Vanishing Girl

to investigate the Rathbone kidnapping, what Inspector Lestrade said about him in public, and how desperately he wanted to defeat and shame him; how he hoped to blunt the plans of the devious criminals who did this, members of a class of humanity he hates. He doesn’t mention what Mr. Doyle might have done for him because that dream is gone, and he forgets about the little boy in the workhouse.

“Well, first of all, one must pursue things for the right reasons,” says the old man after a lengthy pause. “And secondly … you know, you know very well, that I am an alchemist as well as an apothecary. That doesn’t simply mean that I embrace the ancient dark arts of the sciences, that I believe I shall one day make gold from another substance. It also means that I am a disciple of the philosophy of the alchemist, which is to say that I believe one can turn life into gold.”

Sherlock smiles.

“I embrace, I veritably hug and cuddle, the concept of optimism. It is at the core of my approach to my existence. I shall give you an example. Fetch me my stick.”

Sherlock retrieves the Swiss fighting stick, a long, thick pole with the belting power of a stallion’s kick, one of two leaning against a wall beside the water closet, resting where it was left after Bell’s last lesson in clubbing an opponent.

“Strike me!!”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. The apothecary has taught him the importance of the tactic of surprise: get off a blow when least expected. He has also taught him to never hold back. The boy expects Bell to show him some sort of unanticipated defensive move, something that will act as a metaphor for his ideas about optimism.

But the old man just stands there and Sherlock’s strike, delivered smartly, makes a cracking sound like a pistol going off as the stick connects with Bell’s forehead. It echoes all the way out to the shop’s front room … and likely into the street. The ancient apothecary goes down like he has been axed.

For an instant, Sherlock can’t see Sigerson Bell. Then he hears a weak voice on the floor.

“I shall be better shortly.”

Though it takes the boy several hours to truly bring the old man around (a shot of laudanum is found to be most helpful), he is, indeed, eventually better. “One can rise from any blow,” he finally squeaks. That, in short, was his message, built upon a sacrifice he offered up for his apprentice.

With the old man moaning in his room upstairs, Sherlock goes to his little bed in the laboratory wardrobe thinking about this lesson in the school of hard knocks. The boy knows that Bell has more to say to him and looks forward to the encouragement he will offer. He hopes it is enough.

Holmes has come to understand that his is a moody disposition. The occasions when he drops into terrible bouts of sadness – recalling his mother and how he caused her death, or thinking about everyday activities and wondering where stimulation will come from next – seem to be increasing in frequency. For some reason, much of life bores him. Most of it is what he remembers the writer Shakespeare calling diurnal, just day-to-day, humdrum existence. Sherlock can’t abide that, never could. His big brain, his big ambition, needs constant excitement. Life must either be filled with challenges and thrills or … he doesn’t want to participate at all.

But tonight, a glorious dream comes to him. At least it is wonderful when it begins.

He is twenty-seven years old. He has found a way to achieve his plans. He is a detective unlike any the world has ever known, and everyone is aware of it. He is impeccably dressed, well groomed, and brilliant; a black-and- white pea cock that London admires. The city is at his feet, Lestrade Junior his devoted supporter, the police are his begrudging acolytes. No problem is beyond his considerable gifts of deduction and he thirsts every day for more; his methods are unique and irregular. Criminals fear his very name; justice results from his intercessions; Malefactor has been vanquished; Irene is … barely visible. She appears every now and then, looking beautiful, but much different. He can never see her clearly. He realizes too, with a start, that he is still unhappy, and wakes in a sweat.

“I am fully recovered, my boy,” croaks Bell in the morning, as the flames in the fireplace struggle to catch. The two friends huddle over their breakfast of asparagus and brown sugar spread on a thick slice of bread. The old man sports a goose egg the size of a small orange on his forehead. But there is a smile on his lips.

“This is what you must do, Master Sherlock Holmes. You must move forward immediately. You must return to your studies, fighting lessons, our chemical investigations, your work around the shop … and perhaps some violin lessons?”

Sherlock smiles and nods.

“And we shall continue to read, read, read, read, read.” The old man nods toward the teetering books that surround them and then winces.

“That shall not only take your mind from your brief stumble, but increase your powers. You must always be increasing your powers … looking for gold, doing it for the right reasons. That attitude shall get you where you want to go. Life is about growth. Let’s remind ourselves again to be patient, my boy, never rash: meticulously build yourself into what you want to be.”

They eat silently for a few moments, Sherlock vowing to himself that he will work with even more dedication than before. He will do all that the apothecary says, attend school every day, too, and make sure his grades keep heading all the forms.

“And we will continue to scan the papers!” shouts the old man, smiling like he has a secret. He says nothing again for a while and eats in his characteristic way: with his maw gaping wide open, the green-brown oily goop of the asparagus and sugar evident on his darting tongue and hanging in drips inside his mouth. But he can’t keep quiet for long: the twinkle in his eye is betraying something. “And I … I shall have you ask a news agent this morning,” he finally blurts out, “to arrange for both The Illustrated Police News and The News of the World to be delivered to my door, or you may pick them up from Dupin himself at Trafalgar Square!”

Sherlock’s heart soars. His scandal sheets! He is back on the job. He can at least search for another case, a perfect one. He is ready, again, for anything.

But the crime he will soon discover stuns even him.

Three days later, in the East End, the windowless exterior of the Stepney Workhouse looks darker than usual in the cold rain. It towers, like the wall of a fortress, over the hansom cab that pulls up to its front doors, the hooves of the black horse clapping on the cobblestones. Inside the two-wheeler sits a large, well-dressed man and his beautiful daughter. He takes his hat from the rack and rises to back out, so he will be in a position to help the girl down after he lands.

“Wait,” says Irene, pulling him back to her side. “I can’t go in.”

Andrew Doyle sighs and eases back onto the cushioned seat. “I doubt I can face him, either.”

“I don’t understand why Miss Rathbone won’t see me. It’s been three days. You would think she would be overjoyed to be home and safe, and anxious to speak to others. Instead, she seems to be in seclusion!”

“She is just overwhelmed, I’m sure. I will seek an interview with her father again tomorrow.”

“He saw you the moment you sent your card last time.”

“Let us see what tomorrow brings.”

“I fear more of the same…. little Paul can’t go on if he is blind.”

“Be strong, my son.”

Doyle’s error is out before he can stop it. He grimaces – he’s made this slip before. “My dear sweet girl,” he adds quickly.

Irene forces a smile, and then takes her father’s walking stick and raps it against the roof.

“Driver! Home to Montague Street,” she says sharply.

Inside the workhouse at that moment, Paul is making a mistake. He steps from his little room into the hallway to meet the folks who are to see him. He is clutching his most prized (his only) possession under his arm. Usually, he hides it in the thin blanket on his bed. But he wants it near him today for good luck. Two dirty, burly boys approach, their gray, sack-cloth uniforms adorned by greasy chokers tied in similar bows at their necks and tattered caps cocked at devilish angles on their heads.

“Why if it ain’t Captain Paul out for a stroll. A rare thing it is! Down to Rotten Row?” cracks one.