Vanishing Girl tbsh-3

by Shane Peacock

  “The very one.”

  “Or two!” exclaims the old man, almost collapsing into a paroxysm of laughter. “You see, there are two Fourdrinier brothers!” He holds onto the counter in order to keep himself from falling backwards with mirth.

  “Yes, I am aware of the source of the humor,” says Sherlock.

  “Speak! Into! The! Machine!”

  The boy firmly grips the hearing aid again.

  “Much call for it lately?”

  “You haul for it bladely? That doesn’t make any sense, my boy.”

  “MUCH … CALL … FOR … IT … LATELY!”

  “You don’t need to shout!”

  Sherlock steps back from the counter, awaiting the answer.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I have had, as you say, call for it lately; but just lately. Had one sale of this marvelous paper in the past thirteen years. It came about two months ago. I believe the folks who bought it lived up there.”

  He motions over his shoulder and upwards with his thumb.

  Sherlock’s pulse quickens.

  “Up where?” he asks.

  But the old man can’t hear. He has set down his hearing aid. The boy seizes it to bellow, but the owner snatches it back and waves him off.

  “I am tired. My nap was to begin at precisely …” he fiddles around in his faded red waistcoat under the orange garment, searching six pockets until he finds his watch, “… three minutes and thirteen seconds ago. I never miss my forty winks, you know. Good day, sir. You may come back tomorrow.”

  He drops his hearing horn into a drawer in the counter and swiftly locks it.

  At the very point of a sale, old Muddle walks away, heading for a door at the rear of the shop. It seems incredible. He trudges through the door and closes it behind him. The latch clicks. Still standing at the counter, the boy is frantic. The man was about to tell him who purchased the old paper: the only customers to buy it at the only place it has been available for the last thirteen years.

  Sherlock considers following the old man and getting it out of him. But Muddle is in a locked room and his hearing aid is secured in the drawer.

  The boy walks outside. He cannot wait until tomorrow.

  Then he notices something up on the hill and thinks of where Muddle was standing at the counter, which direction his thumb pointed when he said, “… from those folks up there.”

  The shop owner had been motioning up the hill. Sherlock turns to it. Sitting there in the distance, looking down on the town like an enormous watchdog, is the manor house he had seen just as he fell asleep last night: the one with the lamplight swinging on its grounds, the one with the looming phantom shadow, with the eerie sounds rising in the darkness, the ghostly place he thought he had dreamed. He looks at again. It is real indeed. It appears bleak and abandoned: a haunted house on a hill.

  Sherlock turns toward St. Neots and starts walking, careful not to allow anyone near, especially vigilant for the local constable. He has a dangerous day in front of him. Word will be out that a stranger is about. That foreman will be talking and saying he lied, that he seemed injured. Even worse, those children saw the blood on his waistcoat. The stains are fading into the graying black material now, but he buttons up his coat anyway. His stomach grumbles and he’s cold. He must steal food, perhaps from the back of the baker’s shop he’s noticed at the edge of town, and drink from the river. It isn’t right to steal, he knows, but murder is much worse. No matter what, he has to survive … until nightfall.

  It is getting dark when Sherlock touches Penny’s dress as she glides past on her way home from the mill. He’s been hiding in the long grass by the river. Thankfully, she is alone, and the little cry she utters doesn’t travel far. He is betting that he can trust her.

  “I need some information.”

  “Master Bell, I must be off. My husband owns a pocket watch. I am expected home within ten minutes. I’ve promised the children a bonfire for Guy Fawkes Night, too. I really must be rushing. Rumpleside wouldn’t give us the day off.” She pauses. “I know you are a runaway. You need not play games with me; mothers know. You should get back home.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  Penny gently puts a hand on his shoulder. “I am grieved to hear that. But you must go home anyway, to your father or your siblings, whoever you can be with. I know about family troubles…. My daughter, the one your age I told you about … when I said she was gone what I meant was … she run off, too.”

  “I haven’t run away, Mrs. Hunt, I promise you. Could we walk together? That wouldn’t slow you down.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Then please tell me what I need to know quickly.”

  “You sound desperate, Master Bell. What is this about? Truly.”

  Sherlock pauses. “I am not employed by a stationer, I will admit that. But I assure you I have good reason to be here.”

  “What reason is that then?”

  “I am looking for someone.”

  She regards the anxious boy for a moment. “Someone from your family? Your father?”

  “Yes…. My father.”

  “And you think he is here somewhere?”

  “Who lives in the place on the hill?”

  A flash of fear crosses her face. “The manor house? You shouldn’t go there.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter who or what you are after.”

  “Why shouldn’t I go there?”

  She looks around, then drops beside him in the tall grass. Sherlock recognizes the expression on her face, the one his mother used to give him whenever he came to her with a problem.

  “Grimwood Hall has a history. No one from these parts ever darkens its grounds, let alone the buildings. Except them folks who is in it now.”

  “And who are they?”

  “None of them is old enough to be who you are looking for.”

  “Who are they?”

  “It’s a young couple and the gentleman’s brother. It cost little to rent, I suppose, maybe that was the attraction, maybe it was because they weren’t from these parts, or perhaps they just don’t care.”

  “About what?”

  Penny glances fearfully up the valley in the direction of Grimwood Hall. When she speaks again, her voice is low.

  “It was built long ago, only God knows how long. It housed many lords and ladies. Henry VIII stayed there shortly after one of his wives went to the chopping block. An early owner is said to have put holes in the walls and secret passageways everywhere, to spy on his guests. Then, two generations ago, a lord murdered his lady. Her headless body was found one night on the grounds. A horrific scream had been heard not long before. He was never even brought before the magistrates because he had friends here and in London. But his friends abandoned him afterwards. He lived alone up there for many years, had no visitors, and was kept company only by the strange animals he brought back from India in his earlier years. One night during a terrible thunderstorm, another scream was heard and the lord was never seen again, eaten, many think, by one of his beasts. People claim the animals still live on the grounds, behind those walls with the iron fence on top.”

  “No one knows that for sure?”

  “No one goes near, Master Bell.”

  “But what about the three who live there now?”

  “They came maybe three or four months ago, spent time in town at the outset, heard about Grimwood and made inquires, and then paid for their lodgings in cash. At least that’s what’s said. For the first few weeks they was often seen in town: at the public houses, the greengrocers, the tobacconist’s in Little Barford, but then they started keeping to themselves. Those who dare to look for long up that way, say that the lights were only on in one part of the house for the first while, but then one began showing upstairs too.”

  The boy swallows.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs.

  “They’ve only ever had one visitor that folks know of. The same man come three, maybe
four times: reasonably well-to-do … stood very upright when he walked, some say he had a military bearing … but he wasn’t dark-haired like you.”

  “Not who I am looking for, you think?”

  She takes his hand. “You mustn’t go there.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s haunted if ever a house was.”

  “I am not superstitious …”

  “If your father really is one of them, then find another way. Hide in the countryside near the village and see if they come down. They do go out on occasion, one at a time.”

  “I won’t go there. I promise.”

  She has a mother’s nose for a liar.

  “What is your name? The truth, this time.”

  “Sherlock Holmes, my lady.”

  “Master Holmes, my daughter was a free spirit like you. She liked to play up near the manor as a youngster, though her father whipped her when she did. The day she disappeared, the blacksmith said he saw her walking up the hill toward Grimwood. It is my hope … that she just ran away.”

  “I am sure she will return.”

  “May God be with you, my child.”

  The distance to Grimwood from the town is much farther than he’d assumed. In fact, it seems like he walks for an hour and the mansion keeps moving away. Only a few minutes into his journey everything grows black; the terrain is wet and marshy, then rocky for a stretch, like a moor. Far below, down near the town, the citizens of St. Neots are setting bonfires to celebrate that day, long ago, when England was saved from the villainy of the rebel, Guy Fawkes. Ghoulish faces watch the flames, like sinister little circles sitting atop devils warming themselves in the underworld. The town is alight. But up here, Sherlock fumbles his way forward in nearly complete darkness, almost blind, starting each time he hears a distant shriek or a Roman candle explode with a crack in the night. He struggles forward and the sounds fade. Finally, he arrives. Soft lights from a few windows cast lambent beams into the darkness, giving him a dim sense of what is before him. A tall granite wall with a short iron fence on top surrounds the expansive lawns. Though it is difficult to be certain, when he stands on tiptoe and looks through the bars, he sees what appears to be a labyrinth of hedges, unkempt bushes, long grass, and forests of copper beeches and weeping willow trees, hanging down their manes like distressed giants on the sloping land. Sherlock cups his sore hands and blows on them.

  Something roars inside the walls and the boy feels as if every little hair on his neck and down his spine stands up straight.

  What, in God’s name, was that?

  It sounds exotic indeed, but before he can identify it, he hears other animals respond: growling like a pack of dogs, or even wolves. Can that be the wind?

  Sherlock looks up at the bleak house stretching along the top of the hill. Webs of ivy grow across its surface.

  Has he lost every last one of his marbles? Is he a lunatic? Why doesn’t he just turn around, sleep in a field near St. Neots, and steal back onto a train for London in the morning?

  But then the opportunity to change his life would vanish, Lestrade would win, and the girl would die. There is a solution to every crime, and he can pursue this one on these spooky grounds. He must find whatever courage he needs.

  Looking up at the house, he sees something that makes him want to go on.

  There are lights on the bottom floor, around to the south end of the building, but there, right there, a very dim one glows on an upper floor. What is up there? The people living in this mansion rented a place that no one would dare near, bought the rare stationery that was used for the ransom note, and have kept to themselves the last few months. What … or who … do they have up there?

  He has to get into Grimwood Hall, whatever the cost.

  He should have brought a weapon. The hand-to-hand combat of pugilism or Bellitsu wouldn’t work against powerful beasts with fangs, against a lion or a tiger or whatever it is that is on the loose on the other side of this wall, but Sigerson Bell has been teaching him how to use a horsewhip in a lethal manner, and the Swiss art of stick-fighting too. The old apothecary has a large collection of heavy hickory poles and he and his protegé have shattered many windows and taken down numerous skeletons while practicing. Sherlock wishes he had one of those long weapons with him now. But he has no choice. He must go in unarmed.

  At least he will have the advantage of being unexpected. No one in the house or on the grounds, either animal or human, is apt to be looking for an intruder. Grimwood Hall is protected by its gruesome legends and by what may lurk in the night.

  And so he boldly scales the damp, mossy wall and the fence atop it, directly in front of the part of the manor where the lights are glowing. He drops onto the other side as silently as a panther, and moves forward on his hands and knees. It is like being in a jungle. He hears crows cawing and answering, making their mysterious sounds, deeper voices like ravens’, and the jungle talk of parrots. There are whistles and shrieks from bigger voices. He begins to sweat despite the cold air. Twigs snap, leaves rustle, something snake-like slithers by and a creature laughs, the way a hyena might. Scurrying as fast as he can, Sherlock moves along the hedges, into the bushy labyrinth, under copper beeches and weeping willows, and finally, gets up and sprints through the twisting avenues of the maze. Instantly, he hears something following him, charging forward, gaining on him with every stride!

  He doesn’t dare look back as he moves in the direction of the house, racing through the green tunnels, getting closer. The dark, granite building has three storeys. The lights on the ground floor, now visible just above the hedges, appear to illuminate several rooms. The small, single glow above is two floors up: the highest storey, where the castlelike turrets loom. There is darkness in between.

  Sherlock emerges from the labyrinth. Now only a stretch of tall grass separates him from the house. There’s an entrance in the darkness to this side of the ground-floor lights. It’s under an alcove with an ironwork fence in front.

  He makes for it.

  But he seems like a goner when he’s still ten feet away. Summoning extra energy, he takes three bounds, of Spring-Heeled-Jack proportions, and leaps up onto the top of the fence. He scrambles over, but loses his grip and falls hard onto the cobblestones on the other side, right on his sore arm.

  He doesn’t care. He’s inside the gate. Safe.

  Sherlock looks back into the jungle. All is silent. Only the cold breeze wafts through the mist. He thinks he sees movement up in a tree, the glint of yellow eyes, but he isn’t sure. In a blink they are gone.

  Then there’s a rustling in the undergrowth right near the fence. A beast is about to appear, just a few feet in front of him!

  “Meow,” it says in a tiny voice.

  A kitten, as white as snow, steps out of the jungle and marches through the fence. It walks up to his face, regards him, and licks his hawk nose. Then it turns and disappears into the tall grass again.

  Before Sherlock can smile, something else attracts his attention. The sound of human voices: inside.

  He gets to his feet and tiptoes over to the door. It is wooden and rounded at the top, thick as a chopping block, exactly like the castle entrances Sherlock always imagines when he reads the romantic tales of Sir Walter Scott. A big iron latch holds it shut. He tries the handle. The door opens.

  Inside, a tall vestibule widens into a grand hall. Far away, on the other side of that long room, through an open door, Sherlock can see figures moving about in a smaller space. They are laughing and talking loudly: two men and a young woman.

  “Tomorrow is our Lord’s day … Lord Rathbone’s day!”

  “The day his daughter dies.”

  “Or … comes back to life!”

  Their laughter bursts through the door and echoes in the great hall.

  Sherlock feels a thrill go through him. He has to get closer. He slides from the vestibule into the hall, glides along the wood-paneled wall … and slams into something. The collision is loud. At least it
seems so to him. But the conversation and laughter continue. Sherlock has caught what he ran into, which he now sees is a full suit of armor, with a helmet, sword, and spiked ball and chain.

  He gently repositions the armor and moves cautiously toward the open door at the far end of the hall. On his way, he comes to an entrance on his left. It is an opening into a corridor that leads to the central part of the house. Way down at the far end of the passage, a staircase is dimly evident.

  “A quarter-million pounds!”

  “A mere trifle.”

  “All mine,” cracks the young woman.

  Though Sherlock is anxious to see their faces, he doesn’t dare stick his head out from the wall. He can hear the clink of glasses; words sound slurred.

  “Not quite all!”

  “But in a sense …”

  “Yes, in a sense … child.”

  Sherlock is hearing everything he needs to hear. Or is he? When he considers it, he realizes that they haven’t actually said anything incriminating. Perhaps they are simply making light of what is on everyone’s lips at the moment – the famous kidnapping. It is the biggest news in the land, on the front page of every paper. It is true that he also has the evidence provided by the watermarked paper, but that is not nearly enough. Where is Victoria Rathbone? That is what matters.

  He keeps glancing down the corridor that leads away from the hall toward the staircase. Should he try to get closer to these three people or …

  That staircase would take him one floor nearer to where the soft light is glowing from the upper-storey window. He is here ahead of Lestrade and Irene and Malefactor. He must be bold.

  Sherlock slips from the hall and into the corridor. It grows dimmer as he nears the end and enters a big room where the staircase sits. It is magnificent: made of wood, its banisters elaborately carved, and wide like a platform at the bottom. He recognizes the images in its surface: they are all of Narcissus, a character from Greek mythology. Each one depicts an identical scene: a face staring at its own reflection in a pool. Sherlock looks up the staircase. It ascends into total darkness.