Vanishing Girl

Sherlock expects his guide to take him toward the dockyard or into the heart of the city. Instead, he is heading south in the direction of the green Commons and the suburb of Southsea, a newer, middle-class area much more genteel than the center of Portsmouth. It isn’t where one would have expected to find much criminal activity.

Sherlock starts to think, and this time, it’s a mistake. Suddenly, the junior Lestrade isn’t there. Holmes picks up his pace, anxiously searching the crowds ahead. The streets aren’t nearly as busy here: he can see everyone in front of him, respectably dressed folks bundled up in early winter clothes … and not one of them is his quarry. He approaches a park. Disgusted with himself, he slouches down on a bench.

“May I be of assistance?”

Young Lestrade is standing right behind him.

Sherlock starts. “How … Master Lestrade, nice to see you.”

How does he do that!

“On a seaside visit, are you? Perhaps the ferry over to the Isle of Wight?”

“You know why I am here. We might as well continue our walk. I shan’t cause any troubles. I simply want to see where she was found.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

“So, you are on holidays, too?”

“Yes.”

“A stroll through lovely Southsea?”

“Without question.”

“A walk along the boardwalk?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the early winter breezes?”

“One can’t be choosy.”

“In disguise?”

Lestrade doesn’t respond at first. They look out across the park.

“You must turn around and go back to London, Master Holmes.”

“I will not.”

“Oh, but you shall. Or I will call a constable to send you on your way.”

Lestrade sits down beside him, smiling.

“What will be the charge? I am causing no harm. But you … you are a boy in disguise. Very suspicious. Does anyone know you here? Perhaps it is I who should call the police?”

The other boy glowers. “Then I shall notify my father and the detectives who are with him.”

“Thank you for informing me of the presence of your father in this city, and should you do as you say and speak to him, I will have reason to doubly appreciate you … for you will lead me directly to the scene of the crime…. I assume that is where your father is?”

“I will not lead you anywhere!”

“Then … we shall wait.”

The two boys sit on the park bench for a full half hour without saying a single word. But it is Lestrade who is first to suffer from a case of the twitches, then a distinct coloring in his face. He rises to his feet.

“All right! You have me … this time!”

“Master Lestrade, you could simply return home and I would be none the wiser as to the location of the scene.”

“You know I don’t want to do that! You know I want to be part of this!”

“Yes, I do. Who wouldn’t?”

“Here is the deal we shall strike. You may follow me, but only at a distance. You must not enter the building, and you must not speak to my father or let him see that you are in the city. Your presence will be our little secret.”

“Agreed.”

“This thoroughfare is called King’s Road. In about five minutes we will turn off it and go downhill in the direction of the water. Our destination is a small street called Bush Villas, the address is number one. I shan’t speak to you or see you again in Portsmouth or anywhere nearby. Good day.”

He stalks away at a great pace.

Sherlock keeps him in sight, but slows when they near the crime scene for he sees the lean figure of Inspector Lestrade far ahead, coming out the front door of a three-storey brick home. The detective’s son nods to his father and enters the house, glancing furtively back to make sure Holmes is nowhere in sight. He has stopped in the alcove of a church nearby and is considering how to proceed. All is fair in love and crime. The English Channel isn’t far away and a cool breeze wafts in from the water. Gulls cry above.

This is a strange neighborhood indeed, in which to keep a kidnapped girl. Instead of hiding her where all sorts of skullduggery is a daily occurrence, where one could vanish into the snaking streets and alleys and hole up in a grimy, little flat, where grappling with a struggling victim wouldn’t make a scene or cause others to run to her aid, where lips are sealed … they chose this middle-class area with it’s wide-open vistas. Why?

What if she wasn’t struggling?

Lestrade is speaking to a man in a suit with a checked waistcoat, who carries a top hat and walking stick. The detective shakes the man’s hand and sends him on his way, then reenters the house. Sherlock steps out from the safety of the church and approaches number one Bush Villas. From a first-floor window, the younger Lestrade spots him and frantically motions for him to leave. But Sherlock is watching the well-dressed gentleman briskly pacing away, regarding the other houses as he goes, heading not into Portsmouth central, but toward the wealthier residential areas in Southsea.

About fifty years of age, lives nearby. Self-made: those born to wealth don’t walk so industriously. Interested in other houses … the landlord!

Sherlock is off, rushing along the footpath after the gentleman. Upstairs in the window, Lestrade Junior is aghast. Holmes follows for a while, until he is sure that he and the landlord are out of sight.

“Sir!” He finally shouts.

The gentleman turns and looks down his nose at the boy.

“Inspector Lestrade … he sent me with a message. He has a few more questions for you. I am to bring back the responses.”

“You are? I thought this was secret stuff. Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Doesn’t like to run.”

The gentleman laughs. “Yes, I can imagine that, our Lestrade.”

“And he prefers unlikely messengers. I am not what I seem, you will understand.”

Susceptible to flattery, thinks Sherlock as he watches the man straighten his waistcoat.

“What would he like to know?”

“He wanted me to say, firstly, that he was impressed with your keen memory of the events in question.”

The gentleman smiles.

“It is nothing. I make it a habit to train my mind. I am told I have a large bump of mnemonic recall on my cranium. Ask me anything, and I shall see what I can do for the Inspector by way of retrieving files from my brain banks.”

“When did you let this house to the people who were holding Victoria Rathbone?”

“He has already asked me this!” snorts the gentleman. He looks suspicious.

“Inspector Lestrade is very thorough. He finds that by asking questions more than once, new things come to light. You might add something? There are several other queries. He just asked me to start with this.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve noticed that about him: a repetitious sort. Well, as I’ve said, I let the house to two gentlemen for a one-year period some time ago. But they only appeared the very morning she was discovered. Curious that. I saw all three of them when we transacted our business. She was wearing a dark veil over her eyes.” The man leans