Vanishing Girl tbsh-3 Page 14

  Sherlock has found something. Sticking his head into a wardrobe he notices a little heap on its floor, pushed into a corner. It is two gloves, one obviously a gentleman’s, the other a lady’s. They are placed so they are clasping each other, all the fingers entwined. The man’s is a military glove and the other is Lady Rathbone’s – it smells of lemons. The boy’s head is so far into the wardrobe that he doesn’t hear the bedroom door when it opens.

  She may not have the very best vision, but she spots the plates on her bed immediately. Her heart begins to race. Who is in here? She whirls around but sees no one. Then … she notices that the door to her dressing room is nearly closed. It is never left that way. She rushes over and pushes it open. A footman is leaning into one of her wardrobes! He turns to her with a start. She is about to scream, but sees what he is holding in his hands and almost faints.

  Sherlock Holmes cannot believe he has been caught. How could he be such an imbecile, so careless? But he immediately realizes that he is in luck. Lady Rathbone obviously doesn’t want to scream, doesn’t want to draw attention to this intruder in her dressing room. Why? He must figure out exactly why immediately: bring his powers of deduction to bear more efficiently than ever before. Be calm. Be clever. If he can’t outsmart her, he will be tied to the Rathbone robbery and live the rest of his existence in jail or worse. He thinks of the punishment the lord spoke of in his boasting talk at the dinner table. Sherlock’s life may depend on what he says in the next minute.

  She is staring at the gloves.

  “What are you doing, young man?” “I think you are well aware.” “What do you know? Are you a blackmailer?”

  Her voice is curiously different from the one she employed in the dining room. There is no forced accent.

  “Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Tell me his name.”

  “I shan’t. Do as you will.”

  “All right. I will take these items with me. And you will allow me to leave with them because if you try to stop me, I will alert the household. We shall be in contact by post. The cost for the return of the gloves will increase by the day. Or, you can tell me his name – and give me those gems around your neck – and I will return the gloves to you now, the military man’s and yours.”

  “His name is … Captain Waller,” she finally says, her voice choked with emotion. She reaches up to undo her necklace. It is such a feminine motion, so sweet and vulnerable. Her face colors and a tear plops onto her cheek. Sherlock almost feels sorry for her.

  She is so flustered that she is having trouble undoing the clasp and sits down at her dressing table. He approaches to help her. She looks at him in the mirror, up close, and squints. Then she raises her lorgnette by the stem and whirls around in her chair to examine him.

  “You aren’t a Rathbone footman! You don’t know me! You are a common burglar! No one will believe you! Give me those!”

  She snatches the gloves from his hands … and screams. Sherlock can hardly believe how loudly she shrieks. It isn’t the sound of an upper-class lady, but the caterwaul of an enraged and aggrieved woman filled with suppressed passions.

  He runs into the bedroom with Lady Rathbone in pursuit, well aware that she could knock him to the floor and jump on him without thinking twice. The windows in the room are long and wide, going from knee-high height to within inches of the ten-foot ceiling. One of them is slightly open – ladies like to keep their rooms cool; it is good for the skin. Sherlock rushes to it, grasps the sash in both hands and shoves it up. It barely budges. But his thin frame is his ally again: he can just get through. He struggles out in a flash, forgetting that he is three floors up. Lady Rathbone grabs one of his feet. He can hardly believe it … a belle of the London social scene has him by the leg! He can hear servants shouting as they ascend the stairs. He kicks at her, connects with something soft, and feels her release him and fall to the floor. He looks out into the cold, dark night. Oh-oh. The ground is far below. The dim lights of all of west London appear to be glowing in the panorama. He can see where the gray flat roof of Buckingham Palace is lit, not far away.

  There’s a big oak tree about three or four feet from the window. He stands up on the wide sill and leaps. But the branch he aims for is too far away and he misses it and falls through the tree, smacking his arms, his head, and his rear end. Stay calm. He looks down, notices a big branch approaching, and seizes it! It makes his hands burn, but he hangs on. Breathing heavily, his heart pounding, he takes a moment to gather himself as he swings from the limb.

  “THIEVES! ROBBERY! VILLAINY!” he hears voices shouting. Word has spread through the house and is beginning to spill outside. Sherlock looks to the ground. He’s about eight feet from the grass. He lets go. The impact of the landing makes him shudder from his toes to his skull, but everything stays intact. He gets to his feet and runs, aware that several of the house staff are already outside and coming his way.

  “Barrymore?” says the cook, who is standing on the lawn with her eyes bulging.

  Sherlock knows the area at the front of the house well. He stumbles up the walk, kicks open the black iron gate, and rushes toward the road in the bitter early winter day. The fog hangs in yellow clouds under the tall iron gas lamps on Belgrave Square. The park looks wet and coldly tropical. He heads for it: across the cobblestone street, through the open entrance, onto the criss-crossing paths on the grass under the trees. There is an increasing number of running footsteps behind him, a herd of pursuers.

  One of them will catch him, there is no doubt. He cannot get away from that many young men at full gallop. He is done.

  Then he trips! But not over any object on the ground or his own feet. It is someone else’s foot. Sprawling on the grass, he whips his head around and sees those pretty, patent-leather boots with buttons. He also senses someone rushing out from the bushes nearby. A small boy in a dirty red coat is darting away in the same direction Holmes was going.

  “Sherlock!”

  Irene Doyle is squatting behind a row of hedges, beckoning him to stay low and come with her.

  He doesn’t have to think twice.

  Rathbone’s servants race past in hot pursuit of the smaller boy.

  “We shall go this way.” Irene nods in the direction Sherlock came from. They wait for all the pursuers to pass. She reaches down and takes his hand. It sends a thrill right up his arm to his shoulders and into his chest.

  “Come on, Sherlock! Hurry!”

  Finally, he moves, following her onto the street. In minutes they are out of the square and heading away from Belgravia. Irene hands him something – a bundle she had been carrying. Before long, they stop. They are at the high wall that runs along the gardens at the rear of Buckingham Palace. The street is well lit here and they are standing close to each other. Her face and hair glow in the lambent light. She is trying to seem distant and business-like.

  “You should put those back on – your coat, at least.

  You can’t walk around the way you are. We’ll throw the footman’s coat into a dustbin.”

  His clothes? But they were in the stable at the rear of the mansion.

  “How did you know …”

  He steps back from her.

  “You were watching me?”

  “No … I wasn’t. Believe me. I have no interest in watching you. I –”

  “Someone was.” Malefactor.

  “No, he wasn’t. Not … exactly. He was watching the house, not you. Then you came along, pretending to be a fishmonger’s boy. He left as soon as you were inside. But I wanted to see how you made out, so he asked the littlest Irregular to keep me company – the wee fellow has a bit of a shine for me. Then I saw you climbing out of the upper-storey window and hightailing it over here. I figured they had you – it is in my interest to keep you in this game. It occurred to me that the little one was wearing a stolen red coat not unlike your footman’s uniform. So I asked him to lead the servants on a wild goose chase away from here. He always does what I say. He will stay far in fro
nt of them. Believe me, he will never be caught.”

  She smiles weakly.

  “So … you’ve told him.”

  “Not as much as I told you.”

  “He has no interest in helping you, Irene. Don’t deceive yourself. His interest is in other things: in being near you … in my destruction.”

  “I just want someone to solve this. It just needs to be done.”

  They had started walking again, but Sherlock stops. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Miss Doyle. Now, I must be on my way.”

  He turns to go.

  “Sherlock, you know I would rather this was different … and I hope it is you who succeeds.”

  “If you told that snake anything, then you told him too much. I kept you at a distance in order to protect you, Irene, but now you …”

  “I … what? Say it Sherlock, even if it is an awful thing, say it. Say something with some passion in it to me. You have become so cold.”

  He had lost his temper and was going to say that she had turned into his enemy. But now he looks into those beautiful brown eyes and can’t do it. It isn’t true. He turns away so he won’t see her when he tells her what he has to say … this final time. It isn’t a moment for bitterness, just time to be brave, for the bare truth. His life cannot be like anyone else’s. He remembers holding his dead mother in his arms.

  “There will never be another time when I will need you in any way. I work alone.”

  A cloud passes over her face. Deep pain and resentment wells up inside her.

  “You will regret this, Sherlock Holmes!” she hisses, in a voice unlike her own.

  Sherlock lies in his wardrobe that night feeling lonely. He still has Sigerson Bell as an ally, but no one else. He wonders if that is really the way it has to be. Will anyone ever understand both him and what he believes in? It would be wonderful to have a companion – a mate his own age he cares about – someone to help him in his lifelong quest.

  But he can never have a girl for a close friend … or a wife … everyone must be kept at arm’s length. He wishes it wasn’t so complicated. Alone and in the dark, he lets the tears slip down his cheeks. Soon there are many of them. He turns to his rough hempen pillow to muffle his sobs.

  The next day is a Sunday, but he is up early with an expression of resolve on his face. He knows he should act slowly and meticulously, but the fact that Malefactor was right outside the Rathbone home makes that a losing proposition. He has some leads and he must follow up on them immediately.

  This crime has something to do with Lady Rathbone. What, he doesn’t know. But he can’t pursue her anymore, at least not directly. What else? Who else?

  Victoria.

  Something isn’t right about her, he is sure. What if he watched her … or even found a way to engage her in a brief conversation, an exchange of just a few words that he controls? On the surface, that seems impossible. But perhaps there is a way.

  He needs to go back to Belgravia and figure it out: stay in the park in the square, well out of sight, watch the house, wait for Victoria to come out, observe her movements, follow her, or discover how he might actually approach her. And if he succeeds, he should mention Paul Dimly. He can use the little boy’s name: her heart will melt when she recalls him and then perhaps she’ll talk to someone like Sherlock – he can take advantage of her momentary indulgence to ask his questions. They will have to be expertly conceived.

  He leaves without breakfast, before the apothecary is awake. When he gets to the park, he doesn’t have to wait a minute to get started – there is a surprise as he settles by a tree in the square to watch. Though the big mansion doesn’t appear to have roused yet, Victoria Rathbone is stepping out the wide front door … alone. And not just for a breath of air – she is wearing a fancy coat and bonnet, as if she dressed in the night and is going somewhere at this early-morning hour. But no carriage awaits her. This is decidedly strange. It is unusual for a respectable lady, especially a young, unmarried one, let alone one recently traumatized, to be by herself outside in London. Irene Doyle has certainly been known to go out alone, but she isn’t of the Rathbone’s superior class, and was raised by a father who encouraged her to be independent.

  Sherlock tucks himself behind the tree and observes, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

  He can see now that Victoria is carrying a big bag, a portmanteau, showing surprising strength in her pale arms. Her breath is evident in quick little cloudbursts in front of her face. She closes the door gently, as if she hopes it won’t make a sound, looks carefully around the front lawn, back up at the big, bulging bay windows on the front of the house, and then walks briskly along the front walk toward the gate. What is going on?

  An idea rushes into Sherlock’s mind. He steps out from behind the tree and darts across the road. London’s street children often do little favors for the rich for coins.

  “Hansom cab, me lady?” he shouts.

  Victoria Rathbone stops dead in her tracks. One of her hands moves to her lips, as if to shush him. But she arrests it before it reaches her face, turns sharply toward the house, and begins to scurry back. Sherlock can’t believe how quickly she moves. In a flash, she returns up the walkway and into the mansion. There isn’t a second to even mention the little boy’s name.

  Sherlock doesn’t have an inkling about what this means, but he knows it isn’t advisable to stand there trying to figure it out. He takes to his heels.

  Did I frighten her? Was it simply that? Are there servants pursuing me again? He glances back as he flees. No one seems to be coming, but he keeps moving, just in case. Was she really leaving the house alone? Why did she run back?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Holmes maintains a quick pace until he is all the way to Trafalgar Square. There, amidst the beginnings of a crowd of Sunday tourists in the cloudy, early-winter morning, he blends in, becomes anonymous. He huddles against the stone plinth of a statue and thinks. He eats some chunks of bread he has brought from the shop. The crowd grows. Out in the teeming colors of the masses in the square, he hears people arguing, vendors shouting, the pigeons cooing, vehicles rumbling on the streets, church bells tolling nearby. It is so loud that it almost hurts his ears. He thinks he sees an Irregular, that little one, peering at him from among the tourists. But when he looks carefully, he can’t be certain. He makes the scene go silent. It all fades, faces blur, and even smells recede. People move, speak, shout … without a sound. He concentrates. What isn’t right about Victoria Rathbone? How does it fit into what he knows about the robbery?

  All he really has is her unusual behavior, her mother’s secret, and a vague profile of the culprits and how they pulled off their crime. It worries him that Malefactor might be well ahead in this game.

  He tells himself that he should do something to clear his mind.

  He decides to go to Stepney. He isn’t sure why.

  Stepney lies east of even Whitechapel. There are many roads that lead to it, and all that come from central London are treacherous for a boy out on his own. The city is filled with pockets of poor, violent neighborhoods, and generally things get worse to the east or south.

  Sherlock decides to steer clear of Whitechapel itself. He has had enough of his father’s old Jewish territory and those dark alleys where he came face-to-face with his first gruesome murder. Instead, he will walk nearer the Thames. He strolls toward St. Paul’s Cathedral and then swings south to the water, amazed, as always, at the number of churches in London. They are mostly dark and medieval, awe-inspiring temples to goodness standing amongst all this evil. He passes London Bridge and the ancient Tower of London, still thinking about Victoria and her mother. He veers slightly north to avoid the docks and the hard-living Londoners who lurk there, but soon is in places where he must be on his guard anyway; where anxious people in search of a living eye their marks, where crowds of children walk about in rags, begging from strangers. He darts through Shadwell, slows past a Friends Meeting House, feeling a little saf
er, but then moves into Stepney. Here he must be alert again.

  Irene had said that the little boy was in the Ratcliff Workhouse, which Sherlock knows is near St. Dunstan’s Church. What sort of parents did the child have? A young girl who couldn’t keep him? Paupers who couldn’t either? Sherlock begins to chide himself for being here. This has nothing to do with the robbery, and he’s wasting his time. Malefactor is likely hard at work. Did he come here as a way to be close to the one person he dearly wants as a friend, but has pushed away for good? Perhaps he might see her.

  He walks up Stepney High Street, feeling more secure where the road is busy, and sees St. Dunstan’s up ahead, lording it over both its expansive green grounds and the dirt-poor neighborhood.

  It is like a castle from the Middle Ages in a modern, knightless world. Church services have just ended and the property is nearly deserted. He steps gently across the grass and sits on a bench near the grand stone stairs, pausing for a few moments, thinking about the case, his mother, whether or not he really wants to see Paul Dimly, and if he would be allowed into the workhouse anyway. The sun is straight above him in the cold noon hour. He stands and walks up the many steps to St. Dunstan’s entrance and tries the big wooden doors. They are locked. Looking north from this elevation, he sees the back of a rundown, two-storey building that looks like a patched-up stable, the words “Ragged School” near the roof. Didn’t Irene say that Thomas Barnardo ran such a school near here?

  When he walks past the school a few moments later, he spies a young man stepping through the doors into the street. He wears a plain but respectable suit, round, wire-rimmed spectacles and the beginnings of a mustache. His appearance sticks out in these surroundings and there is something about him that strikes Sherlock as rather brave. A child nears, dressed in a filthy garment more like a potato sack than a dress and wearing a spit-polished pair of men’s black boots. The young man pats the little girl on the head. Her hair hangs in greasy strings and is likely crawling with lice. She clings to him, but he admonishes her, makes her stand up straight. Sherlock hears the word Jesus. Ah, this is his man.