Vanishing Girl tbsh-3

by Shane Peacock

  The words are spit out.

  “Should you be referring to a certain blackguard who roams the streets at night with a group of ne’er-do-wells who prey upon the London populace, I would advise against it. I could produce these villains before he or Lestrade were even on their trail.”

  “I am helping Master Malefactor to …”

  “He is a thug and he shall remain one.”

  “I can change him.”

  “And we shall all fly to the moon one day.”

  “He understands misery. He knows the sort of pain people endure in the workhouses.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t know him, Sherlock. His life fell apart when he was small. His father’s railway investments collapsed after they left Ireland and came to England – they lost everything. His family went to an almshouse in Liverpool. His education ended. His parents died … and so did his little sister. She’d held them together through everything. All he has left is his father’s coat … and his memories of her. He’s angry and bitter about life, but he can change.”

  “A story meant for the pages of the agony columns, I’m sure. I prefer Samuel Smiles and instructive novels … where folks rise from their troubles, where they choose the right path, not evil. He is a rat. And he tried to kill me.” He turns from her and marches away.

  “I shall show you!” she shouts after him. But she looks undecided.

  Sherlock dodges tradesmen on narrow Denmark Street, his jaw set tightly.

  Andrew Doyle will still give me what I need. The instant she told him that, his mind sped up. By the time he nears Trafalgar Square, it is racing. And he can’t slow it down. The game is afoot!

  Scotland Yard first, he figures, then to the scene. He needs more than facts now.

  It isn’t a police file that he wants to investigate – it’s something inside a particular detective’s brain, in the skull cavity of a chap named Lestrade. He plans to march right up to him and ask directly.

  At Trafalgar Square he glances west toward The Mall, the beautiful, tree-lined pedestrian lanes that border St. James’s Park and lead to Buckingham Palace. Ladies and gentlemen are strolling on the grass avenues and governesses walk with children, all pursued, from time to time, by street vendors. He has read in the papers that the queen is in London – the flag is out atop the palace in the distance. The green squares and beautiful residences of Belgravia are on the other side of her magnificent home. He’ll speak to Lestrade and then make his way there to the Rathbone mansion, even if it is watched by a hundred policemen.

  White Hall Street runs south from Trafalgar Square. He turns onto it. Wide and impressive, it is lined with regal government buildings. Soldiers in spotless red tunics ride horses outside the Roman columns of the Admiralty directly across from the Yard. Sherlock slips down a passageway between the police buildings and finds the black, stone exterior of the detectives’ office.

  The same sour-faced, grandly mustached sergeant he’d encountered in the summer when he rushed in here flushed and on the trail of the Brixton gang, is standing behind the desk in the damp stone office. When he looks up to see the boy, there are no signs of recognition. “Obser vation is the elementary skill of the scientist and the primary talent of life,” his father used to say. Obviously, the rank and file of the London Metropolitan Police were never taught such things.

  “I would like to speak with Mr. G. Lestrade.”

  “G?”

  “Yes, the junior.”

  “I shall see if he is present.”

  A bored looking Peeler sitting on a worn wooden bench that creaks each time he adjusts his position is coaxed into rising and dispatched. Moments later the younger Lestrade approaches from the hallway.

  Sherlock has been observing this boy for several months: beady-eyed and not very tall, fuzz on his face, brown tweed suits of a distinctly adult cut, anxious to be a man and follow in his father’s footsteps … but of a kinder, more curious disposition. It is those last characteristics that Sherlock is counting on. He has noticed that when they talk there is often a trace of empathy in the older boy’s face, even admiration, and a touch of pity for the way Sherlock has been treated. It is time to use these things.

  “You?” says Lestrade. He looks unsure, glancing back down the hallway.

  “Is your father here?”

  “Yes.”

  Sherlock lowers his voice.

  “Might I have a word with you … outside?”

  The budding young inspector hesitates before he consents.

  Rain has started to gently fall, another pre-winter drizzle. They stand under the awnings close to the buildings.

  “This is highly irregular.”

  “That is often what is needed. I won’t mince words. Do you know anything about the Rathbone robbery, anything that hasn’t been in the papers that I might employ? I need more to go on than what I have read.”

  Lestrade is taken aback by his boldness.

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, Master Holmes. It wouldn’t be right. I am sorry.”

  Not all bad … the last three words are promising.

  “This doesn’t concern you,” adds the older boy.

  “I understand your position. But perhaps you can accompany me?”

  “Accompany you?”

  “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

  Both boys turn to see Inspector Lestrade in the doorway. Sherlock can hardly believe it is the same man he saw just a few weeks ago. On that glorious day, he had noticed Lestrade preparing to speak, licking his fingers and using the saliva to preen his hair and slick his mustache; he had stood very erect and bellowed proud words to the masses about the recovery of Victoria Rathbone; and then beamed down on Sherlock. Now the senior detective looks as though he has aged ten years – his eyes are red and heavily bagged, his shoulders slumped, and it seems to take a mighty effort to simply hold up his receding chin. He obviously didn’t sleep a wink last night. He’s escaped one nightmare … and plunged into another.

  “I was … asking him to leave,” says his son. The look on his face says “Run!”

  Sherlock does. He takes to his heels and flies out the passageway between the buildings and onto White Hall. The constable whom Lestrade sets upon him gives up a short distance down the street.

  The boy isn’t deterred. He heads west along the queen’s beautiful park with its many flowers and swan-filled lakes, toward the palace and Belgravia. Walking briskly, he soon passes Buckingham and stares up, imagining himself a prince, though a much more respectable one than Victoria’s reckless first son and heir, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales. He slows at the beautiful Royal Mews, trying to get a glimpse of the horses and the gleaming four-ton Gold State Carriage used for coronations. Oh, to be transported in that vehicle, watched by adoring crowds. But he doesn’t allow himself more than a moment’s pause. Belgravia beckons.

  Though there aren’t a hundred policemen outside the Rathbone home, it seems like it. They don’t speak to the brightly dressed gentlemen and ladies who stop on the foot pavements and stare, but regular folk are gently disbursed. The milkmaids, hawkers, and the street children looking to make a farthing by picking a pocket or offering to run an errand, are instantly sent away, with rude comments and rough encouragement.

  Sherlock spots the house long before he reaches Belgrave Square, and not simply because of the Force and the gawkers. Everyone in London knows where Lord Rathbone lives and his place stands out even in this posh neighborhood. Its Georgian, yellow-stone exterior, five storeys with red-curtained bay windows, large grounds, and majestic columns on its wide front portico mark it as a home of distinction. This is a relatively new residential area, built for the rich just a few generations ago, and its pale homes are even taller and more “perfect” than the mansions of nearby Mayfair. Mozart and Chopin once lived here, and Mary Shelley, who wrote that frightening book about the monster named Frankenstein. People often come to Belgravia simply to catch glimpses of luminaries.


  Though Sherlock himself is often distracted by famous faces, that will not happen today. He is looking for no one and seeking to be invisible. What he wants is an indisputable fact or two about the robbery – a clue, a starting point like the watermark, which he will then investigate with much more care. Pulling his collar up around his neck against the cold air, he sneaks into the fading green confines of the park across the street and stands behind a tree, sizing up the building and how to get nearer without being shooed away. He is hoping that the police haven’t disturbed the scene any more than is necessary. He knows he can’t get inside the house, but it may be possible to sneak onto the grounds. There he might find something that would at least help him build a profile of the thieves.

  Belgrave Square has some unusual corners where its big houses almost seem to jut out into the street at sharp angles. The huge Rathbone mansion is one such home. It also has a little lane with stables at the rear. Sherlock observes closely: there are policemen on duty near the street at the front of the house and a few evident through the windows inside, but there seem to be an inordinate number down the passageway and at the rear. The boy thinks of what he read in the papers. The getaway vehicles must have been stationed at the back and …

  “You were saying?”

  Lestrade Junior is standing right next to Sherlock, who nearly jumps into a tree at the sound of his voice.

  Holmes gathers himself, adjusts his coat, and fixes his necktie.

  “I asked you to accompany me.”

  “And here I am. I knew you were coming this way.”

  “How perspicacious of you.”

  “Uh … yes, well, I guessed, knowing what I know about you, if that’s what you mean, that you would be bold enough to come right to the scene of the crime.”

  “Guessing, my good fellow, should be left to the horse-racing crowd. It is not a tool for the detective.”

  Sherlock can see the color rising in the other boy’s face.

  “You are no detective, sir. My father is.”

  “Absolutely, I stand corrected, and a fine one he is, the best in London.”

  “You are just a boy whom circumstances have favored in a couple of matters.”

  “Yes, I have been fortunate.”

  “Well, he hasn’t treated you the way he should, perhaps.”

  Perhaps? He is a cad and a fool. And one day I shall make him acknowledge me as his superior.

  “Nonsense,” says Sherlock. “He does what he must. Who are we young people to question such a man? Do you have a moment?”

  “If I am gone long, my father will ask where I have been. I came because I feel he and I are somewhat in your debt, though he need not acknowledge that. It wasn’t right to say what he said to you in public a few weeks ago, nor to simply send you away today. He could have at least heard you out.”

  And you came to learn from me too, you imbecile.

  Sherlock glances across the street at the house.

  “I would like to investigate the crime scene … very briefly.”

  Young Lestrade glances toward the Rathbone home and then back at the boy.

  “How briefly?”

  “Just a few moments in the laneway and at the back of the house. That is all. Can you arrange it?”

  This was why Sherlock had gone to see Lestrade Junior in the first place.

  But the detective’s son is torn. Should he be loyal to his father and deny this request from the disturbingly ingenious half-Jew who seems to somehow always be one step ahead of the great Scotland Yard? Or should he do what he knows is right, by aiding someone his father has mistreated and who, in the end, might actually help lead the police to the thieves. If by some wild chance this charmed boy should somehow be successful again, there will be time to decide whether or not he should be allowed any credit – it can be given to him or swiped away, by the hand of the law.

  “I can arrange it. Follow me.”

  They cross the street and stroll to the gate at the walkway that leads to the front door of the house. A constable immediately turns in their direction, hand out, palm toward them, in a stern signal to halt.

  “That is far enough!”

  “Constable Gregory?”

  The policeman examines his questioner.

  “Lestrade’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seen you about with him.”

  “I am apprenticing. I thought I’d take a look around, report back to him.”

  “And who is this?”

  Gregory lifts his nose and looks down it at the poor boy with the hawkish nose.

  “A pickpocket who frequents Trafalgar Square and has been giving me information of late. I intend to reform him.”

  “The best of luck to you then, mate.”

  “Shall I go through?”

  “You have five minutes. If you want more, I shall need a signed note from your father. Do not touch anything.”

  “Thank you, sir. Best not to tell my father I’ve been. I hope to find something I might surprise him with.”

  Constable Gregory laughs. “Genius in training, I see. If you can find anything here in five minutes that Scotland Yard hasn’t found these past hours, you are welcome to observe it.”

  The two young investigators head down the passageway.

  “Impressive, Master Lestrade,” says Sherlock under his breath.

  He knows the other policemen are giving him disapproving looks, but doesn’t pay them heed. It is time to concentrate.

  “Your lens, please.”

  Lestrade is surprised by Holmes’s tone. Suddenly it isn’t friendly anymore – he sounds strangely adult and business-like. The older boy’s father doesn’t carry a magnifying glass, but he himself has taken to the practice … ever since he realized that Sherlock Holmes had employed one in the great Whitechapel murder solution. But he is reluctant to admit that he bears one, let alone to hand it over.

  “You shall find it concealed in the interior of your clothing, left side, coat pocket,” says Sherlock.

  “I don’t …”

  “You want to keep its existence from your father. You are right-handed, so placing it on the left side makes it easier for you to reach it, and you carry it high, in your coat, in order to seize it in an instant.”

  “You astound me.” Lestrade didn’t intend to say that. It just came out.

  “It was elementary. The lens makes a slight bulge when you walk.”

  The second the other boy hands over the glass, Sherlock is moving away from him, gripping it tightly in a palm, that hawk’s nose pointed at the ground like a blood hound sniffing for a scent. The door at the rear is a wide one. It’s a perfectly placed entry point for the thieves. In fact, everything about this area suits the villains’ purpose – the wide, rear door, the secluded passageway – he paces off the ground – space to park exactly two carriages or carts so that both are unobservable from the street.

  In addition to knowing that the Rathbones were away and left but two housemaids at home, it is becoming quickly evident to Sherlock that the scoundrels knew exactly where things were both inside and outside, almost as if they had a plan of the house and its contents. The boy is now aware that he is searching for someone well acquainted with the Rathbone residence. Perhaps friends? Or employees, past or present? Someone somehow connected to the family.

  All his senses are tuned as he moves about. Nearby, two constables are chatting.

  “Are you on duty tomorrow?”

  “What, at the ball? Not so privileged, no.”

  “Well I is; there’s a whole army of us. Their excellencies is having it despite their cleaning out – word is it’s been scheduled ever since they got her back. A celebration, it was to be. Not such a happy occasion now, is it? But I heard our Lady R. wouldn’t hear of canceling it, or of having it in … an empty little house.”

  They both laugh.

  “What, need glitter for superior folks to look at?” “They’ll bring in the glitter, mate, rent som
e props and grovelers.”

  Sherlock is glancing at the ground. The fool policemen have been tramping about; but a Peeler’s boot is a unique piece of footwear, thank goodness. The boy also sees the slight prints of the carriage ruts: indeed there were two. Four-wheelers, narrow gauge, but not too narrow, front wheels smaller. Sherlock has been making it his business lately to learn all he can about prints, whether made by boots or carriage wheels: identifying them will be, he is sure, a central skill in his occupation. He thinks of what carriage type this might be. A phaeton of some sort? A High Flyer? Fast and nimble, one horse or two. A Tilbury? No, more than likely a Mail phaeton or a Demi-Mail, lots of space onboard, covered to hide the thieves’ treasures, but still, very speedy. Phaetons … named after the son of a Greek god who rode chariots across the skies. The horses’ hoofprints are evident as well: two for each carriage, for added speed, narrow prints like the feet of thoroughbreds.

  Sherlock glances toward the end of the lane to see which direction the wheel prints go once they head out. But they fade as they run toward the street. Strapped for time and anxious to get to the heart of the investigation, he turns back to the footprints and the identity of the thieves themselves.

  The crooks walked right here. Who were they? How many were there? Sherlock sees faint shoe prints near the door. They lead just a few steps away and then stop at the point where the carriages must have been. They don’t seem like the markings of police boots. The villains would have drawn the phaetons up close to the door and loaded them as quickly as possible. So quickly! These few prints must belong to the thieves. He drops to his knees. This will have to be done fast. He lowers his face close to the ground, the lens trained on them. Yes, these marks are different. And from what Sherlock can tell, they betray that there were just two …

  “You there! What are you doin’?”

  A big constable, dressed in a black coxcomb helmet and one of those long blue coats with the brass buttons, is yelling at Sherlock.

  Lestrade reacts instantly.