Sherlock settled the still unfocused Lady Lestrade in John's chair facing the fire and fetched her a brandy which she took without comment and nursed in silence. After so many years of conditioning, it seemed impossible to sit in her presence. He hovered, standing, near the window watching for John's return.

After an interminable half hour a hansom pulled up and John hurried into the house and up the stairs.

"Is he dead?" asked Lady Lestrade in a dull voice when John entered the room.

John paused and then answered, "Yes, your ladyship."

"At last. Am I finally free of him?" She sank back into her stupor, the empty brandy glass hanging from her fingers until Sherlock deftly removed it.

"Your ladyship," said John softly. "I was able to retrieve your coat and handbag when I helped carry his— him into the house." He laid her coat over the settee and placed the handbag in her lap. She stroked it absently as if it were a cat.

John moved over to Sherlock and asked in a low voice, "How is she?"

"She seems unharmed—physically. I've given her the one brandy."

"Good, good. I hate to ask it of you, but why don't you fetch a pot of tea. I think we could all use some."

Sherlock smiled at John's concern for his sensibilities. "Of course, John."

When he returned, John was kneeling at her ladyship's side massaging her hands and talking to her soothingly. He took a cup from Sherlock, added several lumps of sugar and urged Lady Lestrade to drink. She seemed oblivious to Sherlock's presence or at least who he was, which was probably for the best.

"I suppose you want to know why I was there," she said, still staring into the fire. She didn't seem curious as to why John and Sherlock had been there.

"Only if you want to tell us. I can take you back to your home now if you feel strong enough."

"No, I've lived with it so long, with him keeping me in his power that to clear it all…" She looked at John at last. "If I tell you, will I be in your power?"

"Anything you say here, your ladyship, will remain between us forever."

"Yes. You are a doctor after all. It was you, wasn't it, who spoke to Mrs. Darling?"

"I offered her my services."

"How good of you," she said drily. John let it pass.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes as if to massage away a headache. "You have to know that I love my husband. He is the dearest and best of men. I would do anything to protect him."

"I'm sure of it, your ladyship," John replied.

"He was the most desirable bachelor of my youth. He was handsome with a good personality and, of course, a fortune. Every good mother threw her daughters in his direction. I believed I had no chance." She paused, "I suppose I should start even earlier. My mother died when I was nine and Louisa—Caroline's mother—was six. My father…my father became ill when I was fifteen and Louisa and I went to live with our uncle. He didn't live in Notting Hill then, but a larger house that in the end he couldn't afford. He gave me a season, but not enough money for the dresses that are expected, or the entertainments." She smiled ruefully at John, "It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? And yet, that is the life for a woman. I expect that he wanted me to marry one of his associates, older men, just like him. I'm sure he owed them. My debut was a mere formality. And then, at my very first dance…Lord Lestrade asked for my first dance. And my sixth. And my seventh."

She smiled at the memory and John thought of a dance card carefully preserved in a book somewhere, perhaps with a flower or other token.

"From then on," she continued, "he would ask what dances and parties I was going to attend to be sure to be there. I couldn't attend that many. When he learned I had no horse, he lent me one of his to ride anytime I wanted. I loved him from his first kiss of my hand." Her face darkened and she resumed plucking at the handbag in her lap. "At first my uncle was furious. As I said, I believe that he had meant me to be a bargaining chip. But then…then he decided that he could benefit from my marriage to Gregory. When Gregory proposed, he was over the moon."

She stopped talking and John waited patiently. By the window Sherlock waited with less patience. This wasn't enough to explain everything that had happened, but it was impossible for him to step in to ask questions and John seemed content to let her ramble.

"The week…the week before my wedding, my uncle was already making promises on my fiancés name. I…I told him…I confronted him and said that I was free of him. That he would get nothing from Lord Lestrade through me and that I would be bringing Louisa to live with us so that he'd have no power over her either. I had already discussed it with Gregory." She shut her eyes and tears ran down her cheeks. "He struck me across the face again and again, and then…he forced himself on me." She covered her face with her hands, but cried in silence.

John offered her his handkerchief. "Your ladyship, I am…I am so very sorry."

"He said that I belonged to him forever now. That I had to do anything he asked or he…he would tell my husband that I was ruined. He said…oh, God…he said that he should have done the same to my mother to keep her from turning him down for my father."

John waited until her sobbing had stopped, then leaned forward in his chair. "Your ladyship, I realize that I don't know much about marriage, but I've seen his lordship's love for you. I cannot think, even now, if you were to tell him, that he would blame you in any way. No woman, no woman is ever responsible for her own rape. Your husband, I could understand…I can understand the fear that your husband would have sought to punish your uncle. I know that I would if anyone I loved suffered so. But your husband is also an intelligent man and—"

"—that may be so," she interrupted, "but would he be so eager to raise another man's son?"

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock, but he said nothing.

"My uncle raped me a week before my wedding. Peter, my son, was born nine months to the day after my wedding." She looked up at John, her tear-stained face hard in its grief, "Tell me, Doctor Watson, is there a way to ever know who fathered a child under those circumstances?"

John sighed sadly, "No, your ladyship."

She nodded, "No, I didn't think so. Do you know what it is—what guilt it is—for a mother to fear her own child, even when he is in her womb, fear that he could…be a monster? I was very sick for some time after he was born. I thought— I hoped that at least Gregory would love him, but…then the girls were born and fathers dote on their daughters, and, and… I watched Peter every moment while he was growing up, for some sign to tell me who he belonged to, every moment of kindness, every moment of cruelty. I even…God forgive me…but he punished me for that." Her hands twisted in her lap.

"Lady Lestrade, did you…was the riding accident…did you try to…"

"Rid myself of my pregnancy? Yes, Doctor Watson, even that. Do you believe in bad blood, Doctor?"

"No. No, I don't. Did you find signs of it in your son's behavior?"

"He was a difficult child, and a willful young man, but no, not monstrous."

"Then I believe that you have been a good mother and raised a good son. I wouldn't dwell on wondering what might have happened." He waited a few moments and when she said nothing else, he asked, "And Sir Neville has held this over you all this time? Did he believe that Peter was his son?"

"He never said in so many words. Just that my secrets would come out if I ever refused to help him, or to get his lordship to help him. And then, then, that servant comes to me, threatening me with the same thing. To be in his power as well. It was too much. Too much. After I had brought him into our home from the orphanage. So I found what I needed, and I gave it to him…that night, that night."

Sherlock moved closer to her chair without getting in her line of sight. This at last was what he had been hoping to learn.

John noticed Sherlock's movement and asked, "What did you give him?"

"His birth certificate and a letter that his mother had left him at the orphanage before she left this world. Proof that he was Sir Neville's son."

There was a long, drawn out moment of silence and then she said, "I caused his death, didn't I? I sent him to a monster." She said this so matter-of-factly that John wondered if he'd misheard her.

"Did you think that your uncle was capable of murder? Was that your intention?"

"No! Yes…I don't know. Perhaps, secretly, in my heart of hearts. And after, I did go to him, my uncle, I mean, and I begged him, begged him, to come forward and confess for his very soul." For the very first time that evening, she turned to look at Sherlock. "You must believe me. I didn't know what else to do without giving myself away, without losing everything I'd fought so hard to protect."

Sherlock nodded, face tight. "Can you tell us what happened that night? He asked for his payment, didn't he, and you gave him his birth certificate instead. Did you make him think that he would really be welcomed by Neville as his son?"

She shook her head, "No, I doubt even he was that ignorant, to think that a man like Sir Neville would ever acknowledge him, or that there weren't at least a dozen others with first claim. Ashburnham House Orphanage might well have been called Grenville Repository. But he was a blackmailer, perhaps he thought that Neville would pay, or even that they might go into business together."

"It was you, wasn't it? After Anderson was dead, you went to his room and took the letters. And the money, I assume," Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but I didn't think he would go to my uncle immediately. I thought he would wait until the next day at least. I regretted what I'd done, you see. Instantly. I thought that I could go and reason with him, convince him that whatever he wanted from my uncle, he wouldn't get it. But when I went to his room he was already dead and my uncle was gone. He must have taken the birth certificate and the letter—probably long burnt by now—but he didn't know about the other victims. I covered Anderson's face, gave him what dignity I could, and searched the room. I was shocked at how many others there were. And how much money he'd collected. I couldn't return the money, of course, but I could return the letters, and put the money to good use. At least now I needn't worry that Donald Charles will throw it away on another investment scheme of my uncle's."

John asked, "Why didn't you send the letters to Mr. Darling? Or send them to Mrs. Darling immediately."

She looked down, "We all knew—everyone but Claire—what a rogue Miller was, and we all tried to convince her, but I couldn't send her those letters. I thought I'd be no better than a blackmailer as it wasn't my place to tell his secrets, but I couldn't send them to him. I didn't want to give him peace of mind either. When the news of the divorce broke and she told me that she knew all about it… I thought that they would serve as evidence for her divorce.

"When she took the stand, I was so relieved for you, Mr. Holmes. I was glad that you were safe. And I begged my uncle again to come forward, to clear Mr. Darling, but he laughed in my face."

"And tonight?" John asked, after a nod from Sherlock.

Abruptly Lady Lestrade looked up at him, "What are your intentions towards my niece, Doctor Watson? Since it seems that you have made her your spy in all of this under my nose."

John blanched at the change of subject. "I…I admire your niece very much, Lady Lestrade, but I am afraid that I am a confirmed old bachelor, and I made that very clear to her from the first. But I value her friendship. I didn't want to involve her in my…my investigations, but she volunteered. We both believed in Mr. Holmes' innocence and felt that it was our duty to prove it." There was a suggestion of reproach in his voice.

"I see. You seem to have taken Mr. Holmes' interests very much to heart, very quickly. Tonight when she mentioned the typed letters I knew that she'd been talking to someone about everything and that meant that someone else knew. That my uncle wasn't safe, and therefore that I wasn't safe. I went to his house to tell him that I would finally come forward. That I couldn't bear it anymore. He threatened me, made to strike me again, and God knows what else, and I ran. The rest is such a blur, the horse, you and Mr. Holmes, bringing me here. And here we are."

She had retained an air of strength, that majesty of bearing that John had noticed from the very first, when she spoke of the events of that evening, but now she slumped, her head dropped to her chest yielding and, John realized, as did Sherlock from his corner, that she thought that they were going to take her to the police now that their curiosity was satisfied.

"When you tell them about tonight," she said, voice low and sad, "will you, please, for my family's sake—his Lordship and my children, Caroline and her sisters—not mention what happened long ago. Tell them…tell them that in your medical opinion I went mad. My father went mad, you know. No one speaks of it, but everyone knows. It's why we went to live with Sir Neville in the first place. It will be an embarrassment, but the truth…the truth will destroy us."

"Your ladyship," said John, rising from his chair, "I…" He didn't know how to go on. "Mr. Holmes, could you fetch us a carriage? I'll just come with you."

Sherlock nodded and they both went into the hall together. "Do you want to punish her, Sherlock? It's you who've been wronged, you who had to suffer."

Sherlock glanced back into the room where she still sat, looking down at her hands. "If you'd asked me this afternoon, I'd have said, 'yes, of course,' but...but, she's suffered a great deal all these years. As you said yesterday, Anderson was thoroughly despicable, and Sir Neville was a monster. The murderer has been punished. And all the suffering caused by both men has been ended." He looked at a spot above John's head for a moment, "No, I don't want her punished. Let her go back to her family and make what explanations she needs to make and we'll all put this sorry story behind us." He smiled at John then. "I'll fetch that carriage."

John returned to the sitting room. Lady Lestrade stood. "Your Ladyship, Mr. Holmes and I will see you to your front door. I doubt that the police will have come yet. Since I, hopefully, put them off the scent, they will probably wait until the morning to bring you the news of your uncle's accidental death. I leave it to you as to what you will tell them. Or your husband."

Lady Lestrade nearly slumped back into the chair and John rushed to her side for fear that she would faint again, but she righted herself. "Doctor Watson…thank you."

"I cannot judge your actions, Lady Lestrade, because I don't know if I would have been able to act differently if my circumstances were the same."

"I keep thinking of what my uncle said long ago and what you just said about my loving Peter. Do you think, Doctor Watson, that my uncle might have been a better person if my mother had loved him instead of my father? If someone had loved him?"

"I don't think anyone can answer that, your ladyship. It sounds to me as if he was the kind of person who only knew how to take what he wanted, not to ask for it or earn it."

She nodded and allowed him to help her into her coat and take her down the stairs to the cab where Sherlock waited.

Despite the late hour, Gregson answered the door along with her ladyship's maid.

Caroline rushed out of a sitting room as Gregson was helping Lady Lestrade in. "Doctor Watson? May I have a word before you go?" Gregson gave a disapproving sniff, but let her go to the vestibule where John waited.

Her dark eyes were red rimmed and looked as large as sovereigns. "What has happened?"

John sighed, "Your uncle, Sir Neville, has met his death in a tragic accident." She gasped. John looked her firmly in the eye. "I believe that your aunt had been to visit him but she had already left when the accident occurred. I happened to be passing the street—I have a patient in the neighborhood—and found out, and quite by chance was able to bring her ladyship home." The story seemed to flow from him as he said it. There would certainly be questions, although he thought that he'd gotten Lady Lestrade away quickly enough, and he'd never said his name.

"Oh," said Caroline in a small voice. "And what…what else is there?"

He smiled softly, "I'm afraid a great deal of it isn't mine to tell, but if you can meet us next Wednesday, as we did this Wednesday past, I'll share what I can. And our friend hopes that you can forgive his behavior. He…we both want, most sincerely, to be your friends."

She smiled, but it was a tired smile, as if her first taste of adventure had left her more weary than she'd expected, "Yes. I'd like that too. I'll be there. Good-evening, Doctor Watson." She let him out and shut the door.

In the street Sherlock was standing next to the cab smoking a cigarette and gazing up at the sky. The fog, the catalyst for so much the evening's events, was dissipating, patches of the night sky and even a little moonlight peeking through.

"Fancy a walk?" he asked.

"It's cold," said John, "and I'm tired."

"The fresh air will clear our heads. And we can catch a cab further on if we like."

"True."

John dismissed the cab and they set off towards the center of town. Sherlock took John's arm companionably. He seemed almost lighthearted despite all that he'd learned.

"Are you actually happy?" asked John, an edge to his voice.

"Not happy per se. Or not for the reason that you think. Lady Lestrade's story was a tragic one, and one that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I think that we did the right thing. Justice has been served in its own strange way. Despite it all, it's brought us together, sooner than it might have. Let us say contented instead. And animated as well."

"Animated?"

"Don't you see? We, you and I and Lady Caroline, we sought answers and we found them. Lady Lestrade might have gone on the rest of her life in her uncle's power. I might have been hanged and Mrs. Darling still be deluded by her husband. No, we have brought good from evil through this. We have used our minds. I feel as if I have used my mind for the very first time—not in some pointless task—but doing something good and exciting and important." He waved his long arm to encompass all of London. "Who knows how many secrets are waiting out there, John, just below the surface, behind all these elegant doors, or in the dankest boarding houses.

"In all my observations of the guests at the house I never knew that there were so many secret sorrows and intriguing events. I feel as if I could look into any window in the city, observe any man—or woman—and see the random chances and carefully laid plans, the marvelous connections and lost opportunities, that make up our stories, the stuff of life. This, this is my area of study!"

John watched Sherlock's profile going in and out of shadow as they walked between the street lamps. He wasn't sure what Sherlock meant, not yet, but the enthusiasm of his lover was, for the moment, all he needed to know.