Vanishing Girl

It makes his hands burn, but he hangs on. Breathing heavily, his heart pounding, he takes a moment to gather himself as he swings from the limb.

“THIEVES! ROBBERY! VILLAINY!” he hears voices shouting. Word has spread through the house and is beginning to spill outside. Sherlock looks to the ground. He’s about eight feet from the grass. He lets go. The impact of the landing makes him shudder from his toes to his skull, but everything stays intact. He gets to his feet and runs, aware that several of the house staff are already outside and coming his way.

“Barrymore?” says the cook, who is standing on the lawn with her eyes bulging.

Sherlock knows the area at the front of the house well. He stumbles up the walk, kicks open the black iron gate, and rushes toward the road in the bitter early winter day. The fog hangs in yellow clouds under the tall iron gas lamps on Belgrave Square. The park looks wet and coldly tropical. He heads for it: across the cobblestone street, through the open entrance, onto the criss-crossing paths on the grass under the trees. There is an increasing number of running footsteps behind him, a herd of pursuers.

One of them will catch him, there is no doubt. He cannot get away from that many young men at full gallop. He is done.

Then he trips! But not over any object on the ground or his own feet. It is someone else’s foot. Sprawling on the grass, he whips his head around and sees those pretty, patent-leather boots with buttons. He also senses someone rushing out from the bushes nearby. A small boy in a dirty red coat is darting away in the same direction Holmes was going.

“Sherlock!”

Irene Doyle is squatting behind a row of hedges, beckoning him to stay low and come with her.

He doesn’t have to think twice.

Rathbone’s servants race past in hot pursuit of the smaller boy.

“We shall go this way.” Irene nods in the direction Sherlock came from. They wait for all the pursuers to pass. She reaches down and takes his hand. It sends a thrill right up his arm to his shoulders and into his chest.

“Come on, Sherlock! Hurry!”

Finally, he moves, following her onto the street. In minutes they are out of the square and heading away from Belgravia. Irene hands him something – a bundle she had been carrying. Before long, they stop. They are at the high wall that runs along the gardens at the rear of Buckingham Palace. The street is well lit here and they are standing close to each other. Her face and hair glow in the lambent light. She is trying to seem distant and business-like.

“You should put those back on – your coat, at least.

You can’t walk around the way you are. We’ll throw the footman’s coat into a dustbin.”

His clothes? But they were in the stable at the rear of the mansion.

“How did you know …”

He steps back from her.

“You were watching me?”

“No … I wasn’t. Believe me. I have no interest in watching you. I –”

“Someone was.” Malefactor.

“No, he wasn’t. Not … exactly. He was watching the house, not you. Then you came along, pretending to be a fishmonger’s boy. He left as soon as you were inside. But I wanted to see how you made out, so he asked the littlest Irregular to keep me company – the wee fellow has a bit of a shine for me. Then I saw you climbing out of the upper-storey window and hightailing it over here. I figured they had you – it is in my interest to keep you in this game. It occurred to me that the little one was wearing a stolen red coat not unlike your footman’s uniform. So I asked him to lead the servants on a wild goose chase away from here. He always does what I say. He will stay far in front of them. Believe me, he will never be caught.”

She smiles weakly.

“So … you’ve told him.”

“Not as much as I told you.”

“He has no interest in helping you, Irene. Don’t deceive yourself. His interest is in other things: in being near you … in my destruction.”

“I just want someone to solve this. It just needs to be done.”

They had started walking again, but Sherlock stops. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Miss Doyle. Now, I must be on my way.”

He turns to go.

“Sherlock, you know I would rather this was different … and I hope it is you who succeeds.”

“If you told that snake anything, then you told him too much. I kept you at a distance in order to protect you, Irene, but now you …”

“I … what? Say it Sherlock, even if it is an awful thing, say it. Say something with some passion in it to me. You have become so cold.”

He had lost his temper and was going to say that she had turned into his enemy. But now he looks into those beautiful brown eyes and can’t do it. It isn’t true. He turns away so he won’t see her when he tells her what he has to say … this final time. It isn’t a moment for bitterness, just time to be brave, for the bare truth. His life cannot be like anyone else’s. He remembers holding his dead mother in his arms.

“There will never be another time when I will need you in any way. I work alone.”

A cloud passes over her face. Deep pain and resentment wells up inside her.

“You will regret this, Sherlock Holmes!” she hisses, in a voice unlike her own.

Sherlock lies in his wardrobe that night feeling lonely. He still has Sigerson Bell as an ally, but no one else. He wonders if that is really the way it has to be. Will anyone ever understand both him and what he believes in? It would be wonderful to have a companion – a mate his own age he cares about – someone to help him in his lifelong quest.

But he can never have a girl for a close friend … or a wife … everyone must be kept at arm’s length. He wishes it wasn’t so complicated. Alone and in the dark, he lets the tears slip down his cheeks. Soon there are many of them. He turns to his rough hempen pillow to muffle his sobs.

The next day is a Sunday, but he is up early with an expression of resolve on his face. He knows he should act slowly and meticulously, but the fact that Malefactor was right outside the Rathbone home makes that a losing proposition. He has some leads and he must follow up on them immediately.

This crime has something to do with Lady Rathbone. What, he doesn’t know. But he can’t pursue her anymore, at least not directly. What else? Who else?

Victoria.

Something isn’t right about her, he is sure. What if he watched her … or even found a way to engage her in a brief conversation, an exchange of just a few words that he controls? On the surface, that seems impossible. But perhaps there is a way.

He needs to go back to Belgravia and figure it out: stay in the park in the square, well out of sight, watch the house, wait for Victoria to come out, observe her movements, follow her, or discover how he might actually approach her. And if he succeeds, he should mention Paul Dimly. He can use the little boy’s name: her heart will melt when she recalls him and then perhaps she’ll talk to someone like Sherlock – he can take advantage of her momentary indulgence to ask his questions. They will have to be expertly conceived.

He leaves without breakfast, before the apothecary is awake. When he gets to the park, he doesn’t have to wait a minute to get started – there is a surprise as he settles by a tree in the square to watch. Though the big mansion doesn’t appear to have roused yet, Victoria Rathbone is stepping out the wide front door … alone. And not just for a breath of air – she is wearing a fancy coat and bonnet, as if she dressed in the night and is going somewhere at this early-morning hour. But no carriage awaits her. This is decidedly strange. It is unusual for a respectable lady, especially a young, unmarried one, let alone one recently traumatized, to be by herself outside in London. Irene Doyle has certainly been known to go out alone, but she isn’t of the Rathbone’s superior class, and