closer to Sherlock. “These are things that were never published in the newspapers, you know, just between me and the good inspector.”
“You are sure it was two men?”
“Of course, I am sure, you young fool.”
“I am merely a fool’s messenger, sir.”
The gentleman laughs.
“You are a saucy one, young buck. And well-spoken. You know, I had very little when I was a child, too.”
“So, just the two men … and the girl?”
“Yes, though I did have a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“Don’t like to mention such things. Feelings are rather feminine, don’t you think?”
“Then let us call it an instinct in your gut. What was it?”
“Well put, my boy. I didn’t say this to Lestrade, of course. But nevertheless … I had the feeling … tell him it was that instinct in the gut sort of thing … that someone else was pulling the strings, just by the way the two men kept consulting each other, weighing things, as if wondering how someone who made the decisions would react.”
“Someone else? Perhaps a local man?”
“That would be my guess.”
“And the lady, sir, she made no effort to signal to you that she was being held captive?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“That is singular, indeed.”
“Lestrade thought so too. And the two gentlemen, they vanished without a trace.”
“Almost as if they had intended it all,” says Sherlock under his breath.
“I beg your pardon, young man?”
“Nothing, sir, just chatting with myself. Bad habit. Thank you for your cooperation. Inspector Lestrade thanks you as well. I shall be sure to tell him about your ‘instinct.’ You have remarkable powers of recall indeed!”
The landlord steps away from Sherlock at an even quicker pace, his chest puffed out. But the boy is already rushing back to the house. There is something else he wants to know and he has to get into the house to confirm it. From the street, he had noticed that the shutters were closed on the windows in the top two storeys. The boy has also noticed that the cold Southsea footpaths are muddy.
All the policemen are inside. Sherlock walks up to the entrance, climbs the steps, and stands flat against the wall to the side of the locked front door. When someone comes out, it will open toward him. He will have the element of surprise too, always a powerful weapon. It takes a while, but eventually a figure appears. It is Lestrade Junior, obviously a bit bored and looking for some cool Southsea air.
Holmes darts in.
“Sherlock!”
He knows what he wants to see. Making for the stairs, he rushes up the first set, looking closely at the surface of each step. Then he turns on the landing and glances up the stairs to the upper floor. The detectives are conversing up there. Young Lestrade, who has followed on the double, is instantly on him, seizing him and almost throwing him back down to the entrance, trying to do so noiselessly, and then hustling him out the front door.
“You promised me! You will go too far one day, sir!” He is furious, but trying not to shout.
“My apologies. It is my naturally inquisitive ways. They get the best of me at times.”
Young Lestrade almost smiles; almost. He shoves Holmes tight to the building.
“You saw something in there, didn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. It may throw some light on this matter.”
“Tell me.”
“Only if you give me something in return.”
“I have given you enough.”
“When the police were informed of the presence of Victoria Rathbone in this house, who told them?”
“I can’t say.”
“Then neither can I. You might have been able to follow up on what I discovered in there. Without it, you have nothing.”
Lestrade hesitates.
“We received an anonymous tip from the public due to my father’s brilliant idea of announcing …”
“In other words, you have no idea who sent it and neither does your father.”
“It was from a member of the great English public, who preferred to remain anonymous.”
“Not wanting to get involved in this mess?”
“I should think.”
“Did anyone see this anonymous person?”
“No. The message came by telegram.”
“So … it could have come from anyone … even, theoretically, one of the culprits.”
“What do you mean? Tell me what you saw in there. You promised.”
“The crime scene has been sealed since the day the culprits were here, has it not?”
“Yes.”
“Know this: all the footprints on the staircases were made by the police and you and your father. I would recognize your governor’s bootprints anywhere, and detectives leave distinct marks too. I must be off.”
Ignoring the other boy’s puzzled expression, Sherlock turns down the front steps of the house and heads for the street. As he does, he hears an upstairs window snap up and the shutters open. A few strides later, when he glances back, he sees Inspector Lestrade’s shocked face looking out. It quickly turns red.
“Bring me that boy!” he shouts, extending a finger at him.
But “that boy” has far too extensive a head start and his long, young legs are too much for the otherwise competent members of the Force. He disappears up across the Southsea line and into the city proper, veering and turning down little streets and alleys. Before long, his pursuers give up.
He immediately ponders his next task. Finding Captain Waller is going to be difficult. There are several options. He can go to the barracks or the officers’ mess and simply ask for him, but he wonders what his reception might be. Perhaps he should scout out the pubs in Portsea or across the strait in Gosport, the Royal Navy parts of town. He could make inquiries in the taverns a captain might frequent. That’s all to the west, through an undoubtedly dangerous area.
But first, he must eat. The apothecary put some sardines between biscuits for him and he can feel them bulging in his suit-coat pocket. He is tired from running and wants a drink, too. There’s a public tap near the railway station. That would be a good place to eat; a busy spot where no one can accuse him of loitering.
A short while later he is leaning against the outside wall of the station, munching on the biscuit sandwiches, savoring the strong taste of the sardines, when he sees something that arrests his meal in mid chew. A middle- class woman, dressed in a plain, dull cotton dress and bonnet, is rushing out of the entrance to the station and something is very wrong about her appearance. Sherlock spots it all immediately. She has the upright, proud bearing of someone distinctly above the class of her clothing; there’s a scarf pulled up over her mouth and nose, though this noon hour is not especially cold; and under the bonnet, pulled down as it is to her brow, he spies a pair of stunningly beautiful, yet slightly cloudy, brown eyes.
Lady Rathbone isn’t more than ten feet from him. Sherlock turns away quickly. He hears her call for a cab and enter it. When it heads out into the Portsmouth streets, he runs after it.
Thankfully, it is a Monday and midday, so the roads are busy and Sherlock is able to keep up. The cab heads toward the dockyards. Before they reach the water, the two-wheeler stops and she alights and scurries into a little town square. A man is waiting for her at a bench, dressed in a dark suit, not a uniform. They embrace and hold hands as they sit.
