shy expression - one that could be interpreted in several different ways.
Holmes's fingers slipped around Helen's further, as he smiled lightly at the mature, meddling woman in front of him. "I came down for the races, Your Grace," he replied, "and…as Miss Thurlow's escort for the day." He turned and head and smiled down at the young woman on his arm. "Though I confess I am somewhat late..." he continued with an apologetic tone.
"Yes...quite late." The Duchess tapped her parasol on the ground.
"But, I am most glad that he was able to make it," Helen insisted, her smile at him softening even more, as she found herself relaxing into the part.
The Duchess, however, was not at all relaxed. In fact, she seemed more rigid by the second. "Miss Thurlow." She turned her blue eyes to the smaller younger woman. "Might I enquire - are you in the company of Mr. Holmes?"
Normally, Helen would feel nothing short of intimidated under those piercing blue eyes; in fact, half of Parliament would have been....and yet her smile remained on her face, as she placed her other hand on his. "Yes...I am."
"Well....really!" the Duchess huffed, and turned to the bewildered young man by her side. "Lieutenant McMurray, I'm afraid I brought you here under a false perception. I apologise."
The young man nodded quickly, patently terrified of the aristocratic force of nature. "Oh, of course, Your Grace, please don't concern yourself." Nodding and turning away, she went to address Helen again, but, on noting the soldier was still standing there, she turned her head slowly to him once more with an arched eyebrow that spoke volumes.
Blinking, the Lieutenant took a moment, before his eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh...oh...of course!" he said hurriedly. "Good day, Your Grace, Miss Thurlow...Mr....umm....good day." And with a bow, he rushed away quickly.
With the young man gone, and returning her attention to Helen, the Duchess straightened once more. "Well, Miss Thurlow?" she snipped, waiting expectantly.
"Your Grace?" the other woman replied with a slightly confused expression. "Is something amiss?"
"Kindly explain yourself, young woman," she insisted, tapping her parasol impatiently. "What is the meaning of...of..." The white lace umbrella was raised to tap Holmes upon the chest lightly before she waved it between them. "This!"
That, Helen did not have an answer for. So, she settled on continuing her rather oblivious act. "Meaning, Your Grace?"
Narrowing her eyes in impatience, the Duchess took a step closer. "Do not play coy with me, Miss Thurlow. I have spent a great deal of time and energy today in endeavouring to provide you with a suitable companion, all with a view towards the development of a suitable match sometime in the near future. You, in turn, have allowed me to do this without once mentioning that you and Mr. Holmes here have an apparent understanding." Her parasol tapped again more vigorously. "This is most embarrassing and quite vexing, I must say!"
"I'm afraid," Holmes said with a deferent air, "that I, and not Miss Thurlow, must shoulder the blame for that, Your Grace. You see, taking into account the business I am in, it is not always wise to advertise one's..." his eyes found Helen's, "attachments...too prominently, for their safety’s sake. I'm afraid I asked Miss...Helen...to refrain from mentioning it widely for the moment." He gave her a soft smile before turning with an apologetic expression back to the Duchess. "It is possible she took me a little too literally, and rather than betray her promise to me, instead kept her silence…even in the face of your most kind and admirable efforts on her behalf."
The Duchess eyed him closely, her hands bouncing the parasol quickly on the sod beneath, before her head snapped to Helen. "Is this true, Miss Thurlow?" she pursued.
The young woman seemed to melt under his smile and gaze, and that fine barrier between the certainty that they were only acting and her very real feelings began to crumble, as her eyes shone with barely restrained adoration. That is until the woman next to her cleared her throat again, bringing her back to some modicum of reality. Swallowing, she turned back to her. "Yes...yes, it is true," she lied, but rather content to live in it herself for the moment.
"I see," the Duchess murmured, which was followed by a long moment of silence, during which it was patently obvious to both of them that the elder woman was deciding whether to favour this new development or not, before her chin rose slowly. "Well, quite apart from the possibly dubious propriety of engaging in such secretive behaviour, I feel bound to ask, and entitled to know considering you have now bound me in your web of obfuscation," her eyes glinted with a sudden trace of enjoyment, "how long has this state of affairs existed between the two of you?"
"Since the Rose Ball, Your Grace," Holmes answered smoothly without missing a beat. "Something we attended because of events at Pendragon House. Sad events to be sure...but because of them, Miss Thurlow and I found ourselves in a most congenial place, and confessed to this mutual admiration that has existed for my part at least since the day we first met, and which has grown into a warm and most convivial thing," he continued, before taking his companion’s hand, and bringing her fingers to his lips to kiss them softly.
Swallowing, and her breath noticeably quickened, Helen felt the last of her restraint wash clear away as lips brushed her hand, and she was sure that everything that she had been feeling and kept locked inside was now fully evident on her face.
"Really, Mr. Holmes," the Duchess huffed. "Control yourself. Such unbridled affection in public is quite unbecoming, and most unlike the man I know you to be."
Lowering Helen's hand, he turned and gave the Duchess a slight bow. "Of course, you are quite right, Your Grace. I forget myself...I'm afraid the newness of the experience is a little overwhelming to me."
"Yes...well..." she replied. "I must admit I do remember what it was like when Mortimer and I were first courting." Her eyes slowly became a little distracted, as she recalled, "He was quite a firebrand in his day, and could sometimes be..." Catching herself, she cleared her throat and looked back at them. "Well, that is of no importance now. Very well, I accept your apology! Though, Helen, my dear...in the future you really must confide in me," she scolded lightly.
"Of course," the young woman instantly replied, her voice a little dreamy.
"I must admit," the Duchess pondered, gazing at Holmes, "that you are hardly the man I envisaged for Miss Thurlow. But then, position and title aren't everything, I suppose." She sighed in a voice that didn't sound entirely sure of that. "And you are a most remarkable man...therefore, I am willing to keep your secret for the moment, Mr. Holmes."
"On behalf of Miss Thurlow and myself," he replied, "you have our most profound gratitude, Your Grace."
"However!" the matriarch added. "Such things can only continue respectably for a time, sir. You must sooner rather than later make your intentions public; otherwise rumours shall start to spread about impropriety."
With a solemn nod, Holmes accepted the advice, his face perfectly composed.
Glancing at the small watch pinned to the front of her dress, the Duchess smoothed her lilac taffeta gown a little, and straightened her matching hat. "Very well...now that that is quite settled, I believe I shall repair for a Pimms." She paused and turned her eyes back to the pair. "Would you care to join me?"
The thought of having to spend more time with the formidable Duchess was what finally brought some functionality back to Helen's love-besieged brain, and with a regretful smile, she shook her head. "That is a kind offer, Your Grace, but Mr. Holmes...I mean, Sherlock...and I were hoping to stroll a bit longer. Perhaps we shall meet with you later?"
"Perhaps," Her Grace replied, a corner of her mouth turning up in a rare hint of a smile. "I shall be staying here to dine...if you are free, ask for me and I'll leave instructions for you to be brought to my table." Raising her parasol as the sun emerged once more, she nodded. "Enjoy your stroll, my dear. And you, Mr. Holmes."
"Your Grace," Holmes and Helen chorused, as she turned and walked away. Watching her go, Holmes kept his solemn and serious face in place right till the moment his head returned to his partner in deception, his eyes starting to dance, as his lips quirked in mirth.
Helen could not help but respond to the way his eyes shone and the genuine humour in his face, her own lips pulling up into a light and happy smile. However, though the relief at finally dodging the Duchess was palatable, there was also a sadness that seemed to be brewing inside of her. Brief as it was, she had had her taste of honey. That glimpse she had had of Holmes the suitor, even if it was a lie, had been a sweet one, and now it was at an end and her emotions would again have to be locked away from him and the world.
"I believe, Miss Thurlow, in finding a suitor, you have become a free woman," he congratulated her with a chuckle.
"Oh yes...until she realises that we have tricked her, that is," she replied with a wry laugh. "Still, I shall relish the quiet while it lasts."
Patting her hand, he drew her to walk beside him once more. "Well, there is no reason to think it should not last for a while...it is not as if you see her tremendously often. Even if it may on occasion feel that way," he consoled her, his smile broadening.
Her own smile grew a little wider, though she dared not hope that he did not mind it continuing because he wished it to. "Well...that is very generous of you, Mr. Holmes. Though, your reputation may suffer a little were it to continue."
"Perhaps," he mused with a nod. “Though rumours have circulated before. In any event, I believe a celebratory lunch may be in order. We did eminently well, Miss Thurlow," he congratulated them both. "Her Grace is a perceptive woman in many regards and very quick witted...though her leanings towards the romantic, both in terms of literature and life, are sometimes blatantly obvious." He shook his head, his smile becoming more self deprecating. "Even so, for a moment there I fear I may have overplayed my part. I confess I based it somewhat on Watson, and my memory may be biased towards his being overly affectionate."
She gave him a quick smile that was only really a mask to keep the pang she felt inside at his words, and shook her head. "No, you did wonderfully. Your acting ability is quite formidable...had I been another woman...well, it was very believable."
"You would never make a critic, Miss Thurlow," he returned with a laugh. "You are entirely too kind hearted. No...I'm afraid my performance was coloured by my preconceptions of the romantic male." He shook his head ruefully as they strolled off in search of her cousin. "It is not my forte...and while I'm happy you are free of a dreadful burden for the moment, I confess to being most grateful that I do not have to play the part every day!"
Helen kept her eyes fixed on the view ahead of them, relieved her hat obscured her face, for she knew if she looked at him, she would surely burst into tears. In truth, the small pain in her stomach had turned into a stabbing one in her chest, and any left over euphoria she had felt on seeing him, if only for the briefest of moments, look at her the way she had so often hoped and dreamed he would, vanished completely.
Fighting the overwhelming urge to simply feign illness and leave the event, she merely replied with a level, "Indeed." And instead turned her head and smiled at him, well accustomed now at putting a bright face on things, and hiding her inner thoughts. As she did so, she realised that dealing with this alone was becoming intolerable, her defences were gone and her good sense with them. All she had feared was coming true, for slowly and without knowing it, he was ripping her to shreds…and she was letting him. A decision would have to be made on what she was to do about this, and it would have to be made soon.
Holmes returned her smile, as another cheer went up from the assembled crowds at the view of rowers in the next race heading for home, and, gesturing towards her cousin ahead with his boater, led her back to them.