Vanishing Girl

looks as though he has aged ten years – his eyes are red and heavily bagged, his shoulders slumped, and it seems to take a mighty effort to simply hold up his receding chin. He obviously didn’t sleep a wink last night. He’s escaped one nightmare … and plunged into another.

“I was … asking him to leave,” says his son. The look on his face says “Run!”

Sherlock does. He takes to his heels and flies out the passageway between the buildings and onto White Hall. The constable whom Lestrade sets upon him gives up a short distance down the street.

The boy isn’t deterred. He heads west along the queen’s beautiful park with its many flowers and swan-filled lakes, toward the palace and Belgravia. Walking briskly, he soon passes Buckingham and stares up, imagining himself a prince, though a much more respectable one than Victoria’s reckless first son and heir, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales. He slows at the beautiful Royal Mews, trying to get a glimpse of the horses and the gleaming four- ton Gold State Carriage used for coronations. Oh, to be transported in that vehicle, watched by adoring crowds. But he doesn’t allow himself more than a moment’s pause. Belgravia beckons.

Though there aren’t a hundred policemen outside the Rathbone home, it seems like it. They don’t speak to the brightly dressed gentlemen and ladies who stop on the foot pavements and stare, but regular folk are gently disbursed. The milkmaids, hawkers, and the street children looking to make a farthing by picking a pocket or offering to run an errand, are instantly sent away, with rude comments and rough encouragement.

Sherlock spots the house long before he reaches Belgrave Square, and not simply because of the Force and the gawkers. Everyone in London knows where Lord Rathbone lives and his place stands out even in this posh neighborhood. Its Georgian, yellow-stone exterior, five storeys with red-curtained bay windows, large grounds, and majestic columns on its wide front portico mark it as a home of distinction. This is a relatively new residential area, built for the rich just a few generations ago, and its pale homes are even taller and more “perfect” than the mansions of nearby Mayfair. Mozart and Chopin once lived here, and Mary Shelley, who wrote that frightening book about the monster named Frankenstein. People often come to Belgravia simply to catch glimpses of luminaries.

Though Sherlock himself is often distracted by famous faces, that will not happen today. He is looking for no one and seeking to be invisible. What he wants is an indisputable fact or two about the robbery – a clue, a starting point like the watermark, which he will then investigate with much more care. Pulling his collar up around his neck against the cold air, he sneaks into the fading green confines of the park across the street and stands behind a tree, sizing up the building and how to get nearer without being shooed away. He is hoping that the police haven’t disturbed the scene any more than is necessary. He knows he can’t get inside the house, but it may be possible to sneak onto the grounds. There he might find something that would at least help him build a profile of the thieves.

Belgrave Square has some unusual corners where its big houses almost seem to jut out into the street at sharp angles. The huge Rathbone mansion is one such home. It also has a little lane with stables at the rear. Sherlock observes closely: there are policemen on duty near the street at the front of the house and a few evident through the windows inside, but there seem to be an inordinate number down the passageway and at the rear. The boy thinks of what he read in the papers. The getaway vehicles must have been stationed at the back and …

“You were saying?”

Lestrade Junior is standing right next to Sherlock, who nearly jumps into a tree at the sound of his voice.

Holmes gathers himself, adjusts his coat, and fixes his necktie.

“I asked you to accompany me.”

“And here I am. I knew you were coming this way.”

“How perspicacious of you.”

“Uh … yes, well, I guessed, knowing what I know about you, if that’s what you mean, that you would be bold enough to come right to the scene of the crime.”

“Guessing, my good fellow, should be left to the horse-racing crowd. It is not a tool for the detective.”

Sherlock can see the color rising in the other boy’s face.

“You are no detective, sir. My father is.”

“Absolutely, I stand corrected, and a fine one he is, the best in London.”

“You are just a boy whom circumstances have favored in a couple of matters.”

“Yes, I have been fortunate.”

“Well, he hasn’t treated you the way he should, perhaps.”

Perhaps? He is a cad and a fool. And one day I shall make him acknowledge me as his superior.

“Nonsense,” says Sherlock. “He does what he must. Who are we young people to question such a man? Do you have a moment?”

“If I am gone long, my father will ask where I have been. I came because I feel he and I are somewhat in your debt, though he need not acknowledge that. It wasn’t right to say what he said to you in public a few weeks ago, nor to simply send you away today. He could have at least heard you out.”

And you came to learn from me too, you imbecile.

Sherlock glances across the street at the house.

“I would like to investigate the crime scene … very briefly.”

Young Lestrade glances toward the Rathbone home and then back at the boy.

“How briefly?”

“Just a few moments in the laneway and at the back of the house. That is all. Can you arrange it?”

This was why Sherlock had gone to see Lestrade Junior in the first place.

But the detective’s son is torn. Should he be loyal to his father and deny this request from the disturbingly ingenious half-Jew who seems to somehow always be one step ahead of the great Scotland Yard? Or should he do what he knows is right, by aiding someone his father has mistreated and who, in the end, might actually help lead the police to the thieves. If by some wild chance this charmed boy should somehow be successful again, there will be time to decide whether or not he should be allowed any credit – it can be given to him or swiped away, by the hand of the law.

“I can arrange it. Follow me.”

They cross the street and stroll to the gate at the walkway that leads to the front door of the house. A constable immediately turns in their direction, hand out, palm toward them, in a stern signal to halt.

“That is far enough!”

“Constable Gregory?”

The policeman examines his questioner.

“Lestrade’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seen you about with him.”

“I am apprenticing. I thought I’d take a look around, report back to him.”

“And who is this?”

Gregory lifts his nose and looks down it at the poor boy with the hawkish nose.

“A pickpocket who frequents Trafalgar Square and has been giving me information of late. I intend to reform him.”

“The best of luck to you then, mate.”

“Shall I go through?”

“You have five minutes. If you want more, I shall need a signed note from your father. Do not touch anything.”

“Thank you, sir. Best not to tell my father I’ve been. I hope to find something I might surprise him with.”

Constable Gregory laughs. “Genius in training, I see. If you can find anything here in five minutes that Scotland Yard hasn’t found these past hours, you are welcome to observe it.”

The two young investigators head down the passageway.

“Impressive, Master Lestrade,” says Sherlock under his breath.

He knows the other policemen are giving him disapproving looks, but doesn’t pay them heed. It is time to