Vanishing Girl (33 page)

“Waller made enquiries in the London underworld and was given the name of the boy you previously mentioned, a rogue with his finger on the pulse of things in the city, one who does thorough research about the rich. The lad found out all there was to know about Rathbone and how to deal with him. Waller was reminded that the lord had just one daughter, not particularly attractive, who was away in India, had been gone for some time. She was almost a stranger to the lord and lady. They concocted a way to snatch her soon after her return to England. But that was still months away.

They developed the key to their plan well ahead of time: they found another
you
. The larcenous boy must have searched out girls in your mother’s family; distant relations, near you in age. Or perhaps it was the captain who recalled once meeting a particular girl relative who resembled you. However they did it, they located a third cousin named Eliza Shaw from Manchester way – her accent betrays as much. She was about your size, had similar bone structure, was nearly twenty but adolescent in appearance and able to pass for fourteen. She was a spitting image of you once they
clothed her, adjusted the color of her hair, and trained her. They told her their scheme: they offered her the world. And she, of course, surrendered.

Then they searched for, and found, the perfect hideaway: a dark manor house in St. Neots, a nice distance from London, but not too far. The house was said to be haunted … no one ever came near it. Man-eating beasts lived on its grounds, headless ghosts inhabited the hallways. They brought Miss Shaw here and continued her early training in how to talk like a spoiled, snobbish, upper-class girl. They copied your dresses, your walk, and your accent.

Then their plan entered the truly clever part. They kidnapped you and brought you here and put you in this room. Every day, Eliza Shaw came up through a secret passageway from her bedroom downstairs and watched you through a hole in the wall.”

He spins around theatrically. “Right here!” Victoria’s mouth hangs open as he points to a hole, about eyeball-size down near the floor on an inside wall.

“She examined your face, your hair style, the way you walked, and the way you talked when you conversed with the other two men. They always wore scarves in your presence. She even smelled your clothes and copied your scent. When you were allowed outside, she came up to this room and observed you from here as you took your daytime exercise … while those nocturnal beasts slept.

Meanwhile, they didn’t say a word to the world or the police. They sent no ransom note, nothing.
That
was by design. It seemed like a most curious crime. But they knew
your father would not respond. He would give them all the time they needed, play into their hands. And then, when Miss Shaw was ready to become you for a week or two, they sent their ransom note. They gave him three days. Concern about you grew to fever pitch in London and among the police, and especially in the confused mind of one Inspector Lestrade. On the third day, your captors took Eliza to Portsmouth, where the captain lived and had arranged some time earlier to have a home rented in a respectable part of the town, far from any dangers that might interfere with their plans. Portsmouth, of course, lies to the south of London (in the opposite direction from where you really were) and is near the English Channel, so as to appear to be a place for a quick getaway by water. They deposited her there and immediately sent the police an anonymous telegram, a ‘public tip.’ Inspector Lestrade had asked for one, as they expected, so anxious had he become to solve this crime. The Force came like an army to Portsmouth and found you … a glorious day for them and their senior detective.”

Victoria is trying not to turn around and gape at him.

“But the entire crime was really about getting inside your father’s house, identifying every last one of his valuables, opening doors from the inside, and stealing him blind while he was away. Your mother’s room and its contents, dear to Captain Waller, were not to be touched. She was most certainly not the target.

“From the moment ‘
you
‘ were conveniently recovered in Portsmouth by the police, the main part of the crime was in motion. Eliza Shaw, thought to be you, and confirmed as
such by your mother and father, was inside the Rathbone mansion, free to roam about and make notes, hear conversations about money matters, and discover the location of the safe. I know because I have seen the notes she made.”

Victoria can no longer resist turning and staring at him. Who is this boy, this Sherlock Holmes? But he disregards her, lifts his hawk nose slightly and goes on.

“The moment your parents notified Eliza Shaw that they were adjourning to their country home with her, she sent word to St. Neots via the aid of one of those boys in that London gang. She told her accomplices that only two aging housemaids would be in the house that day. She left one rear door unlocked. The fiends pounced within a few hours. They entered the home, immobilized the maids, and found Eliza’s notes hidden in a pre-appointed place in the house. They then proceeded to crack the lord’s safe and remove all his money, pick out every painting of great value, every bit of his jewelry, his silver, every precious thing … to which they were so perfectly directed. They came and went in an hour, and the house was plucked nearly clean!”

Sherlock smiles as he sees the anger in Victoria’s face.

“Shocked at the news of the robbery, the Rathbones immediately returned to the city. Eliza Shaw, with her job done, tried to slip away to St. Neots … but I intercepted her.”

“You what?”

“She is an industrious sort though, so she tried again, not long after I left, and was successful. Thus … you were kidnapped a second time!”

Sherlock pauses and regards her intently.

“They are downstairs, the three of them, their cartons and bags filled with extraordinary wealth, the wealth to which you should be heiress – they will sell it all when they get to America and live happily ever after. The captain, of course, will be joining them.”

“But they shan’t get away! You have notified the police!” She is trying not to shout.

“I have, and a distinguished scribe from
The Times of London
. But they aren’t here … yet.”

The boy looks out the window. In the distance, he can see the steam from a train lifting into the sky as a locomotive whistles across the white-blanketed countryside toward St. Neots.

They are coming
.

“You are just a boy. How … how do you know all this?” asks Victoria. There is both suspicion and admiration in her voice.

Sherlock puffs out his chest. “I noticed a watermark on a sheet of paper. Then I gathered data and made some simple deductions.”

Holmes smiles at her puzzlement, but then his face turns darker.

“What if I were to stroll downstairs and alert them? Cut a deal?” he says. He has had enough of this girl, of Irene Doyle, Inspector Lestrade, Malefactor, and the Rathbones. Every last one of them is an utter disappointment.

“You wouldn’t!”

“After all, what have those three really done? They have hurt no one. Even you have not been physically injured,
other than being deprived of Yorkshire pudding. They have simply relieved a man, who doesn’t deserve to own a farthing, of his ridiculously lavish, unshared fortune. He, who lives in style while nearby children die … and go blind.”

Victoria says nothing. She actually looks guilty.

“But Master Holmes, you cannot –”

“Be quiet!” orders Sherlock. “I have to think this over.” He leans against the sill, staring off into the distance toward St. Neots. He notices that the train has arrived at the station.

S
herlock Holmes, of course, has no intention of notifying the villains. In fact, he is desperate for the police to arrive and is worried that they will be too late. He is staring out the window, trying to will them across that marshy field to Grimwood Hall. He will stay in this room until they get here. All shall be revealed and
he
will be the one to reveal it, with
The Times
reporter looking on.
Credit where credit is due!

He keeps searching for them. Minutes pass.
Where are they?
Then his heart leaps.

In the distance, they emerge out of the town and onto the frozen field like a small army, all of them on the run. Sherlock isn’t sure, but it seems to him that Lestrade is in the lead, a slightly smaller figure by his side. The Force is equipped with dogs: hounds or bull terriers, likely muzzled to keep them quiet, pulling their masters at double speed.

Sherlock has kept back from the window, but now he puts his face right up to it and searches the grounds and surrounding area outside. There are the many trees and the ragged hedge maze and the black granite wall with the fence on top. There is no sign of the sleeping beasts.

The Force keeps coming.

Sherlock notices some movement to his extreme left outside the window. He presses his head against the cold pane and sees two Demi-Mail phaeton carriages in the driveway and a man carrying boxes out to them. Then another man limps forward with a big bag over his shoulder.

What if the fiends spot the police? Will they get away down a back road?

The boy glances at the marshy field again, and as he does, he notices something in the foreground: a top hat peeking up over the mossy wall. It vanishes. But then it appears again. Two other heads poke up this time, too. The first looks up at the window and levels his walking stick at Sherlock.

“Master Holmes, have you decided?” asks Victoria anxiously. She is imagining her fortune vanishing.

As he turns to her, there is a loud BANG! The window shatters and something rockets through the room and is embedded in a wall.

Victoria screams; cold air rushes into the room. In the confusion, Sherlock remembers Malefactor using a thick walking stick last night and it strikes him now that it looked different from the one he usually employs. Holmes has seen thick steel canes just like it in London … they sometimes contain concealed weapons …
gentlemen carry air guns inside them
.

Malefactor has laid his cards on the table. There is no doubt; he is trying to kill Sherlock Holmes.

On the surface, the boy in the upper room appears
calm, but he is shaking. “Lie down on the floor,” he says to Victoria in an even voice. She doesn’t have to be told twice – in an instant she is just a head and upper body on the pine boards with a circle of scarlet crinoline dress spread out around her.

Outside, everything has sped up. The top-hatted head and its accomplices have fled. The two male thieves in the driveway are frantic. Through the shattered window Sherlock hears them shouting.

“That sounded like a gun – close by!”

“Fetch Eliza!”

“
ELIZA
!! We have to go! Now!”

Sherlock looks to the driveway again. He sees one thief rushing into the manor, the other mounting a phaeton, whip in hand. A question enters the boy’s mind.

Was Malefactor shooting at me … or was he warning them?

Sherlock looks for the young crime boss again. Three figures are heading for the forest on the other side of the grounds. No one awaits them at the edge of the trees. Malefactor must have kept Irene away. He made sure she didn’t see him in action on Grimwood Hill.

The police are nearing and Lestrade is running like a racehorse, way out in front of his charges, pulling a revolver from his rumpled brown coat.

At that very moment, a knock sounds on the big front doors of the locked entrance to the Ratcliff Workhouse. An old man with stringy white hair, a goatee and spectacles, wearing a green tweed coat and a red fez is pounding on the doors. He is carrying something in a sack. A grimy concierge is eating thin turnip soup in his tiny office inside. The smelly mixture has been spilling on his yellowed beard and bits of it are hanging there as gets up. “I’m comin’! ‘old on to yer knickers!” He staggers out, turns to the entrance, and opens the door.