I'm so sorry for the vast amounts of time between chapters. Work and college constantly tear me away from Victorian England so please bear with me :).

---

"I'll let you know, Mr. Holmes, Miss Andrewes, that these are facts that I've put together through my own digging, so to speak." Westfield began. "I'm pretty sure that everything is correct.

"Elias Kiehn was one of Boston's most well-known citizens. A well-respected law professor at Harvard and known as a 'legal wizard' for his magic in the courtroom, so to speak." A raspy cough exploded from his chest and prevented him from continuing for some time. It was the kind of cough that made my own throat feel raw. "Excuse me if my story is interrupted by my coughs because—"

"Asthma, if I am correct," Holmes cleanly interrupted. Westfield lifted his head slightly to look up at Holmes in surprise. The prone man was struggling to form words when Holmes kindly and quickly provided him with the answer. "You have no fever and you seem to be in otherwise good health. The weather, though, has been quite ghastly, which can aggravate asthmatic symptoms. And then there is also the fact that you have fled from some sort of struggle, but we shall come to that later. Now, Patrolman Westfield, if you can please continue."

Westfield laid his head back down onto the pillows. "Asthma's been a problem of mine since I was a kid. Never grew out of it, like my mama said I would. Anyways," he let out a wheezy breath and went on with his story. "Like I said, Kiehn was one of the most respected people in the city but it does not mean that he was…well, he did not have many admirers, to say the least. He was a mean old man, to put it simply. He had the kind of temper that would make even the Devil himself quail with fear. His students did respect him for his wisdom but mostly they respected him out of fear for his scathing tongue and his ability to tear apart even the best argument.

"Kiehn did have his favorites. One of them was Thomas Andrewes," Westfield's dark eyes slid towards mine. "Your father, yes. Actually, Thomas Andrewes was probably the perfect pupil in his eyes. Bright, hard-working, headstrong, and probably the most important, he was not intimidated by Kiehn. It was said that the teacher and student often had their own debates within the lecture and would go on and on for a long time."

"That was a practice my own father allowed in his lectures," I softly mused to myself; it was more of a thought spoken aloud than an actual comment of any kind.

"Yes, I remember that as well." Holmes murmured as a soft smile creased his mouth.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, Miss Andrewes, but you've got your father's eyes and smile. He talked about you a lot," Westfield briefly added. I was about to inquire further into his claim but he was already continuing with his tale. "The student and teacher continued their mentorship long past Andrewes' time at Harvard. Of course, Kiehn took young Andrewes under his wing and shaped him into the beginnings of a great lawyer. They teamed up together on various cases until Kiehn felt that it was time to cut the strings loose, if you know what I mean."

Tendrils of smoke spiraled out of Holmes' mouth and nose reminiscent of a dragon. He ground out the cigarette in an overflowing ash tray before speaking, "That, I suppose, is where trouble began."

Westfield nodded. "The case that your father took up was one of the most talked about. A young man from one of Boston's first families had been found murdered in a dark alley with another man standing over him. It was a case that the jury would have made a quick decision. No thinking twice or anything. Thomas Andrewes had the hard task to speak for the defense."

"A formidable task, to say the least," Holmes concurred as he went towards the window. He gazed out at the greyness of Oxford before he continued, "And Elias Kiehn, when does he emerge in the picture?"

A sly smile curved Westfield's thick lips. "Andrewes put up a great fight. More than what the prosecution thought actually. They really underestimated the scrappy young man," I quietly chuckled at the apt description of my father as I took another sip of chamomile. "So the prosecution thought and thought of what they should do. They couldn't stand to have the murder of a Boston Brahmin left unpunished. Naturally."

Holmes' reflection in the window glanced towards me and I understood; we both noted the slight acidity Westfield's voice had taken in the last statements. Nevertheless, we both felt it wise to not interrupt the man and merely took note of this peculiarity. I continued to sip my tea while Holmes, much to my chagrin, pulled out another cigarette.

"That was when things became interesting." Westfield sardonically chuckled. "The old man versus the kid. The two men conducted their arguments pretty damn well. Oh, excuse my language, Miss Andrewes."

"As long as you tell your story, Patrolman Westfield, I shall hardly care what language you shall use." I quipped as I placed my teacup onto the coffee table.

"Miss Andrewes is hardly a conventional woman, to say the least, Westfield," Holmes replied as he closed the curtains and walked over to the fireplace. I shot him a sharp-eyed glance before he continued to say, "And may I add that my previous statement should be considered a compliment. To continue with the story, Patrolman, the case itself was taking an unconventional turn?"

Westfield nodded in agreement. "It really was. And…well…this is part of the story where things begin to get…messy. From what I have heard from people, the two men were known to behave professionally. They'd have the biggest arguments but would be able to have a drink with each other afterwards. But there was another thing about Elias Kiehn, he was a fierce competitor and always wanted to win. It was no different with this case, never mind that he was against his own student."

"So relations soured between Kiehn and my father?" I asked.

"From what I know, yes. It was said that Kiehn reacted in disgust just at the sound of your father's name. Now this comes from my own thinking so it might or might not be true but I don't think it was just Kiehn's competitive nature that tore the father-son relationship. I think it was more that Kiehn realized that he had taught Andrewes too well. He had finally met his match and it annoyed him so much that it was his own student. But that is just speculation.

"Then after all the arguments and closing statements were made, it was out of both men's hands. The jury deliberation went on for nearly the entire day, definitely a lot more than what was regular for a case like this. Finally, the jury emerged with their decision. The defendant was claimed not guilty and your father had won his first big case."

"And what exactly was Elias Kiehn's reaction to all this?" I inquired as I tightened the sash of Holmes' mouse-colored dressing gown. "I cannot imagine he would be too thrilled by his loss."

Westfield's asthmatic coughs seized his chest before he could answer my question. The ragged coughs finally dwindled down after some time and then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he apologized with a sheepish smile.

"There is no need to apologize for your health, Patrolman," Holmes answered as he put his index finger to his lips in thought. "What were Elias Kiehn's actions after the trial?"

"He wasn't really seen after the trial. He isolated himself to the family mansion on Beacon Hill and none saw him except for his son, Gerard." Westfield stated. "Here's where things start to become vague. Around a month after the trial, Gerard and his family went over to his Dad's home to celebrate the old man's birthday. They were in the middle of a quiet dinner when the butler said that young Mr. Andrewes wants to talk to his old mentor. Gerard just wanted his father to ignore it and continue with dinner, according to the butler, but Kiehn decided to see his old student. No one knew what they talked about but it soon turned into an argument and they could hear the two of them shouting. Gerard ran over to see what was going on but when he got there Andrewes was slamming the door shut and Kiehn was very affected by what happened.

"The next day he went out for a walk on his own but didn't come home. He was missing for a week and then…then his body was found beaten and bruised in the Charles River."

It was lucky that I had not had my teacup in my hands or else the china would lay shattered on the floor. A sour taste crept up the back of my throat as I involuntarily shuddered. Naturally, such a reaction did not escape Holmes' attentions.

"Charlotte…?"

"I am fine, Holmes," I stated through gritted teeth.

"I am sure you are," Holmes blithely answered. "However, I suggest that you do not hold onto your walking stick so tightly."

My cheeks flushed despite myself and I hastily loosened my grip on my walking stick. Holmes' grey eyes bore through me for a moment longer before returning to Westfield. "The prime suspect was, no doubt, Thomas Andrewes."

"The fingers all pointed towards him." Westfield agreed. "They thought that Andrewes was probably thinking that he no longer needed his former mentor. He had bested him and all, you see. And then there was the matter of Kiehn's will." Holmes looked at Westfield with a raised eyebrow and Westfield added, "Yes, his will had Thomas Andrewes as the main benefactor."

"And not his son?" I questioned as my mind was temporarily deviated from the memories of that terrible night. "That is strange."

"I find that very strange," Holmes agreed with a curt nod. "However, that is a fact that we will deal with later. Now, I can only imagine that this news was quite a shock to all of Boston."

"It was all anyone would talk about at that time." Westfield stated with a morose laugh in his deep voice. "I remember it well. Andrewes was arrested for suspicion of murder but managed to make bail. It was after he made bail that he disappeared into the night."

"Into Oxford, is more like it," I replied as I leaned back into the chair and stretched my limbs.

"As it turns out—" Westfield began but started to cough once more. This time it sounded much worse than usual. Holmes quickly went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. The injured man nodded his thanks as he was still overcome by the coughs and managed to drink some of the water. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes, for helping me out tonight."

"You shall repay your debt by revealing to me all you know about Professor Kiehn's murder." Westfield started to speak but the chime of the mantle clock interrupted him. The gilded arrows pointed at a quarter past seven. "It is later than I had thought. Tempus fugit…Charlotte, I know you wish to stay and listen but…you do know that it would be…improper for you to stay any further."

I understood the meaning of his words but could not help as my cheeks flushed scarlet. However, I could not help but notice that Holmes himself seemed to have the same sentiments; I had the feeling that he could not look me in the eye. I normally would have seized the opportunity to tease him about it yet I could not help but find it touching. I used my walking stick to help me stand and then said, "Well, gentlemen, if you would excuse me, I shall see whether my clothing has made any progress in drying."

I walked down the now familiar path to Holmes' bedroom. The fire crackled merrily in greeting as I walked into the room. My hands started to search for remaining signs of damp in the fabric; the shirt and stockings had sufficiently dried but the skirt was still wet at the part where I had become acquainted with the puddle. The skirt, however, could still be worn despite of the dampness. I would rather risk a wet bottom than a sign of impropriety, I mused as I closed the door behind me and proceeded to put on the clothes.

My fingers were about to button the last button of my blouse when a light knock fell on the door. "Are you decent, Charlotte?"

"It's all right, Holmes," I replied. "I'm dressed."

"Good," he declared as he opened the door. He walked over to his bed and sat down. He buried his face into his hands in exhaustion. "We have only managed to dig through the topsoil, so to speak. There is more there, Charlotte. I am willing to bet my life on it."

"Can we trust him, Holmes?"

He glanced up at me with those brooding eyes for a long moment. "My dear Charlotte," he began to say as he stood up to his full height. "What do you think?"

My jaw dropped in immediate response to his inquiry. It was such a simple query yet I could not believe that Sherlock Holmes was seriously asking for my opinion. My mind had begun to search for the motives behind it when he lightly pushed my jaw upwards to close my mouth.

"The look of slack-jawed bewilderment does not suit you at all. I understand that I am rarely one to seek another's opinion yet I am quite serious in my query. I would like you to know that I do hold your opinion in high regard. Pray tell, Charlotte, what is on your mind?"

I exhaled as I started to lean on my walking stick. "The man seems credible enough but it would be foolish to fully divulge the information we have about this whole affair."

"Yes, I have come to that conclusion as well. It seems for once that we have made an agreement. I will try and squeeze out any more information from Westfield tonight. I shall let you know about any further developments tomorrow as your mother kindly invited me to stay for dinner." He ran his hand through his dark hair and chuckled, "Ah, Charlotte, you missed the last button."

I glanced down and saw it was so. "Well, if you hadn't knocked on the door, I would not have missed it."

"Bah! Excuses, excuses," he muttered as his nimble fingers gingerly placed the button into its miniscule hole. "See now, what would you do without me?" He asked as we walked towards the door.

"I'd live in peace," I sardonically quipped. He let out a sharp bark of laughter in response while my lips quivered upwards.

---

We briefly made sure that Westfield was in amiable conditions before we left. Holmes locked the door behind him and walked down to the downstairs parlor.

"Firecrackers, it's raining," I groaned as I looked up at the pouring grey heavens. The weather had taken a turn for the worse during our time indoors and I was quite unprepared to walk home in such conditions. "I admire a walk in the rain on occasion, Holmes. However, in this instance, I would rather not."

"No, I wouldn't think so," Holmes replied as he peered through the curtains. "Especially after your tumble earlier today."

"I will have you know that my fall was entirely your fault," I retorted as I crossed my arms across my chest, ready for another duel.

He shook his head as he walked away from me with his hands behind his back. "Sir Isaac Newton's law of inertia states that with every action comes an equal and opposite reaction. Let us recall, my dear lady, your fall earlier today. You were swatting me with your walking stick—"

"I was not swatting you," I argued as I whirled away from the window to Holmes. "I merely swung it towards you. You seized it from my hands and refused to let go."

"An equal and opposite reaction, you see. You swing at me and I took your walking stick away to prevent you from doing any damage from said swinging. You were the one who was pulling with all your might, which caused you to fall into the puddle." He turned around to face me with an innocent expression on his visage. "I was only doing what you asked me to do."

A loud snort escaped from me following his explanation. "Oh, you very well knew what would happen if you had let go. It is quite ungentlemanly for you to place the blame on me, my dear Holmes."

"Don't snort, Charlotte," Holmes admonished as he walked towards the front desk and rang the bell. "It is quite unbecoming of a young lady. Ah, Mr. Carruthers," he greeted to the elderly man who had emerged from the rooms behind the front desk. "Good evening, sir."

"Ah, good evening, young Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?" Mr. Carruthers inquired.

"Actually, it is not for me that your services are needed but this lovely young lady here," Holmes beckoned me over with his hand. He then placed his hands on my shoulders and introduced me. "Charlotte, this is Mr. William Carruthers, the lord of this wayward house for young scholars." The elderly man jovially laughed at the compliment. "Mr. Carruthers, I would like to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Andrewes."

"How do you do, Mr. Carruthers?" I greeted as I accepted his outstretched hand and shook it. He nodded as his twinkling eyes glanced between Holmes and me. A wheezy laugh tumbled from the man's bearded mouth.

"So, young Mr. Holmes, is this enchanting reason that has caused you to leave your rooms?" Mr. Carruthers lightheartedly teased as his bowed figure shook with laughter. "Miss Andrewes, do you happen to be related to the late Professor Thomas Andrewes?"

The room suddenly felt as though there were a harsh draft. My smile slightly faltered but I managed to hitch it back up for propriety's sake. "Yes, sir, he was my father."

Mr. Carruthers gravely nodded and deeply bowed his head. "My condolences, young miss. Your father was a good man and it was a pity that he had to go in such a manner."

"Mr. Carruthers, if you could please catch a cab for Miss Andrewes. I am sure that her mother would like her at home especially in these ghastly conditions." Holmes loudly cleared his throat as he gently placed his hands on both my shoulders. I could feel his bony fingers through the fabric of my coat; my eyes closed and the viselike feeling in my chest dissipated at their reassuring presence.

"Oh, of course, young sir." The elderly man fervently nodded while he fetched his scarf and coat. "I shall let you know when it has arrived."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Carruthers," Holmes gratefully replied. Mr. Carruthers nodded and went out into the rain.

The polite smile I had plastered on my face remained for a moment longer and then my face collapsed; my spine crumpled under the weight of my emotions and my hands flew up to my face to shield them from my view. His hands remained there for a moment longer until he tightly gripped and then released me. I drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He remained behind me, a column of silence. It seemed to last for an eon until he shattered the silence.

"Charlotte?"

I jerked my head up and loudly cleared my throat. I turned around to see Holmes with a look of concern across his features. "I apologize, Holmes. I am tired." I paused as I took another deep breath. "Yes…I am quite tired."

Whether or not Holmes understood the full meaning of my words, I was not sure. He was about to speak when Mr. Carruthers reentered the room.

"The cab has arrived," he announced.

"Very good, Mr. Carruthers. Thank you once again," Holmes answered with a slight bow. "I shall escort her out. However, I shall only trouble you briefly for an umbrella." Carruthers provided Holmes with said umbrella and Holmes provided his gratitude once again. "Now, sir, you may go back and resume whatever business you had before I interrupted you."

Mr. Carruthers tipped his hat towards Holmes and me and bade us both good night. Holmes held the door open as he opened the borrowed umbrella. He beckoned me forward and we walked out to the cab.

The cabbie tipped his hat. "G'evening, sir, ma'am, where you headed?"

Holmes opened the cab door and helped me in. Normally, I would have scorned him for such an action but the inclement weather made my footing unsure. He shut the door behind me, gazed at me for a moment longer, and then turned to the cabbie.

"Sandfield Road in Headington," Holmes demanded in his clear voice. He buried his hands into his pockets, fished inside them for a moment, and pulled out a few coins. "I shall give you a guinea, sir, to ensure she makes it home at a decent time." He handed the guinea to the cabbie's outstretched hand and added, "The lady will let me know if you have rightfully deserved that guinea."

"Of course, sir," the cabbie answered with a nod. He gave a cry to the horses and the cab was set into motion.

I watched Holmes' retreating figure through the window for a moment before I called the cab to stop. I poked my head outside the window and hoarsely yelled, "Holmes!"

His gaunt frame whirled around to face me and sprinted towards me. He arrived at my side. He asked out of breath and in exasperation, "Now whatever is the matter?"

"You wanted an answer and I am giving you one." I retorted to match his exasperation and mask my anxiety. I added in a barely audible voice, "Do you still have the ring on your person?"

Holmes was about to speak but quickly decided against it. Instead, he opened his coat and retrieved the ring from the pocket inside. I held out my left hand and he quickly understood. He gently laid the ring in my hand and my fingers closed upon it. We both looked at each other for quite some time and then gave each other the smallest of nods. Holmes retreated from the cab without a single word and walked back to his rooms.

"Sandfield Road in Headington, once again, sir," I ordered to the cabbie. The cab started on its way again. I unfolded my left hand and saw the ring glitter in the dim light. I gingerly lifted the trinket from my palm and placed the ring in its proper place.

---

"Perhaps Mr. Holmes should do the honor, James." Mum suggested as James took out the bottle of champagne from its chilled bucket. "That is, if Mr. Holmes does not mind."

"No, not at all," Holmes genially answered. He swept out of his chair and took the bottle from James. "Thank you, Doctor," he nodded to my brother. He saw Josephine as she returned from the kitchen. "Josephine, would you be so kind as to provide me with a saber."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Josephine answered with a small bow, briskly walked back into the kitchen, and returned with the saber in hand.

"Ah, thank you, my dear woman," Holmes replied as he took possession of the saber. He held it up in the light to inspect before he lay it down against the neck of the bottle. The blade swiftly slid up the neck and pop! The cork flew through the air and into the empty hallway. Holmes grinned as we applauded. "Ha! Thank you, everyone, for indulging in my whims. It is something that I have always attempted."

"The art of sabrage, yes?" Geoff asked while Holmes started to pour the champagne into the flutes.

"Indeed," Holmes replied with a nod. He finally came around and filled my glass last. "It is a tradition dating back from after the French Revolution and saved for only for occasions of great ceremony."

I rose my glass to my fiancé. "And I do believe that the occasion certainly justifies it."

"Yes, let us drink to that," Mum declared as she lifted her own glass. "To Charlotte and Sherlock, the best of luck to them both!"

Cheers of "Hear! Hear!" were said amongst the clinking of crystal.

I was amazed at the speed in which my mother acted upon when she had discovered the news about my engagement. She had been waiting for my arrival the previous night and she had pounced upon me the moment I walked through the front door. The truth of the matter had been that Holmes had taken the liberty of asking for my hand earlier in the afternoon and had wholeheartedly agreed with the proposal. Night gave way to day and my mother was practically out the door just as the sun came out to send a telegram to James in London to tell him of the news and then, with Anne's aid, set about arranging a small yet fanciful dinner party.

"James, it seems you are the only one left as Charlotte is about to walk down the aisle." Anne noted as she placed her glass down.

"My dear older sister," James began to say just as he finished his champagne in a single gulp. "I cannot help it if I am extremely fickle. After all, it is I who will be carrying on the Andrewes name, Mrs. Brautigan and the soon-to-be Mrs. Holmes."

Anne softly laughed at James ill-disguised annoyance. "I only made an observation, James. It did not mean anything at all."

The pleasant baritone of Geoff's voice entered the conversation. "'Did not mean anything?' That's utter nonsense, I must say. It is common knowledge that there is always an inherent meaning to what women say. Even in the most trivial of matters."

The two other men at the table voiced their agreements with Geoff's statement. James raised his glass and answered with a resounding, "Hear! Hear!"

I interrupted their celebrations with the clearing of my throat. "Gentlemen, I should let you note that you are currently in the minority and it would be wise to watch your words before drastic measures are taken against you." My comment brought laughter all around the table and I used the temporary distraction to lean in and whisper to Holmes. "We need to find a way to speak alone about what you have found out."

"Yes, I know," Holmes muttered as he leaned in towards my ear. "I am currently attempting to devise such an opportunity. Now, laugh and pretend that I have just uttered something charming." I raised my head back in laughter and inadvertently knocked my hand against the champagne flute. I quickly reached out to set it straight before it could spill over when Holmes' hand suddenly ensnared my wrist. He murmured, "Yes, Charlotte, you have unintentionally stumbled upon our solution." His eyes warily flicked around the table. "Spill your glass towards me. I shall signal you when to do so with the discreet pulling of your sleeve. Be sure to splash it on my clothes or else I shall be wet for no reason. And take care to make it look as though it were an accident."

His hand released my wrist just as Geoff had begun a spirited conversation about little Veronica's first words. "Oh, if you could just hear how she babbles. She's only a few months old and she is already quite the talker."

"You know, Anne was just like that when she was an infant." Mum sweetly reminisced. "I remember that there were even times when she would try to sing along with…" she paused and exhaled a deep sigh. "Thomas would sing to her and she would try to sing along…" Her shaky hand slowly went to her mouth in attempt to stop the tears.

"Oh, Mum," James stood up, took out his handkerchief, and walked over to Mum. "I know, I know," he said as he handed her the handkerchief.

Mum gently took it from his hands and put a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, James. It's just been so hard…I miss him."

It was terrible seeing my mother in such a condition. It was quite unlike her to cry in front of others; she loathed people seeing her in a state of weakness, which was a quality I too had inherited. A tightening feeling in my throat started to make it hard for me to breath, which caused me to nearly miss the tugging sensation on my sleeve.

"Mum," I began to say while I stood from my seat. My left leg wavered as I stood; I lost my balance and, as I attempted to correct my equilibrium, my hands grabbed the table and caused my champagne flute to spill onto Holmes.

"Oh my," Anne cried out. "Charlotte, are you all right?"

I sighed; I immediately regretted using my disability for this situation. "I am quite all right, Anne. However, I think the condition of Mr. Holmes' shirt is less than all right. I am sorry, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes dabbed the spilled champagne with the napkin. "It was an accident, my dear. I was hoping that I could perhaps clean up and borrow an old shirt of your brother's."

"No, I should not mind," James agreed. "I still have some of my old clothing left in my old quarters. Charlotte, you can take him up to my rooms so that he may change, if it is fine with Mum."

"Yes, that is quite fine with me. I do not think Mr. Holmes would like to stay in that sodden clothing." Mum dabbed the handkerchief on her eyes and made a brave attempt at a smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Andrewes, Dr. Andrewes," Holmes expressed his gratitude with a nod. "Charlotte, if you would please lead the way."

I stood up from the table; I was aware that everyone's eyes watched me as I stood from my seat. The concern for me was appreciated yet I could not prevent myself from gripping onto my walking stick a little tighter than I should have. I could almost hear an audible sigh of relief when I managed to stand without falling over. Holmes stood up from his seat and we proceeded to James's old rooms upstairs.

James's rooms had been left in the same conditions as though he still lived at home and had not moved to London three years ago. The bedclothes were still made, the medical textbooks still scattered upon his desk, and even his old cricket things lay scattered in the corner. However, there was not even a sign of dust in that room as thorough as Josephine's housekeeping was. Holmes walked towards James' desk, picked up one of the old textbooks, and opened it at a random spot.

"I must say, Holmes," I sat upon James's bed and sunk into the mattress. "I must applaud you for your timing."

"As an illusionist would, I chose the proper timing to execute the action when all eyes were distracted." Holmes snapped the book shut with a loud thud. "Yet perhaps you also commend me for stealing you away from such an emotionally vulnerable scene."

My eyes could not meet his as he would surely know the truth, if he already had not figured it out. Agitated, I stood up from my seat, walked to James's closet, and furiously rifled through some of the old shirts he had left behind.

"What color would you prefer?" I inquired in clipped tones.

"Any should suffice," Holmes answered. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Holmes had sat down at the desk. "Consider this comeuppance for yesterday."

"I can hardly consider this comeuppance when you've merely been sprinkled with champagne. My tweed skirt was thoroughly drenched, I'll let you know." I playfully admonished and threw a decent looking white shirt towards him. "That should do. Now, quickly relate to me all you have gathered from Westfield."

"Firstly, I had asked Westfield if there were any other suspects asides from your father. Gerard Kiehn, the son, had been questioned but he was ruled out of the investigation since he had an alibi. He had been at home with his family on the night that his father had been murdered. His wife, children, and their servants all attested to those facts. Ultimately, your father had condemned himself when brought under questioning; he said that he did not know where he was or what he was doing the night of Elias Kiehn's murder."

"'He did not know?'" My brow wrinkled in confusion at the strange words.

"Yes, I agree, it is quite odd," Holmes assented as he started to unbutton the top buttons of his sodden shirt. "Charlotte, if you would kindly avert your eyes—"

"I do not to be told so, Holmes," I hotly retorted; my cheeks turned scarlet against my will as I quickly turned my back on him. I could hear the rustling of fabric from behind me. "Would you just please continue with what you have found out before everyone downstairs starts to wonder what is taking so long?"

"Of course," Holmes said with a hint of laughter in his voice. "Yes, from what Westfield told me, he could not figure out where he was or what he had been doing that night. The police could not figure out if your father was lying or speaking the honest truth. Either way, it caused your father to be considered the prime suspect in Kiehn's murder. It was only a matter of time until Kiehn's will emerged, which only served to cement your father's status as he was the murdered man's primary beneficiary."

"Holmes, I still cannot wrap my mind around that fact," I rubbed my hand against my brow. "Though I may be heavily biased, it is impossible for me to believe that my father could not remember a single night."

"Yes, I too find it odd that a history professor fails to remember his actions for one night," an ironic smile flickered across his features before he continued. "Or is it that he remembers but would rather risk his life than reveal what he was doing that night? No, no, no…" His voice trailed off while his hand made a sweeping motion as if to sweep away his inadvertent thoughts. "I am building upon a shaky foundation if I start to theorize without the facts. No, that would not do at all." He pounded his fist on the desk. "There is simply not enough information.

"According to Westfield, there were no witnesses to the murder. The autopsy showed that Kiehn had been brutally beaten but he had drowned to death in the river," he paused and added in a low voice, "Very similar to the manner in which your father was killed. Do forgive me for bringing that to your attentions." I slowly turned my head towards him at the unlikely show of consideration. He seemed not to know the significance of his last statements; he merely buttoned the last of the buttons on the shirt and continued, "On another note, I managed to uncover the reason behind Westfield's apparent bitterness; he was the man whom your father represented in his murder trial.

"It would explain Westfield's presence here in England. It is highly unlikely that the Boston police would exert a tremendous effort to track down your father. And if they were to do so, they would not send out a mere patrolman or a man of his…pedigree, so to speak."

"Exactly what do you mean by 'pedigree', Holmes?"

"He is a mulatto, Charlotte. A blend of two races, white and negro," Holmes walked over to the mirror to inspect his appearance. "He was quite correct in his assumptions; a man of his nature unfortunately would not be able to win himself a fair trial despite what it is said in the American constitution."

"Then why has Westfield come to England to seek out my father?"

"To repay him for defending him when no one else would, my dear lady. From what little I now know, I believe that Westfield unwillingly brought about your father's demise. Westfield revealed to me that his reason for coming to England was that he had discovered something more about Kiehn's murder. One night, he had arrested a man for public drunkenness and was taking him to the station when the man started to speak about Elias Kiehn's murder and how he thought he had seen it. Westfield thought that the man had been lying but slowly he came to believe him as the man started to tell certain facts about the murder that had not been revealed in public.

"The drunk told him that he had been walking around one night when he saw a four-wheeler stopped by the river. Two men emerged from the carriage, followed by a third man carrying another man. One of the men took hold of the man's feet and they dumped the body into the river. The three men watched for a few moments before they went back into the four-wheeler and left.

"Two of the men were described as wearing decent clothing, clothing fit for a gentleman. The third seemed to be dressed in equestrian attire, which he found quite odd. That was all the drunkard could remember. With that information, Westfield was determined to find your father and approached your father's younger brother, Benjamin. It took some convincing to persuade him to reveal your father's whereabouts, but he managed to gain your uncle's trust. Westfield initially sent a letter to your father but he received no response."

"A letter?" I could hear the audible click of puzzle pieces interlocking with one another in my mind. "My father received a letter from Boston in the previous year but I saw him burn it. That was probably Westfield's letter."

Holmes' eyes danced as he clapped his hands in satisfaction. "It is highly likely that it was indeed the good patrolman's letter. Your father was probably wary of receiving a letter from Boston to someone he did not know, which would explain why he burned the letter. Now, since he did not receive a response from your father, Westfield decided to come to Oxford and tell your father himself."

"Holmes, someone must have found out that Westfield had discovered more about Kiehn's murder." I said as I took Holmes' sodden shirt and hung it to dry.

"Yes, yet that is where things start to stray from fact and approach pure conjecture. I am afraid we have fished out all of our little ponds of information here. Now, I think we should return downstairs. Any longer and it may seem suspicious."

He started to walk away when my eyes caught something amiss. A smile crinkled my features and a giggle bubbled from my throat. "Oh Holmes,"

"What is it?"

I walked over to him and shook my head. "Terribly careless of you, you know. You forgot to button the last button." I reached out, threaded the button through the hole, and smoothed out his collar. "Now what would you do without me?"

"I would be less knowledgeable of the mercurial tempers of the fairer sex." Holmes replied with a hint of amusement in his clear voice.

We walked down the stairs in silence where it seems that everyone had vacated the dining room and had retreated to the parlor. The sounds of the cello sailed into our ears as we walked in. Geoff sat in the middle of the parlor with his cello straddled upon him while he played. Holmes and I quietly took a seat next to each other and watched with the others.

After awhile, I leaned into Holmes and whispered, "How did Westfield get his injuries? Did he say?"

"He was walking along when he was attacked by a grey haired man. I must add that he fits the very description of the man who had watched Mycroft's rooms during our stay in London. The man had every intention to kill him, as he stated, but he somehow managed to prevent him from doing so. He had found a fallen branch on the ground and swung it against the side of his head. His attacker crumpled to the ground and Westfield fled the scene not knowing whether he was dead or still alive. His injuries were sustained from a knife the attacker had used against him."

I nodded and returned to listening to Geoff's rendition of a solo taken from Tchaikovsky's Variations on a Rococo. A smile settled on my features as well as a sense of tranquility that I felt had been lost for a good sense of time. I managed to glance towards Holmes from time to time and saw that his ordinarily ramrod straight posture was gone; his shoulders seemed to melt into the fabric of the chair. His eyes were closed while his right hand tapped up and down like a piston on the arm of his chair. It was perhaps the most peaceful, the most at ease I had seen him.

Geoff finished his piece with an elaborate glissando of notes. A small round of applause followed and it was during this round of applause that a hand gently clasped my hand and Holmes' breath warmed my neck as he whispered to me,

"Do you have the address to Benjamin Andrewes' residence?"