Vanishing Girl (3 page)

The singular boy has frightened the old man many times since he came into his employment, and not just because of those dangerous solo trips deep into spooky Rotherhithe during the Brixton Gang case, or even the growing competence of his right cross to the jaw. It’s the boy’s disposition that unsettles him – his moods can grow disturbingly dark. Friendless and inward, Sherlock can descend instantly into silence, his mind far away. There have been times when he has been virtually immobile, like a sort of living cadaver, sitting here at the laboratory table while they take their meals. His gray eyes grow narrow and distant, his face alarmingly pale, and his breathing barely palpable.

This lad needs stimulation
, thinks the apothecary.
He needs it the way an opium addict needs the narcotic jolt of the poppy seed
.

The old man observes Sherlock as he sets down the paper. He is not frightened for him today.

The boy’s face is lit up.

S
cotland Yard’s famous offices are in White Hall not far from Trafalgar Square in the center of stinking, eardrum-popping London. But Sherlock pays little attention to the rush of rumbling omnibuses and sprite hansom cabs, the advertising signs, the desperate poor, or even the celebrated faces. His mind and his senses are riveted on what will take place outside the redbrick exterior of the Yard, and what he hopes to hear from the mouth of the police spokesman who will break the silence on the Rathbone case. He imagines what he would do
if
he were to pursue this case: he would be alert for even a whiff of a clue, of something that could open the tiniest of cracks in this mystery. This could be his one chance.

The mouth that does the announcing doesn’t belong to an underling. This is not a time for those low on the pecking order to be seen. It sits under the bushy mustache of the one and only Inspector Lestrade. And the mouth is not upturned as it speaks. It is more like a line. Lestrade is not in a happy mood. And his attitude is not lightened when he notices young Holmes standing at the rear of the crowd of reporters. It is the first truly chilly morning of the
season and one of those thick, bitter-tasting fogs has settled in. Lestrade squints out at the boy. If he had the time, he would have the meddlesome half-Jew removed.

“Master Holmes,” says a familiar voice right next to him.

“Master Lestrade, your stealth is growing. Your approach escaped me.”

The Inspector’s son smiles. Though he is at least three or four years older than Sherlock, he is barely taller, and inherited, ferret-like features are unfortunately evident in his face.

“This one is said to be unsolvable, you know.”

“I am only an interested observer.”

“Ah! A mere observer…. Nevertheless, you may be intrigued to know that there are
still
no real clues.”

“That may soon change.”

“Were someone such as you to try a little investigating on this case, Holmes, I would wish them good luck, but my father will triumph this time, you can take that to the Bank of England.”

The older boy walks away, with a grin. He snakes through the crowd and back toward a spot near his father on the temporary podium, which creaks as he ascends it.

But Sherlock is watching someone else. He’s spotted a bespectacled young man in a brown coat and black top hat near the front, who turns and sees him too. There is a moment of recognition. Sherlock recalls him instantly – the reporter from
The Times
, the man who saw him in the midst of the action during the dramatic final moments of
the Crystal Palace case, but then was silenced by the older Lestrade. The boy has since learned that the man’s name is Hobbs.

Lives in central London
, thinks Sherlock,
in the old city, age twenty-four, five foot five, not much more than a hundredweight, perhaps nine and a half stone … yet flabby … father is a clerk … not given to bravery … could be used again for my purposes in a pinch
. He has picked up clues from the man’s frock coat, the make of his spectacles, and his physical attitude. But he chides himself for making plans.
Just listen to what the police have to say. Make mental notes for future cases. Such puzzles as this aren’t for you to solve. Not yet
.

“Gentleman,” begins the senior Lestrade in a booming voice, “you have been called to Scotland Yard this noon hour to aid the authorities in the solution of a most heinous crime, that of the abduction of Victoria, dear daughter of the esteemed Lord Rathbone of the upper House, seized two weeks prior to the last instant of August, early evening, approximately five fortnights past, whilst minding her own business riding with her coachman in Hyde Park upon Rotten Row.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“I hold in my hand a ransom note …”

Though he brandishes it high in the air like a trophy and the sun even co-operates by suddenly shining past the breaking clouds and glowing through the fog, none of the reporters offers the intake of breath he hoped for, so he goes on.

“It reads …

As the reporters write furiously, Lestrade begins to exhort them to publish this “evil” note verbatim, to encourage their readers to search its contents for clues, and to report anything they know to the Force.

But Sherlock Holmes is ignoring the detective’s drivel. He is focused on a series of distinctive points he’s heard and an enormous one he’s seen. First, there is the fact that this ransom note comes after more than two and a half months of absolutely no communication, but then suddenly puts a very short deadline on its target; secondly, since the note insinuates that there is just one fiend at work, there’s a high probability of there being several; thirdly, the money asked for is gargantuan (making it almost impossible for Rathbone to comply on time), and fourthly, the abductors seem to
want to taunt the rich man, again making it difficult for such a man as he to accede to their demands. But the most important clue is the visual one. It is so good that it scares the boy – it is almost irresistible.

As Inspector Lestrade holds the paper high in the air for the reporters to observe and the noon-hour sun begins to dominate the day, Sherlock glimpses something … a very faint watermark. It is the barely detectable outline of two faces.

“I knew you would be here.”

That sweet smell of soap
.

Instinctively, Sherlock’s hands go to his perfectly-combed, raven-black hair, intent on making sure it is in place. He had spent a good deal of time attending to it this morning, gazing into the cracked little mirror he has attached to the inside of his wardrobe door. He straightens his poor frock coat, adjusts his necktie, and smoothes out the frayed waistcoat.

Irene Doyle is standing directly behind him, and likely has been for a while.

“It is a case of some interest.”

“Turn around and look at me, Sherlock Holmes. I won’t bite you.”

She is radiant in the sun-drenched fog, dressed beautifully in a buttoned-up white coat with high collar, holding a parasol delicately above her bonneted blonde hair. He hasn’t spoken to her for months, though he’s seen her once or twice, when he just happened to pass by her home. He
could swear that he’s also noticed her at least three times on Denmark Street, glancing toward the shop as she walked by on the foot pavement across the road.

Irene has a way of looking at him, examining, almost caressing his features. It is different from other girls. But today there is a grim intensity in her expression, as if she is deeply worried about something.

“It isn’t that, Irene.”

“Then what is it? Because I have never been certain why we can’t be friends. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“I … I must be going.”

The parasol comes down violently on his head.

“So must I.”

Sherlock rubs his scalp.

“I am acquainted with the victim,” says Irene as she turns and starts moving rapidly away from him.

“You
know
her?”

“Now you are interested.” She keeps walking.

“Irene!” He runs after her. “You are
acquainted
with Victoria Rathbone?”

She stops and smiles. “Why else do you think I came here? To see
you
?”

Sherlock would never admit that he had ever thought such a thing, had hoped that it might be true.

“Yes, I know her.” She pauses and her voice drops. “She will be murdered, won’t she?”

The boy is surprised to see her eyes moistening.

“Not necessarily,” he says.

“But her father will
never
pay.”

“Perhaps she can be found.”

“By whom? Inspector Lestrade? He of the
remarkable
Whitechapel and Crystal Palace solutions?”

“He is a professional of long standing.”

“Sherlock, you hate him. And what about you? I can’t believe you are
simply
here to watch?”

“I was fortunate before: in the right place at the right time. My day will come.”

“Yes, you are correct. You would fail at this one.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You are just a boy and one who works
alone
. This case would be much more difficult than the others. You would begin it without a single clue and no inside knowledge of the incident or the people involved.”

“There may be a starting point.”

She smiles.

“Sherlock, you’ve noticed something! You
are
interested. You are going to look into this, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

“You would need assistance this time.”

“Not necessar –”

“You would need to know something about Victoria and her family, what her life is like, who she really is in person, who her father’s enemies might be. Does she know her abductors? Was it an inside job? Is she delicate? Did the kidnapping kill her? … Is that why there has been silence?”

“There are ways to –”

“How could you, working class and a boy, know anything about her and her world?”

“I –”

“But
I
know her. I know a great deal about her … and I understand
girls
too, and how they think. In case you haven’t noticed, I am one.”

The boy wraps his frock coat tighter around his thin frame in the bright, cold air.
Inside job?
It disturbs him to think of where Irene is picking up talk like that.

“If you were to try to investigate this, you would need someone with such information on your side. I want her found too, and not just because I know her. We could help each other, Sherlock. The police are the most proficient at this, you’re right, but who knows how we might contribute? It’s worth trying.”

The people who committed this crime must be desperate fiends – he does
not
want Irene anywhere near them.

“You are under the illusion that I want to do this.”

She gives him a sly smile.

Sherlock wonders if Irene knows as much as she claims. She is a girl, that’s true. He will admit that. But he doesn’t believe that she could help him with this case simply for that reason.
How different can girls be, anyway?
He’s not sure about that smile though. Is she toying with him? Usually he can take the measure of anyone; but this young lady has always been puzzling. Does she indeed know things about Victoria Rathbone that might be useful?

“Tell me what you know, Irene.”

“It’s my father and I who want her back … for reasons I cannot say. We
need
to find her. I will do whatever I have
to do to help solve this. If you won’t lend a hand, then I have a friend who will.”

He knows who that is.

“I should tell you that the life of a little boy hangs in the balance, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“He lives in a workhouse. I saw him yesterday. He is going blind and the Rathbones are the only people who can help him. But they aren’t speaking with anyone now.”

“There are thousands of little boys like that, Irene. You know that better than I. Why do you care about this one? And why is Miss Rathbone
so
important to you?”

Her eyes moisten again; then she looks angry.

“I knew you wouldn’t care about the boy. I don’t know why I told you. He’s a child, Sherlock, with even less in his life than you have! I thought that might mean something to you, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Tell me what you know first, then maybe we can talk about what we might do.”

Irene pauses.

“Before I give you
any
information, you must promise me that we will share everything we find. This will be you and me … or my
other
friend and me. What is your answer?”