Vanishing Girl

“Irene!” Mr. Doyle exclaims, out of breath, barely into the vestibule. “You will never believe it! The news is all over London!”

“Calm yourself, Father. You are too excited.”

“It’s Victoria Rathbone!”

“What has happened?”

“She has been kidnapped … again!”

PART TWO

ABDUCTION

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t wait for the Doyles to get to the other end of the hall. He opens the closet, quietly rushes to the entrance, and flies down the front steps into the London day. He hits the streets on the run. At first, he doesn’t even know where he is going. He’s just moving, and his mind is racing, too.

Kidnapped … a second time! What does this mean? What does this MEAN?

He has to get somewhere. He must do something while the criminals’ trail is fresh. But where should he go and what should he do? He is betting that he is uniquely positioned to solve these crimes, knows things that the police (and hopefully the Irregulars) don’t. It is essential that he act immediately. These villainies may very well be connected. What if he solved the robbery and located Victoria? She is out there now … to be found.

Little Paul is facing blindness even if the Doyles adopt him, but if Sherlock can throw light on both crimes, all will be well: Victoria will get the physician to work his magic and Andrew Doyle will be even more grateful to him than he would have been before … the gift of sight will be gained for his adopted son. Sherlock’s future will be made. His heart pounds.

Be calm.

He stops running as he turns onto Great Russell Street. Breathing hard, he walks up to the elegant stone steps of the Roman-looking British Museum and sits down. Think. Quickly, but without error. What must I do?

What do I know? Two thieves, two carriages, intimate knowledge of the inside and outside of the house, mother with a secret, daughter acting strange, leaving the house on her own. But none of that still seems to go anywhere, so he sets it aside. What else? Think of both crimes. He remembers what Lestrade said when he found Victoria the first time. The culprits had held her somewhere on the southern coast. That tells him little as well. But … what is his instinct saying? Perhaps he can put that together with the facts. He feels there is some connection between Lady Rathbone and the robbery. It would explain the most singular fact about the crime: why the thieves didn’t so much as enter her room. Lady Rathbone … her lover … and that crime … either crime. How do they all go together? His mind slips back to the police information again. A place on the southern coast? He goes from east to west remembering coastal towns and cities. Folkestone? Eastbourne? Brighton? Portsmouth?

A connection sounds loud and clear.

Portsmouth…. It’s the home of the Royal Navy.

Captain Waller.

Sherlock gets up and heads home.

Lady Rathbone’s secret lover may very well live in the city where Victoria was held! The police may be flying there now: frantic, Lestrade is surely at the end of his rope. The boy smiles. If the Force indeed found Victoria in Portsmouth, they will hope to pick up the trail there now – but that will be all they have. On the other hand, I may know the identity of the mastermind himself. Waller won’t have left England. He, or anyone else who is holding Victoria, knows she is valuable only if he keeps her in his hands, stays close by. All Sherlock has to do is locate him – a captain, distinguished or not, will be traceable in Portsmouth. Follow him. Perhaps Victoria is hidden in a secret navy location.

But first, Holmes has to find a way to get there. He cannot walk all the way to Portsmouth.

He must go back to the shop and tell Sigerson Bell his plans. He wants to get the old man’s blessing to be away this time and perhaps even gain his aid. The apothecary helped him with the Brixton gang case and recently allowed him time to investigate the Rathbones. Even so, this might be going too far. Tomorrow is Monday and a school day, the beginning of the week when Sherlock is particularly needed at work. Nevertheless, he is adamant that this time, he will do things right. He must speak to his friend. Whatever happens, it must be decided immediately.

The sun is setting as he reaches Denmark Street. The minute he enters the front door to the tinkle of the bell, he senses that something is different. It is strangely silent throughout the shop, especially in the laboratory, but despite the boy’s acute ability to observe, he can’t spot anything out of the ordinary. He simply senses it. Bell is sitting at the wooden lab table, mixing some sort of viscous green liquid with brown. Our Mutual Friend rests by his side.

Sherlock is ready to explode with his news, lay all his evidence and desires before the old man. But as he opens his mouth, Bell frowns, sets both torts down gently, and puts his finger to his lips, asking for silence. Sherlock looks around again, not understanding what is going on. They both sit quietly for a few minutes, Bell regarding his pocket watch and glancing upwards every now and then, Sherlock standing still, but wanting to pace, to scream out his news. Eventually the boy gets the feeling that there is someone else in the room. He thinks he can even hear a rhythmic breathing. But no one is evident.

He can’t hold back any longer. He needs to get to Portsmouth. As his lips begin to form his first word, the old man vigorously throws up a hand and gestures with a single digit, demanding just one more moment of silence. He nods toward the ceiling. Sherlock looks up.

A man is suspended upside down from the part of the lab where its roof peaks to an arch, more than twelve feet high. The boy instantly recognizes him as one of the greatest acrobats in the world. The one and only Thomas Hanlon is hanging from Sigerson Bell’s laboratory ceiling like a bat: he of the spectacular Hanlon-Lees troupe.

“Good day,” the star says sullenly. He is dressed in a dark suit with a yellow cravat and has black hair, parted in the middle. Though his face is flushed red, he seems perfectly relaxed.

Sherlock’s heart sinks. He won’t be able to say a word about the case until the acrobat leaves.

“I have been treating Professor Hanlon for feeling low,” says Bell in a remarkably calm voice, as if he is trying to soothe all three of them. “He was, as you might know, the victim of a horrific accident in America a few years back, during which a portion of his skull was knocked in. He now suffers from depression of the brain. My solution is an injection of ape adrenaline, followed by a good hanging to let it all shake down into the medulla oblongata. You may extricate yourself, Mr. Hanlon.”

The great gymnast pulls his feet out from the rafters without even reaching up. It seems to take almost no effort at all. In an instant, he is falling, but he twists in the air and lands on the soles of his shoes. He walks calmly toward Bell and deposits a coin on the table.

“Feeling better, Mr. Hanlon?”

“A little livelier, yes.” His voice is a monotone.

“Thinking too much about oneself is part of the disease, sir. It makes an individual morose.”

“But when one is at the top of one’s profession, one has little time for others. One must dwell on one’s own work, one’s destiny,” says Hanlon. “You wouldn’t understand … though I appreciate your help.”

The intrepid acrobat leaves the shop.

“I have my doubts about him, Sherlock,” says the old man, “He has done some sort of irreparable damage to his brain. I give him less than a year to live.”

“I need to ask you something,” says the boy impatiently.

“Always ready for interrogation.”