Vanishing Girl

must be hungry. He glides over, lifts her plate and observes her, just inches away. She appears to be trembling. That’s strange, too. But Sherlock doesn’t have much time to think about it.

He is careful to leave the room alone. Out in the hall, he glances around, sees no one, and steals up the stairs, dinner plates still in hand. Once he is on the next floor, he slows down, making sure his footfalls are soundless. The richly colored carpets that cover every inch of the hall help. Lady Rathbone’s bedroom is one more storey up.

When he gets there he finds that the door is closed, but not locked. He shuts it behind him and turns to the room. It is like being in an illustration from a society magazine. Parts of the upstairs hallways had looked a little empty, stripped in places of valuables: a painting gone here, and a vase there. But this room is different. It smells of lemons just like its inhabitant and is filled with so much furniture, so many plants and flowers, and the walls and floors are so densely decorated that it seems as though it will be difficult to move about. He takes a step … and sees someone! He almost drops the dinner plates. But it’s his image in a mirror. There are mirrors everywhere. He regards himself for a moment, thinking he looks fine in the footman’s costume.

Get on with it.

He sets the plates on Lady Rathbone’s four-poster bed where they almost disappear into the soft red covers.

Why did the thieves not come here?

He makes for her dressing room.

Downstairs, Lady Rathbone is thinking that it is time to announce that she is feeling a little uncomfortable, that she needs a moment to refresh herself in her boudoir. She excuses herself, leaves the table, and glides through the door to head upstairs.

Sherlock is surprised at the dimensions of the dressing room. It is nearly as large as the bedroom and twice the size of his family’s entire flat in Southwark. This is where she would keep her valuables, so he must look for any sign that the thieves came here. Perhaps they only wanted her room to appear untouched. But it doesn’t look like anything was disturbed in any away; nothing has the look of being fixed up after a robbery. They didn’t come here. What is it about Lady Rathbone that made her alone exempt from the culprits’ thievery? An intriguing thought passes through his mind. Is she involved? If so, is there something in this room that connects her to them?

He doubts that Lord Rathbone enters this room. In fact, there is no sign that any male has ever been here. It is feminine in the extreme: scented and pink and red. Rows of dresses hang from several wardrobes. He opens a dresser drawer and turns away … it is full of underclothing and corsets!

Lady Rathbone tries to climb the great house’s stairs as often as possible. A lady should look white and delicate, and she has labored to make her face seem so. Her arms, too, are like porcelain. But she doesn’t want to be flabby in her unseen places, like so many of her peers obviously are, so she often climbs and descends these stairs, back and forth. She makes sure no one sees her. Under her flowing dresses and crinoline, the muscles in her smooth white legs are strong and taut. The captain likes her like that.

Everyone is on the lower floors, so she goes up and down this flight twice. But she doesn’t like feeling fatigued. She can hardly wait to be in her dressing room and to loose her stays for a moment. She approaches her bedroom door.

Sherlock has found something. Sticking his head into a wardrobe he notices a little heap on its floor, pushed into a corner. It is two gloves, one obviously a gentleman’s, the other a lady’s. They are placed so they are clasping each other, all the fingers entwined. The man’s is a military glove and the other is Lady Rathbone’s – it smells of lemons. The boy’s head is so far into the wardrobe that he doesn’t hear the bedroom door when it opens.

She may not have the very best vision, but she spots the plates on her bed immediately. Her heart begins to race. Who is in here? She whirls around but sees no one. Then … she notices that the door to her dressing room is nearly closed. It is never left that way. She rushes over and pushes it open. A footman is leaning into one of her wardrobes! He turns to her with a start. She is about to scream, but sees what he is holding in his hands and almost faints.

Sherlock Holmes cannot believe he has been caught. How could he be such an imbecile, so careless? But he immediately realizes that he is in luck. Lady Rathbone obviously doesn’t want to scream, doesn’t want to draw attention to this intruder in her dressing room. Why? He must figure out exactly why immediately: bring his powers of deduction to bear more efficiently than ever before. Be calm. Be clever. If he can’t outsmart her, he will be tied to the Rathbone robbery and live the rest of his existence in jail or worse. He thinks of the punishment the lord spoke of in his boasting talk at the dinner table. Sherlock’s life may depend on what he says in the next minute.

She is staring at the gloves.

“What are you doing, young man?” “I think you are well aware.” “What do you know? Are you a blackmailer?”

Her voice is curiously different from the one she employed in the dining room. There is no forced accent.

“Perhaps we can make an arrangement. Tell me his name.”

“I shan’t. Do as you will.”

“All right. I will take these items with me. And you will allow me to leave with them because if you try to stop me, I will alert the household. We shall be in contact by post. The cost for the return of the gloves will increase by the day. Or, you can tell me his name – and give me those gems around your neck – and I will return the gloves to you now, the military man’s and yours.”

“His name is … Captain Waller,” she finally says, her voice choked with emotion. She reaches up to undo her necklace. It is such a feminine motion, so sweet and vulnerable. Her face colors and a tear plops onto her cheek. Sherlock almost feels sorry for her.

She is so flustered that she is having trouble undoing the clasp and sits down at her dressing table. He approaches to help her. She looks at him in the mirror, up close, and squints. Then she raises her lorgnette by the stem and whirls around in her chair to examine him.

“You aren’t a Rathbone footman! You don’t know me! You are a common burglar! No one will believe you! Give me those!”

She snatches the gloves from his hands … and screams. Sherlock can hardly believe how loudly she shrieks. It isn’t the sound of an upper-class lady, but the caterwaul of an enraged and aggrieved woman filled with suppressed passions.

He runs into the bedroom with Lady Rathbone in pursuit, well aware that she could knock him to the floor and jump on him without thinking twice. The windows in the room are long and wide, going from knee-high height to within inches of the ten-foot ceiling. One of them is slightly open – ladies like to keep their rooms cool; it is good for the skin. Sherlock rushes to it, grasps the sash in both hands and shoves it up. It barely budges. But his thin frame is his ally again: he can just get through. He struggles out in a flash, forgetting that he is three floors up. Lady Rathbone grabs one of his feet. He can hardly believe it … a belle of the London social scene has him by the leg! He can hear servants shouting as they ascend the stairs. He kicks at her, connects with something soft, and feels her release him and fall to the floor. He looks out into the cold, dark night. Oh-oh. The ground is far below. The dim lights of all of west London appear to be glowing in the panorama. He can see where the gray flat roof of Buckingham Palace is lit, not far away.

There’s a big oak tree about three or four feet from the window. He stands up on the wide sill and leaps. But the branch he aims for is too far away and he misses it and falls through the tree, smacking his arms, his head, and his rear end. Stay calm. He looks down, notices a big branch approaching, and seizes it!