Vanishing Girl

Lying in bed that night, he is only half asleep, despite his fatigue. He has been teaching himself to be alert at all times, even in the small hours, practicing the art of snoozing lightly like a soldier alert for an attack. Sigerson Bell, of course, was once an expert at this and has shown the boy several approaches … though when the old man teaches the art, he unfailingly falls asleep and then commences to belt out the most ungodly, trombone-like snoring one can imagine.

Sherlock’s mind is razor sharp and at the top of such techniques because of his hard work at school and the intriguing case he is contemplating. So he manages to stay half awake tonight. And his alertness pays off.

The sound at the front door awakens him fully. He listens intently. Someone is trying to force the latch! The tinkering stops. Then the door creaks open.

Sherlock sits up.

He hears Bell’s trumpeting snores coming from his upstairs bedroom … and soft footsteps moving stealthily across the front room. They edge toward the laboratory!

The boy silently pushes the wardrobe door slightly ajar and peers through the crack. It is pitch dark and he can barely make out the form now advancing through the lab entrance. It seems to know where it is going, avoiding the skeletons, formaldehyde jars on the floor, the stools … and comes directly toward the wardrobe!

The shop is in a bad neighborhood and it is part of Sherlock’s job to guard it. He has taken to sleeping with the horse whip Bell gave him earlier this summer, the weapon the old man deems supreme in the art of self- defense. Either its decisive employment, or a scientific maneuver selected from the Bellitsu repertoire will do nicely against this fiend, then he will shout at the top of his lungs and wake Bell for assistance. But as the figure comes closer, it occurs to Sherlock that there may be another more brutal and direct way to respond. After all, his opponent looks slight, perhaps a youth.

As the shadow nears to within a foot of the wardrobe, as it reaches out to grasp the latch, the boy presses his back to the interior wall and drives both his feet against the doors, crashing them into the figure. The intruder falls backward like a dead weight and gives a small, curiously girlish shriek.

Instantly, Sherlock is out the wardrobe and on his feet. As the villain rises, Holmes seizes him.

But it isn’t a him.

Irene Doyle is in his arms. Their faces are inches apart. A series of alarming feelings courses through Sherlock’s body and he notes them: he feels strangely at home in this position and excited – and terrified. He releases her.

She is dressed in a plain black dress without crinoline, and a matching black bonnet into which she now tucks a hatpin. That was how she picked the lock…. Malefactor! She looks afraid and yet she has come here in the night, all alone through the London streets; a remarkable girl … learning how to make like a thief.

The trombone upstairs had stopped for a note or two when Sherlock sent Irene reeling to the floor. Now it resumes.

“Miss Doyle, my sincere apologies,” whispers Sherlock. “But what are you doing?”

“I have something to tell you.”

The boy feels a waft of fear float into his chest. He takes her lightly by the arm and begins walking her out to the front room.

“And speaking to me in a civilized manner when the sun is out would not do?”

“Malefactor has me watched during the days.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I understand why.”

“You do?”

“I am learning about his kind. He doesn’t trust people. He needs to know all about anyone who tries to be close to him. I didn’t want him to know that I had come to see you.”

“He is a rat. And you should stay away from him.”

Their faces are close together in the darkness. She examines his strong jawline and prominent chin.

“I have some things to tell you that I would prefer to say in private, things I don’t want him to know.”

Sherlock had been about to tell her that she should leave. They are near the outer door. He stops in his tracks. Irene hasn’t been able to bring herself to involve Malefactor after all, he thinks. She knows valuable things about Victoria Rathbone. Is she about to reveal them?

“All Malefactor knows is that solving this crime is important to me. I didn’t tell him – he figured it out. He’s like that, as you know. But he doesn’t know exactly why I’m so interested.”

“Well, that makes us even.”

“I’m going to tell you.”

Sherlock motions to two chairs near the crude display counter. They sit, their knees almost touching.

“What are your conditions?”

“There are none.”

“Truly?”

“Other than that you try to solve this crime,” she smiles.

Sherlock smiles back. He can’t remember when he last did that with her. Inside, he is glowing. If she really means this, then perhaps their friendship can resume.

“Let me start at the beginning.”

“Always a smart –”

“Lady Rathbone is my father’s cousin.”

Holmes sits up.

“What?”

“You can see the resemblance in their eyes and the color of their hair. It is rather striking, when you look. Observation, Sherlock, is the elementary skill of the scientist and the primary talent of life.” She says this in a deeper voice, imitating him, and then grinning.

“You are very wise, Miss Doyle.”

“Lady Rathbone’s mother and my grandmother are first cousins. That makes her and Father second relations, and Victoria and me third. Lady R. is a Shaw, Irish like the Doyles.”

She gathers herself.

“About three or four months ago, in the late summer, I visited a Ragged School for Father in Stepney, set up by a young medical student named Thomas Barnardo. He told me about a pitiable boy in the Ratcliff Workhouse nearby, who was the adopted child of two elderly people in the East End who had died suddenly from the cholera epidemic about a year ago. A beadle who took the boy to the workhouse told him all about it. Mr. Barnardo said the child was lonely, distraught, and ill, and asked if I would visit him. But when I went to see him it upset me … very much.”

“Because he is going blind? Irene, I said this before, there are so many –”

“No, not because of that.”

“Then why?”

“… He looks like someone. Exactly like someone.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t. It is a very personal matter. It isn’t something you need to know, anyway. But it matters to my father … and to me. We can’t let him go blind … because it will kill him.”

“Why are the Rathbones the only ones who can help him?”

“Paul, that’s the boy’s name, has a rare infection. Good and well-placed people who help the unfortunate have sent him to doctors and they all say his sight cannot be saved. But Lord Rathbone’s personal physician is the best in London for eye infections, the best in Europe, a miracle worker, it is said. You must know what he did for Lady Rathbone.”

“I have heard.”

“The doctors say Paul’s problem is similar to hers.”

“Then just go directly to the physician. Ask him to help.”

“He only treats Lord Rathbone and his circle and makes no exceptions. Half an hour after seeing Paul, my father sent his card to Belgravia by carriage. The lord is aware of our work and of our relation to his wife, so he saw