Vanishing Girl

lights have gone off and on at their regular times ever since.”

“Everything has been exactly the same?”

“When it comes to the lights, yes, but I’d say there has been more activity there the last forty-eight hours or so, more coming and going than usual, but all during the day.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hunt.”

“Why are you doing this? You aren’t a policeman. Do you know someone who is involved? I doubt it’s your father. It can’t be the Rathbones, you are poor.”

“It … uh … there is a little boy’s life at stake.”

“A little boy? Someone you know?”

“It’s too complicated to explain. But if this isn’t solved, the child will wither.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and tries to make his eyes meet hers.

“It isn’t only about the boy, is it, Master Holmes? You have something to gain here, don’t you? Tell me the truth.”

“Maybe I do. But that isn’t why I’m doing it.”

“Truly?”

“You should be getting home.”

“Are you going to Grimwood now?”

Sherlock isn’t sure he should tell her.

Trust no one. Why does she need to know when I’ll be there? First, she doesn’t want me to go at all, tells me all sorts of strange stories to keep me away … but now she has volunteered information as if she wants me to go up there and risk my life. Is this simply about her daughter? Does she even have a daughter? I don’t know that for sure. Why does she keep appearing whenever I need her?

He has to trust someone. So he nods his head.

Who IS that girl in the room up there?

Holmes’s hands are shaking as he eats by the little river: a pickled egg, a kipper, a few leeks, washed down with some ale. He stuffs the brown bag into a depression in the bank deep in the tall grass and begins to walk slowly back into town. By the time he gets there, darkness has descended and the air has grown much colder. He moves on, out into the countryside, then toward the hill.

The sky is black but lit by a bright, full moon as Sherlock reaches that stone wall with the wrought-iron fence on top that surrounds Grimwood Hall. The same lights are on as when he was last here, the same lights Penny described: several rooms shining downstairs, that dimmer glow from the small window in the turret-like room two floors up. He puts the toes of his boots into indentations in the damp, mossy wall and scales it. At the top, he steps over the little, spear-tipped fence and sits, gazing down onto the grounds, which are more visible tonight than last time, not only lit by the dim lights of the few gas lamps in the granite manor house, but by the marvelous big moon.

It is a quiet, spooky sight. Grimwood Hall looms like a dark monster over a front lawn several hundred feet across. He can make out the unkempt hedges, the bushes, the shaggy willow trees, and copper beeches. He wonders how he made it last time: across this ominous wilderness in a much darker night. The hedges appear to be arranged in a maze, designed to be a green-walled puzzle, a game for anyone trying to navigate from here to the house or back. It looks like one could start out to the right, then turn left, then right for a long while, then … there’s a dead end. How, indeed, did he do it last time?

Then he hears a roar. It vibrates in his chest, turns his flesh to goose bumps and sets off a series of barks and growls.

He had forgotten about that sound.

What, in the name of the God, creates it?

Sherlock shivers. He has to enter the labyrinth, and he has to do it now. Where does he start? If he comes to that dead end, if whatever is making that roar tracks him there, he is finished. He must have simply been fortunate on his first trip. It must have been his natural sense of direction that got him through. It cannot fail him now.

He looks up to the moon in the cold December sky. He will watch it to keep his bearings. His hands, held tighter than he is aware of on the iron fence, are almost frozen to it. He releases them and rubs them together, then pulls the collar of his frock coat up around his neck. Something hisses on the grounds not far away.

But he jumps down.

He doesn’t move for a moment after he lands. He squats, very still. He can hear the wind blowing through the trees, but nothing else. A wall of hedges is directly in front of him. He spots an opening to his left. That’s where he will enter the maze, then turn right, then left, then keep right for a long while. After that, he isn’t sure. He will have to use his instincts when he gets that far and move as directly as he can toward the manor house.

Sherlock looks up at the sky one last time. It is nearly as black as his coat, but filled with glittering stars. They seem to wink at him. Somehow, despite the absence of clouds, it begins to snow. It is like a miracle: a light, gentle fall of flakes that are so sharp against the night that he seems to be able to see the complex design of each and every one.

He gets up and moves quietly to the entrance to the maze.

Instantly, there is another roar followed by a cacophony of sounds, more hissing near his feet … and the rustling of something pursuing him! He bends over and runs into the maze: right, then left, then right. The sounds of violins play frantically in his head. In seconds, he is at a dead end. Whatever is after him seems to be gaining! He doesn’t care about the Rathbone case anymore or Paul Dimly or anything other than getting out of here alive. But he can’t find any openings in the hedge. Beastly sounds are all around him: a gorilla’s growl, a lion’s roar, and other shrieks he doesn’t recognize.

Keep running! Where? Where!

The creature is almost upon him. He imagines it pouncing, landing on his back, ripping his skin, its sharp teeth sinking into his flesh, blood surfacing in great oozing lines: it seizing his neck, twisting him around, tearing open his throat; a gurgling sound, gasping for breath … dying … eaten.

He cannot find an opening in the hedge!

He tears into it, right into it: its hard little branches ripping his coat and cutting him. He stays on a beeline as he slashes through, and then goes through the next one, straight at the manor house, like an animal frantic to live.

When more openings in the hedge walls appear, he enters them, when they don’t, he goes right through again. Finally, he comes out of the maze and sees the alcove at the house with the iron fence around it. He runs toward it through the long grass, leaps, and catches the fence up high. He pulls himself on top … and feels something tug – fangs – at his boots. But he gets over and when he lands on the other side, looks back. He sees nothing at first, then a pair of glowing eyes, sinister lights, flashing for an instant and vanishing back into the darkness.

He sits on the cobblestones with his chest heaving, sweating in the cold, steam rising from his clothing.

Make yourself calm.

He takes a deep breath before he stands and turns to the arched door in the house. The sound of people talking can be heard inside in the distance. They seem happy.

It’s two male voices … and a woman’s.

When he lifts the latch and pushes, the thick door opens. He steps inside and closes it gently. He’s in the vestibule. He knows where to go this time: he must make his way through the grand hall, way down to the end where the smaller room with the bright light is … where those three people are moving back and forth, laughing and conversing. Sherlock must get as close as he can. He needs evidence: real evidence.

He approaches the armor that stands against the wall, complete with helmet, sword, spiked ball and chain, but this time avoids it, swinging wide, feeling his way in the semi-darkness, making for that lighted room.

Keeping his back against the wall, moving without a sound, he can soon hear exactly what they are saying.

“Hurry!” exclaims a male voice.

“Pack up!” says another.