Vanishing Girl Page 17

  “Sir!” He finally shouts.

  The gentleman turns and looks down his nose at the boy.

  “Inspector Lestrade … he sent me with a message. He has a few more questions for you. I am to bring back the responses.”

  “You are? I thought this was secret stuff. Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “Doesn’t like to run.”

  The gentleman laughs. “Yes, I can imagine that, our Lestrade.”

  “And he prefers unlikely messengers. I am not what I seem, you will understand.”

  Susceptible to flattery, thinks Sherlock as he watches the man straighten his waistcoat.

  “What would he like to know?”

  “He wanted me to say, firstly, that he was impressed with your keen memory of the events in question.”

  The gentleman smiles.

  “It is nothing. I make it a habit to train my mind. I am told I have a large bump of mnemonic recall on my cranium. Ask me anything, and I shall see what I can do for the Inspector by way of retrieving files from my brain banks.”

  “When did you let this house to the people who were holding Victoria Rathbone?”

  “He has already asked me this!” snorts the gentleman. He looks suspicious.

  “Inspector Lestrade is very thorough. He finds that by asking questions more than once, new things come to light. You might add something? There are several other queries. He just asked me to start with this.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve noticed that about him: a repetitious sort. Well, as I’ve said, I let the house to two gentlemen for a one-year period some time ago. But they only appeared the very morning she was discovered. Curious that. I saw all three of them when we transacted our business. She was wearing a dark veil over her eyes.” The man leans closer to Sherlock. “These are things that were never published in the newspapers, you know, just between me and the good inspector.”

  “You are sure it was two men?”

  “Of course, I am sure, you young fool.”

  “I am merely a fool’s messenger, sir.”

  The gentleman laughs.

  “You are a saucy one, young buck. And well-spoken. You know, I had very little when I was a child, too.”

  “So, just the two men … and the girl?”

  “Yes, though I did have a feeling.”

  “A feeling?”

  “Don’t like to mention such things. Feelings are rather feminine, don’t you think?”

  “Then let us call it an instinct in your gut. What was it?”

  “Well put, my boy. I didn’t say this to Lestrade, of course. But nevertheless … I had the feeling … tell him it was that instinct in the gut sort of thing … that someone else was pulling the strings, just by the way the two men kept consulting each other, weighing things, as if wondering how someone who made the decisions would react.”

  “Someone else? Perhaps a local man?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “And the lady, sir, she made no effort to signal to you that she was being held captive?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “That is singular, indeed.”

  “Lestrade thought so too. And the two gentlemen, they vanished without a trace.”

  “Almost as if they had intended it all,” says Sherlock under his breath.

  “I beg your pardon, young man?”

  “Nothing, sir, just chatting with myself. Bad habit. Thank you for your cooperation. Inspector Lestrade thanks you as well. I shall be sure to tell him about your ‘instinct.’ You have remarkable powers of recall indeed!”

  The landlord steps away from Sherlock at an even quicker pace, his chest puffed out. But the boy is already rushing back to the house. There is something else he wants to know and he has to get into the house to confirm it. From the street, he had noticed that the shutters were closed on the windows in the top two storeys. The boy has also noticed that the cold Southsea footpaths are muddy.

  All the policemen are inside. Sherlock walks up to the entrance, climbs the steps, and stands flat against the wall to the side of the locked front door. When someone comes out, it will open toward him. He will have the element of surprise too, always a powerful weapon. It takes a while, but eventually a figure appears. It is Lestrade Junior, obviously a bit bored and looking for some cool Southsea air.

  Holmes darts in.

  “Sherlock!”

  He knows what he wants to see. Making for the stairs, he rushes up the first set, looking closely at the surface of each step. Then he turns on the landing and glances up the stairs to the upper floor. The detectives are conversing up there. Young Lestrade, who has followed on the double, is instantly on him, seizing him and almost throwing him back down to the entrance, trying to do so noiselessly, and then hustling him out the front door.

  “You promised me! You will go too far one day, sir!” He is furious, but trying not to shout.

  “My apologies. It is my naturally inquisitive ways. They get the best of me at times.”

  Young Lestrade almost smiles; almost. He shoves Holmes tight to the building.

  “You saw something in there, didn’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. It may throw some light on this matter.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Only if you give me something in return.”

  “I have given you enough.”

  “When the police were informed of the presence of Victoria Rathbone in this house, who told them?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Then neither can I. You might have been able to follow up on what I discovered in there. Without it, you have nothing.”

  Lestrade hesitates.

  “We received an anonymous tip from the public due to my father’s brilliant idea of announcing …”

  “In other words, you have no idea who sent it and neither does your father.”

  “It was from a member of the great English public, who preferred to remain anonymous.”

  “Not wanting to get involved in this mess?”

  “I should think.”

  “Did anyone see this anonymous person?”

  “No. The message came by telegram.”

  “So … it could have come from anyone … even, theoretically, one of the culprits.”

  “What do you mean? Tell me what you saw in there. You promised.”

  You shan’t make anything of it anyway, you boob.

  “The crime scene has been sealed since the day the culprits were here, has it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Know this: all the footprints on the staircases were made by the police and you and your father. I would recognize your governor’s bootprints anywhere, and detectives leave distinct marks too. I must be off.”

  Ignoring the other boy’s puzzled expression, Sherlock turns down the front steps of the house and heads for the street. As he does, he hears an upstairs window snap up and the shutters open. A few strides later, when he glances back, he sees Inspector Lestrade’s shocked face looking out. It quickly turns red.

  “Bring me that boy!” he shouts, extending a finger at him.

  But “that boy” has far too extensive a head start and his long, young legs are too much for the otherwise competent members of the Force. He disappears up across the Southsea line and into the city proper, veering and turning down little streets and alleys. Before long, his pursuers give up.

  He immediately ponders his next task. Finding Captain Waller is going to be difficult. There are several options. He can go to the barracks or the officers’ mess and simply ask for him, but he wonders what his reception might be. Perhaps he should scout out the pubs in Portsea or across the strait in Gosport, the Royal Navy parts of town. He could make inquiries in the taverns a captain might frequent. That’s all to the west, through an undoubtedly dangerous area.

  But first, he must eat. The apothecary put some sardines between biscuits for him and he can feel them bulging in his suit-coat pocket. He is tired from running and wants a drink, to
o. There’s a public tap near the railway station. That would be a good place to eat; a busy spot where no one can accuse him of loitering.

  A short while later he is leaning against the outside wall of the station, munching on the biscuit sandwiches, savoring the strong taste of the sardines, when he sees something that arrests his meal in mid chew. A middle-class woman, dressed in a plain, dull cotton dress and bonnet, is rushing out of the entrance to the station and something is very wrong about her appearance. Sherlock spots it all immediately. She has the upright, proud bearing of someone distinctly above the class of her clothing; there’s a scarf pulled up over her mouth and nose, though this noon hour is not especially cold; and under the bonnet, pulled down as it is to her brow, he spies a pair of stunningly beautiful, yet slightly cloudy, brown eyes.

  Lady Rathbone isn’t more than ten feet from him. Sherlock turns away quickly. He hears her call for a cab and enter it. When it heads out into the Portsmouth streets, he runs after it.

  Thankfully, it is a Monday and midday, so the roads are busy and Sherlock is able to keep up. The cab heads toward the dockyards. Before they reach the water, the two-wheeler stops and she alights and scurries into a little town square. A man is waiting for her at a bench, dressed in a dark suit, not a uniform. They embrace and hold hands as they sit. Early forties, upright bearing, mustache curled at both ends, tall, dark-haired, handsome, though the redness of his nose betrays his fondness for drink. There’s an elm tree not far from the bench, so Sherlock slips over and slides down to the grass, facing away from them, his back against the trunk and his beak in his newspaper to hide his face.

  “This is for you,” says the man in a soft voice. Sherlock glances around and sees her take a note from him with a smile. But then her anxious expression returns.

  “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Your message said so little. Who are these fiends who are hounding your home and your child? Can’t the police do anything?”

  “It’s more than you think.”

  “More? What do you mean? How can there be more?”

  “We’ve had an intruder.”

  “An intruder?”

  She looks guilty. “He confronted me. I gave him your name.”

  “You what?” He almost gets to his feet, but she pulls him down.

  “It was just a boy. He broke into my room and found our gloves. I don’t think he really knew anything, but he demanded your name and I had to tell him or he wouldn’t leave, would have alerted the house. He may be after you for money, so you need to be on your guard.”

  The man glances around. Sherlock sinks into his paper.

  “Do not distress yourself over this. You already have your child to worry about. This blackmailer’s timing is bad, anyway. I … I’m leaving England soon. I would have sent for you today and told you, had you not sent for me. I … I’m going to America. Tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  “I must. It won’t be for long.”

  “But …” She looks him up and down. “Is that why you are out of uniform? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve left the navy … the only captain in the ranks who didn’t have blue blood and in command of the smallest boat they ever floated … a sixth-rate vessel … it might as well have been a rowboat. It would have stayed that way forever for me. So I’ve left my post. I’m not of their kind, those prigs.”

  “You didn’t say that when they were promoting you. You charmed them out of their socks.”

  “Charmed their wives, Pauline, and toiled many extra hours. Let’s be honest.”

  “One does what one must to get ahead. We both know that.”

  “I hate the blue bloods, all of them…. I hate your husband.”

  “I do too, sometimes.”

  “But I will show them.”

  “Show them? By doing what?”

  “It’s only an expression, dearest. I must be off.”

  “But I’ve just arrived. Why are you rushing away?”

  “It’s simply some business I’ve arranged. Then I must prepare for departure…. I shall write, Pauline. And I’ll be back before long. Read my note.”

  As he pulls her to her feet and embraces her, Sherlock makes a mistake. He rises slightly to see them. The captain is lifting her in his arms and turns slightly. Over his shoulder, she sees a lad peering at them above a newspaper.

  “The boy!” she cries, pointing at him.

  Sherlock rises, poised to run, but it’s the couple who flees. The captain takes Lady Rathbone by the hand and flies out of the square, then lifts her into the hansom cab that still waits on the street. He pounds the roof and shouts at the driver. The cab darts out into the traffic and is gone in seconds.

  Holmes stands there, stunned, the newspaper in his hand. But then he notices that the lady has dropped something. He walks over and picks it up. The note! He opens it with trembling hands. This may be the answer to all his questions, to what he and the police and Malefactor and Irene have been pursuing for months. It was obvious from the couple’s conversation that the captain is up to something and that Lady Rathbone knows nothing of it. Is this a confession? Will it say why he is leaving the country?

  He opens it.

  Dearest Pauline, know that I will always love you.

  It’s a love note, a stupid, meaningless love note. The disappointment is hard to bear. He jams it into his frock-coat pocket and heads back into the center of the city, not sure what he should do next. Try to follow the hansom cab? But it has long since vanished. Return to Bush Villas? But they will be on the lookout for him. In fact, Lestrade may have half the Portsmouth constabulary searching for him.

  Within a street or two Sherlock feels he is being followed. Someone is lurking behind. He slips away from the bigger thoroughfares and darts down a small road, then a smaller one, then through alleys and mews, going faster and faster. His pursuer seems to be getting closer. But after a few minutes, he thinks he has shaken whoever is on his trail.

  When he finally stops, he leans against a clammy stone wall on a narrow, cobblestone lane, trying to discern exactly where he is. He has run so frantically and turned so often that he has lost his sense of direction. He looks up to see where the sun is, to get his bearings.

  But it isn’t wise to look anywhere other than straight ahead or behind on the little streets of Portsmouth. Instantly, someone seizes him, and the steely arms that apply the grip aren’t covered with blue-uniformed sleeves.

  “Just relax, mate, and we’ll get you stripped down and on yer way in a wink.”

  The arms are bare, even in this cold December morning. They are tattooed, hairy, and as thick as mill posts; the breath coming directly into Sherlock’s ear from behind, stinks of beer. The thug grinds his face stubble into the boy’s cheek and holds him uncomfortably close in an iron lock.

  This rough will rip off his clothing, take everything he owns, and leave him battered or dead on this nearly deserted street. He is in a very bad part of town.

  Then a memory makes a sudden appearance in his brain and the art of Bellitsu is at his fingertips.

  “When a gentleman seizes you from behind, he is almost always an unthinking rough of some sort, intent upon doing you some evil, my boy, but without a speck of fighting technique,” cracked Sigerson Bell one day in the lab, wearing his pugilist’s tights. “He shall grip you thusly.” Bell demonstrated exactly the hold that the stinking sailor has on the boy at this very instant, with his meaty arms under Sherlock’s armpits and his hands clasped tightly behind the boy’s neck.

  “Throw your arms straight into the air!” the apothecary had shrieked.

  Sherlock does so.

  “Then drop down to the ground and roll away!”

  Sherlock slides out of the grip and rolls when he hits the cobblestones.

  “Jump to your feet, take a balanced position, and measure your distance. Then strike your opponent with an oriental martial arts kick to the temple.” At the time, Bell had performed the feat as quick
ly as a cat and smacked another skeleton’s skull.

  Sherlock pivots, dips his hips, and drives the point of one of his heavy Wellington boots into the thug’s temple. The man drops like a stone. But the boy doesn’t wait to see if he rises.

  “Then … RUN!!!” Bell had screamed in his high-pitched voice.

  Sherlock is off to the races again. He rips down the little cobblestone street and takes the first turn. As he does, he glances over his shoulder and notices someone peering around the corner near the fallen man, as if motioning for him to get up and pursue. It looks like a tall boy in a black tailcoat, and there seem to be a couple of others near his side, one blond, the other dark.

  But Sherlock doesn’t allow himself more than a passing glance – he is likely imagining those figures anyway. Within minutes, he somehow finds his way directly to the railway station. Perhaps it is his good sense of direction, now regained, or perhaps fear sends him where he needs to go.

  There are many daily trains to London and he is on the next one. He huddles on the wooden bench. As the train pulls out, he thinks about what he’s learned.

  There were two men and a girl here, and possibly a local man pulling strings. They used a middle-class neighborhood, not suited for hiding a prisoner. They were only in the house for part of a day, just for hours, or perhaps minutes because they didn’t even go upstairs to the bedrooms. She didn’t try to flee. On that very morning, an anonymous telegram was sent to Scotland Yard. The two men were conveniently gone when the Force arrived, though the police got here on the fly. Did someone intentionally draw Lestrade’s men to Portsmouth?

  But all this reasoning doesn’t reveal anything about who they are or where they are now. And it doesn’t mean Captain Waller was involved. He seems to have a secret and bears a grudge against Rathbone – so he has a motive. But that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with the crimes.

  Sherlock wishes that love note had actually said something. He pulls it out of his pocket to crumple it up and throw it across the half-empty carriage. As he does, he takes one last disdainful glance at it. At that instant the train bursts out from under the station roof into the sun. Its bright rays shine through his window and he catches a glimpse of something on the paper.