Vanishing Girl

by Shane Peacock

  “I challenge you, Lestrade! I cannot fight you with pistols at twenty paces, but this will be a duel. I will put a bullet in you!”

  He leaves the alley and walks toward Denmark Street, at war with himself.

  “Be calm,” he says out loud, grinding his teeth. “Be rational. That is the only way to proceed.”

  His mind turns to Irene for an instant. Don’t think about her. You don’t need her. He can’t believe she would work with Malefactor. Pay attention to what you must do. You have a clue. Pursue it and pursue it now.

  The watermark.

  He is nearing the apothecary’s shop. Watermarks aren’t made by stationers, but by the papermakers themselves: he’s learned that in school. This was a faint one, very faint, apparently not even seen by the police, only visible when held at just the right position in the noon-hour sun.

  The ransom note was sent yesterday and had a three-day deadline. Rathbone won’t pay, there is no doubt. There are just forty-eight hours left before they kill his daughter … before opportunity vanishes.

  Sigerson Bell is hard at work in the chemical laboratory when his apprentice arrives with a smile pasted on his face, ready to pick the alchemist’s big brain. At first, things don’t seem promising. The old man’s eyes look slightly wild and cloudy, likely from some sort of solution he’s administered to himself. But, as usual, there is a file inside his skull that promises to be of considerable help. They dip into it.

  “Yes, I once had a papermaker as a patient,” says Bell. “Something wrong with his bowel, if I recall correctly. Not enough water in the gut was producing a hard stool that smelled like –”

  “Uh, sir?”

  “Yes, my boy?”

  “I’m not certain I need to know about the odor of his stool.”

  “Quite. A very good point! More pertinent for your purposes is the question of the watermark.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let’s see…. This patient was a foreman at one of those new-fangled mills about a forenoon’s walk from central London, out Surrey way to the south where they use wood pulp to make the paper and steam-powered machines to process it. In his earlier day he had toiled at a smaller operation where they used rags, so he was conversant with all aspects of the making of paper. A loquacious sort, he was, though what man in England who has risen above semi-literacy cannot talk your ear right off when given a chance? We are a chatty race. Had terrible halitosis, as I recall, his breath smelled like a dog’s behind after it rolled in …”

  “Uh … watermarks, sir?”

  “Keep me on the trail, my boy, my nose right to it. Excellent! … What was the trail again?”

  “Watermarks.”

  “Watermarks! Right you are! Let me see. This gentleman used to speak of the fact that not long ago there were nearly a thousand paper mills in England, but just a hundred or so now, much bigger and more efficient at the art. I recollect him speaking of watermarks indeed, saying they have become much simpler. Just a single letter often suffices now, the sign of the mill. That wasn’t the way in the old days.”

  It isn’t much, but it’s a start for Sherlock. The watermark is an old one.

  There’s no sense in going to school now: it is early afternoon. It would be impossible to concentrate anyway. The boy works for several hours in the shop, cleaning up around the laboratory, his mind focused on what he should do next. The big clock in the lab seems to be ticking faster and faster. His thoughts wander back to Irene. Her possible contributions remain tantalizing. Does she really know something valuable? But it wouldn’t matter if she did. He simply cannot share the credit for the solution to this crime.

  He grows anxious – he needs to come up with something. But he reminds himself to be as emotionless as possible. He sets jars of oozing liquid, containers of severed limbs, mysterious cans of powder that make his nose tingle, all in their proper places. He dusts the many leaning towers of books that make up Bell’s teetering library, and polishes the three precious statues of Hermes.

  Trying to construct a theory, he focuses on how he might learn more about old watermarks. Just as he does, he notices an old copy of the Telegraph on a stool, and an idea comes to him. When Bell goes off on a mid-afternoon call, he slips out the door. His next stop is Trafalgar Square to speak to the cripple, Dupin, who will be setting up to sell his evening publications. Nothing in the newspaper business escapes the legless man, and Sherlock is betting he’ll know something about the material his sheets are printed upon. An old watermark should be his cup of tea – Dupin adores the history of everything.

  “Paper? Don’t know much about it Master ‘olmes.”

  The boy’s heart sinks.

  “But I do have the acquaintance of a stationer, one of the best in London, been in that line for many generations. He buys his dailies from me. Loves to talk about our glorious past, ‘e does. Just like me, Master ‘olmes.” Dupin’s twisted lips smile. “Two faces, you say? I’ll inquire of ‘im. ‘e’ll be ‘round in about an hour.”

  Sherlock can hardly wait. He doesn’t want to pause more than a minute, let alone an hour – he may be about to make progress on the only clue to the kidnapping. He stands near the newspaper kiosk, examining every customer, sure he will be able to guess which one is the stationer. For a while, deciphering the occupations, ages, and habits of the many men and women who buy Dupin’s papers is interesting. Then his interest wanes. But after Big Ben chimes the next hour, the game becomes more tantalizing: the stationer should be here soon. Which customer will he be? Finally, the perfect candidate appears: a middle-aged chap with an intellectual look on his bespectacled face, a certain historic flair in the cut of his suit, and great height to his hat; he takes the paper from Dupin with long fingers tipped with the black-smudged nails of someone who often works with ink.

  Sherlock can’t stand it any longer. He approaches to eavesdrop. The two men are engrossed in their conversation.

  “Two faces, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “‘ow so, sir?”

  “Why, it’s the mark of the Fourdrinier Brothers, pioneers in our line, stationers here in London long ago. They used some of the first modern papermaking machines very early in the century, but you can’t get that material now.”

  “Why not, sir?” Sherlock pipes up.

  The two men turn. Dupin regards him with a look that says “Shoo!”

  “Who is this?” inquires the stationer, raising his head and looking down his nose and through his spectacles at the boy in the worn-out frock coat.

  “No one,” says Dupin, glaring at Sherlock.

  “Be that as it may, he has an excellent question,” smiles the man.

  Dupin looks relieved.

  “You can’t get that paper these days, my son, because it isn’t manufactured anymore.”

  “But where was it made in its day?”

  “The town of St. Neots, well north of the city, not far from Cambridge, but …”

  The boy doesn’t wait to hear the whole answer.

  King’s Cross Station serves those passengers taking the Great Northern Railway to and from London. Though Sherlock isn’t exactly sure where St. Neots is, he certainly knows all about Cambridge, forty or fifty miles north of here, dominated by its famous university. He’s guessing this rail line will take him close to where he needs to go – he’ll find out at the terminus. He rushes through the city, not even stopping at the apothecary’s to tell the old man he is leaving London. All his work responsibilities have fled his mind. So impetuous is he that he barely considers what awaits him at his destination, if it might all be for naught, how long he might be gone, or if he can even get onto a train. He is simply filled with a desire to go.

  He has to pass through Bloomsbury, and decides to slip up Montague Street where Irene lives, not to see her, mind … just … he isn’t sure why.

  A leg wearing a big dirty boot sticks out as he turns the corner onto Montague, k
nocking him to the hard foot pavement.

  Grimsby.

  He is Malefactor’s most vicious lieutenant: dark, wiry, and sadistic. Beside him stands the silent Crew: big, blond, and blue-eyed. Grimsby steps over Sherlock, arms folded, one foot on either side of his torso.

  Their boss materializes from behind. Dark-haired and gray-eyed like Sherlock, he sports his black top hat and fading, long tailcoat, and carries a walking stick, which he twirls in the air. His head protrudes as he talks, as if examining others suspiciously.

  “Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”

  There was a time when Sherlock was almost pleased to see Malefactor. They have a strange sort of connection, similar pasts: both were destined for more than fate gave them. But Sherlock hates him now. The young criminal befriended Irene through him and has taken to deceiving her, pretending that he will allow her to reform him. And this summer, Sherlock is sure, Malefactor tried to kill him. He will never trust the rogue again.

  Holmes doesn’t feel particularly threatened as he lies there on the footpath: they are in public, in daylight, and he knows the young boss won’t unleash his thugs where the full force of their brutality can be observed. All the same, when he gets to his feet, he will be careful not to turn his back.

  “Anything I should know?” asks the criminal.

  “Go away, rat.”

  Grimsby accidentally kicks Holmes in the ribs.

  “You aren’t in a position to say such things, Jew-boy. Anything I should know?”

  There is nothing he wants to tell Malefactor. They have nothing in common now. Sherlock is a crusader for justice, the other a thief; they are natural enemies and shall be forever. That’s why Malefactor wants him dead.

  “You are onto a case, I can see by the look in your eye,” smiles the master crook, examining his fingernails, not even glancing down at his opponent. “I am guessing … the Rathbone kidnapping.”

  Sherlock says nothing. If Malefactor truly guessed his cause by a look, that means that Irene hasn’t spoken to him yet. Or does it?

  “It is perfect for you. It would gain you the fame you seek, in the cause of … justice.”

  Grimsby giggles.

  “Stay away from it. I am warning you. We do not need more detectives about. Let them wallow in their incompetence. This little career you are considering is a fantasy.”

  Sherlock isn’t listening. He’s thinking of Sigerson Bell and his oriental art of Bellitsu. How does one defeat an opponent while lying on the ground, when he is standing over you? Ah!

  The boy makes a quick move, rolling to his side, forcing Grimsby downward by driving his shoulder into the other’s calf and seizing the outside of his leg with his arm. In an instant, the young tough is on the ground, groaning, Sherlock looming above him.

  There are indeed too many passersby here for the other two to respond with noticeable violence. Sherlock backs up, his eyes on his opponents.

  “The child is learning,” says Malefactor.

  Sherlock nods.

  “I did not try to kill you, you know. Believe me. I am still interested in your progress. I hold out hope that you will come over to our side some day, where the realists are. Your methods are sinister enough. Let me offer some advice as a show of friendship. If you indeed ill-advisedly pursue the Rathbone situation, do so quietly; do it like a thief in the night. Never seek notoriety!”

  But Sherlock is running now, up Montague Street toward King’s Cross, his rival’s raised voice fading in the distance. He doesn’t care a fig for Malefactor’s advice anymore. He is sure that that nasty piece of work will try to eliminate him again the instant he gets the chance. Never seek notoriety? The rascal revels in it.

  It was his father who first taught him to be scientific, never rash, never a guesser. And that’s what he has been trying to be over the last few months. But this watermark clue is just too enticing. The only approach now is a bold one. He won’t be deterred or slowed down, not by Malefactor, not even by common sense. He is heading north to St. Neots … where he has no idea what he will find.

  He spots the huge railway station a long way off, on the north side of Euston Road, an imposing building made of yellow-brown bricks. The clock on its tower tells him that London’s busiest hours are nearing: the crowds are growing. That is good, because it will allow him to lose himself in the flow of people and steal onto a train – there isn’t a farthing in his pocket. He rushes inside through one of the big archways. The noise here, contained and echoing in the great hall, is making it difficult for travelers to even hear themselves speak. He observes the many Bobbies walking in the throngs under the arched ceiling, watching for miscreants.

  Just past the front doors he finds a map on a wall, showing the route of The Great Northern. Following its black line up the illustration, he almost cries out when he sees where it goes: just west of Cambridge, right through the little town of St. Neots.

  It leaves from Platform 8, the 4:10 to York. He glances at the clock. He has two minutes! He runs. Ticket offices, a dispatch office, and little shops selling newspapers and sweets ring the interior of the station. A brick wall extends its full length to his left, cut with interior archways, separating it from the platforms and their glass-covered ceiling. Where is number 8? His heart sinks as he glances toward the first doorway – PLATFORMS 1 & 2, reads the sign above it. He keeps running, past 3 & 4, then 5 & 6, aware now that his train will leave from the last platform in the building, way down at the far end. He has no ticket, no plan to get through without one, and he’s desperately late! His future may depend on making this train. Racing through the crowd, darting in and around ladies and gentlemen and children dressed like little adults, he finally sees the number 8 archway, a single cut in the wall, narrower than all the others. Through it, he spots the mighty black steam locomotive on the track, hissing away, belching filthy smoke out its stack, making deafening noises … about to pull out. There may not be another train until tomorrow. In two days Victoria Rathbone will be murdered. He must make it.

  He sprints toward the ticket inspector at the gate, who is dressed in a navy-blue uniform, pillbox cap tipped lazily back on his head. That’s whom the boy has to get past. He eyes his surroundings as he runs: passengers are swirling around him, rushing in different directions toward their trains, fares evident in a few hands. Can he knock into them like a cricket ball into a wicket, like one of Malefactor’s ruffians, and snatch a ticket in the confusion? Can he show it to the inspector with his fingers obscuring its surface? How closely do they check? What –

  The inspector raises the palm of his hand toward Sherlock.

  “This gate is closed, lad. The 4:10 is on ‘er run.”

  The locomotive’s shrill whistle makes the boy jump.

  “But …”

  “Best be on your way.”

  Sherlock looks past him and sees that the train is beginning to move.

  Shove the inspector, leap over the gate, and make a run for it.

  “I asked you to move, lad. What are you lookin’ at?”

  The man’s eyes are following Sherlock’s.

  “Not a thing, sir.”

  As the boy walks away, the official’s gaze follows him with interest. Holmes slips into the crowd.

  He has missed the train.

  “Hurry, Constance!” an old, rail-thin gentleman in a chimney-pot hat exclaims beside him in the din. He’s begging his poor wife to get moving. “The train departs in a quarter hour.” She is as plump and prickly as a porcupine, and almost as smelly. She natters at him, huffing and puffing as she waddles forth in layers of heavy clothing, sweating profusely in the cool station.

  “Might I be of assistance?” says a porter in an impeccable uniform, who has spotted them from a distance. He is pushing a wooden wheelchair.

  “Ah! Yes, my good man. We are bound to Peterborough, on the 4:25, Platform 1. The slow train it is, but our pace of life. These steam horses are fast enough at any speed!”

  “Well, just sets yourself
down ‘ere in this wheeled chair, madam, and we shall fly to the gate on time.”

  The old lady drops with a sigh into the wheelchair. It shudders, and instantly they are off.

  Peterborough.

  It is directly north of St. Neots. And the 4:25 is the slow train: that means it stops at nearly every village. Sherlock is desperate to be on it. Platform I is all the way back down the hall near where he entered. He follows the porter pushing the fat old lady and the skeletal husband who is hustling to keep up. Having to return the entire distance across the station is a good thing for Sherlock – he needs time to figure out how to get past Platform 1‘s inspector.

  The boy arrives with ten minutes to spare. Observing from fifty feet away, he concocts a plan. The inspector is turned sideways, examining tickets, a brick wall facing him, an iron gate stretched across most of the gap behind him, leaving just a narrow passageway for travelers to squeeze through to the platforms. There is nothing for it. Sherlock will have to rush past in a crowd. He has something to work with already: the two men with the lady in the wheelchair will be a perfect diversion.

  He surveys the crowd and looks for more. He spots a family approaching the gate. They will do. They are a good twenty feet in front of the wheelchair group. There are six of them. Time to move. Sherlock darts toward them and cuts in front of the father. Then he stops without warning, forcing the whole family to come to a sudden halt: they almost pile into him. He looks down to check if he’s stepped in something and as he does, the wheelchair group catches up to the family. Now there are nine people, ten including Sherlock, bunched up near the gate. The father gives Holmes a stern look.