Vanishing Girl

He is certain that what he has learned will save little Paul’s life. The child was given away at birth so Lady Rathbone likely doesn’t know where he is or even that he is alive. But if it is at all possible for her to help him now, she will surely move heaven and earth to do so. What mother wouldn’t? And even if she can’t, the Doyles can now take little Paul into their home – the child is their relation. And there’s still another possibility … they could all force Lady R. to help them. The facts are there for the three of them to blackmail her.

He wants to speak to Irene alone.

It’s been another cold, rainy day. There is green Christmas holly on the Doyles’ front gate. He squeaks the gate open and walks quietly up to the doorsteps. Looking down, he finds Mr. Doyle’s footprints on the muddy surface, heading out. If she’s here, she is on her own.

Then he hears something startling.

Singing … coming from a second-storey room of the Doyle home. And though it is beautiful, it isn’t an opera piece or a hymn. It’s the lusty sound of a music hall ditty:

“I love you like

You love me

We’re so alike

Don’t you see?

But gems and pearls

Would make it better

Gems and pearls

In your next love letter.”

Though he is surprised to hear such a song in the Doyle home, that isn’t what is startling. It’s who is singing it. Irene’s voice, a voice Sherlock never dreamed she had, sounds remarkable: strong and clear, filling the risque song with bold intent. For a moment, he forgets what he has come for. Then he picks up a pebble and tosses it at the window. The singing ceases abruptly, the window opens, and Irene looks down. At first she appears embarrassed, then angry.

“Go away.”

“May I come up?”

“Up? … Here?”

“Yes. I have something very important to tell you.”

She hesitates, but then disappears from the window.

In minutes they are sitting far apart on the settee in the morning room on the ground floor and Sherlock is feeling a sort of homesickness. He glances around at the familiar furniture, the warm, wood walls. This was where he and Irene used to talk. But today she is close-mouthed. And she barely looks at him.

“Was that you singing?”

“No.”

“Then who was it?”

“None of your business. Why would you care, anyway?”

“I didn’t know you –”

“I have always wanted to sing. I told Malefactor about it and he encouraged me.”

“I see.”

“Father wouldn’t approve, but it appeals to me.”

“He is a wise man. That is not the sort of song –”

“What did you have to tell me?”

Sherlock isn’t sure how to begin. “I went to the Ratcliff Workhouse.”

She steals a glance at him. “You did?”

“Irene … I think I have uncovered something about little Paul, something incredible, utterly inconceivable, until I put together some facts.”

“Tell me, and then go.”

He describes what he found in Lady Rathbone’s room, the navy captain’s gloves entwined with hers, her admission that her beau’s name was Waller, how the boy’s birth occurred at the same time as her longest disappearance from home, their similar eye problems, similar appearances, and the house on White Horse Lane belonging to aging caretaker parents with the same last name as the captain, people who adopted their child from a relative in the Royal Navy.

Irene is stunned. She stares into the distance for a long time after he finishes.

“That explains why the boys are like twins,” she finally says.

“I beg your pardon?”

She goes upstairs without saying a word. Sherlock follows. They enter the master bedroom. She opens a closet and brings out a framed painting.

“What are you –”

Irene turns the painting around so he can see it. The image floors him.

“Why … it’s Paul Waller. Why is he dressed like … how could you –”

“It’s not Paul Waller … it’s Paul Doyle.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

“Your what?”

“When I saw that child in the workhouse I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My brother had come back to life … Paul is a favorite family name … this explains it all.”

Her story is long and filled with emotion. She recounts how her brother’s death tore her father apart, how the boy was never spoken of again, especially after she was born and her mother died; how she has striven all these years to be an heir who will make her father proud.

“That’s why I couldn’t tell you or anyone else why we wanted to save him.”

“But you can save him now. Go to Lady Rathbone, Irene. Tell her about her son. She will help cure –”

“Sherlock, you know even less than I imagined about the upper class. She can never acknowledge the existence of a child born out of wedlock, not to anyone, not even in secret. If it ever became public, it would destroy her and be the death of her husband’s political career. And my father would never consent to forcing her to do anything with this information; that isn’t his way. In fact, I doubt he would be party to even speaking of the child’s existence in her presence.”

“Then, just tell him what I told you. He would adopt Paul now, wouldn’t he? His own relation? Even if the child’s eyes cannot be healed, he will have the two of you … and all of this.” He looks around at the beautiful room.

She blanches and doesn’t say anything. He had expected her to be overjoyed.

“Irene?”

“Yes … yes, I suppose that is what we should do.” She gives him a frozen smile, turns her back and stands gazing out the window. The master bedroom looks out over Montague Street. The thought of being replaced in her father’s affections stands before her. His son will return.

“Sherlock!” she says suddenly, seeing something through the window. “My father is coming!”

She shoves the painting back into the closet as they rush out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“I don’t understand,” she says, “he was supposed to be away all day. He looks like he’s in a hurry. I wonder if something is wrong. Maybe it’s the robbery. Maybe the thieves have been found!”

By the time they reach the ground floor, they can hear Andrew Doyle opening the front entrance. Irene pulls open a closet door in the hallway, grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and shoves him inside. He listens in the darkness.