Vanishing Girl

“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 protege 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.