Vanishing Girl

“Shall we take paintings or jewelry, boss?”

Sherlock freezes.

It’s Grimsby.

Holmes lifts his head slightly and looks up. He sees three silhouettes: Grimsby’s short figure in the middle between a slightly taller and thicker boy behind and a very tall, thin shadow wearing a top hat in front. Sherlock can see the outline of the tails of his coat hanging from his back. He has a thick walking stick in his hand. Malefactor.

There is no sign of Irene.

“What we take is not your concern, Grimsby. I know the value of everything they stole, believe me. We shall have our cut.”

“Will she follow us?”

“Shut your gob! You are not fit to speak of her.”

“Yes, boss.”

“I hate to admit it, but that Jew-boy will solve this. He came here from Portsmouth far too quickly not to know something. He may have the police here by tomorrow. We must get our goods now. And then make ourselves scarce! Pick up your pace, gentlemen.”

Sherlock Holmes has always been suspicious that Malefactor’s connections in the London underworld run deep. He came to believe, for example, that the young crime lord had some association with the Brixton gang. But is his power, his influence, even greater than he suspected? Is this brilliant boy one of the larger spiders in the web of villainy that pollutes London? Has he made himself invaluable to growing numbers who do dirty business in its alleys and inside its homes? Is his knowledge of the streets, his command of quick, little fiends who can go anywhere and do anything something that even the most ambitious criminals employ?

“You knew exactly when Miss Rathbone would be in that carriage in Rotten Row, didn’t you, boss? You knew where they would have to stand to snatch her, didn’t you, boss? You knew how Lord Rathbone would respond. That was brilliant, boss. You knew that they hadn’t seen their daughter for years, didn’t you? You even told that captain that he should get a girl who …”

“Close your hole, Grimsby. The captain came to me because I can get things done. If you don’t believe in your own brilliance, then it is useless. Pride doesn’t go before a fall; it keeps you from falling. And word will spread if you have confidence. That’s why he was put in touch with me. But it is not for you to dwell on the details of any job. Do what you are told and do it well, and some day you may find yourself in my shoes … when I have moved on.”

“What if that half-breed gets in our way?”

“Then I shall deal with him.”

“Yes, boss,” says Grimsby.

They move away and their voices begin to fade into the night, going in the direction of the mansion. Sherlock staggers to his feet, his thoughts reeling. There are so many culprits, so many possibilities still attached to this crime.

He finds his spot by the river and tries to sleep, but tosses and turns all night. Snow falls on him in a cold blanket, and he is freezing. He wants to summon the local authorities up to the manor house right now and arrest not only the three thieves, including Lord Rathbone’s daughter, but Malefactor and his henchman, too. What an addition that would be to everything he has already discovered! He could wipe a young criminal mastermind from the face of London’s underworld. It would free Irene from that rat’s clutches, too.

But he knows that the local authorities wouldn’t listen to a word of his story – they would arrest him as a vagrant on the spot.

He has to contact the London police and he can’t do that until morning. Even if there was a night train that he could take to the city this instant, Malefactor would have made himself scarce by the time they returned.

Keep your mind on what is possible. It is enormous. Get word to both Lestrade and Hobbs of The Times the minute the telegram office opens, have all the culprits in the house arrested – Miss Rathbone has to be caught red-handed – the family’s treasures recovered, the captain intercepted. Make sure you are on the scene at Grimwood Hall when it happens. Get the credit you deserve. Secure your future.

But his mind keeps wandering back to the light in that upstairs room and the shadow moving across it. Is Polly Hunt up there? And if it isn’t her, who in the world are they imprisoning? And what are they doing to her? The thought terrifies him. Is it a kidnapping ring? Or is this person not being held at all: is it a fourth member of their gang? What complex game are these criminals playing? Perhaps they knew he was in the house … and the whole manor will be abandoned when he returns.

Whatever the answers, they will come in the morning. But his first job, his duty, will be to speak to Penny Hunt. He dreads what he must tell her and how she will respond.

When the sky becomes lighter, he rises and makes his way into St. Neots. He had watched Penny walk away from the river toward her home several times, so he knows the area where she lives in the north end of town. Cocks crow in the distant fields, his feet crunch on the inch of freshly fallen snow, and he shivers as he walks, his collar up, his shoulders hunched. He enters the town and sees a milkmaid carrying heavy cans on poles over her shoulders, a blacksmith bearing a big sledgehammer opening his shop, and a few other tradesmen moving sullenly along, ready to start their day. He doesn’t look them in the eye and tries to act as if he has somewhere to go. Then he spots what he is looking for: a child. In fact, it is one of the boys he met the first day he came here.

“Might I have a word?” he asks softly as the boy approaches.

The lad looks up and gasps. He starts to back away.

“It’s you, the London man with the made-up name.”

“Sherlock Holmes. It’s my real name.”

“No, it ain’t … but that’s all right, sir … it weren’t me that throwed that apple … if that’s what you’re inquirin’ about … it … it were Jack … that’s right … Jack McMurdo … ‘e lives over at –”

“Do you know a woman named Penny Hunt who works at the paper mill?”

“Mrs. Hunt? I do, sir. Lives down that road right there.” He points to a narrow street nearby. “About four homes in, thatched roof with a blue door.”

“Thank you, my boy. Breathe a word of my presence, and you will have trouble.”

“Yes sir. Is that all you wants? Can I go? I didn’t throw that apple … I swear it was Jack McMurdo. I can take you right to ‘is door!”

“Be off with you,” says Sherlock, “and don’t throw anything at anyone anymore.”

The boy flies away.

Holmes doesn’t think he should knock on Penny’s door. He doubts he’ll need to, anyway: the town is rousing and he knows she will be, too. He isn’t standing on the road near her home for more than a few minutes before she appears, holding a dusty rug she is about to shake in the cold air. But it barely seems like her: she is whistling a merry tune and smiling. It puzzles Sherlock.

When she sees him, a look of fear crosses her face for a moment, but then vanishes. She looks up and down the street, back toward the house, and then crosses to him.

“What do you want, Master Holmes?” she asks quietly, still glancing back toward the house. “You shouldn’t be here. My husband has a temper.”

“Your husband should be trounced by a good man. I am skilled in the ways of self-defense and can do it for you.”

“No, you shan’t, you silly boy. Life is more complicated than someone your age knows, even one with your wits. But I swear I won’t be down in the dumps about anything today. I’m as happy as a clam.”

“Well, I am much grieved to change your mood. I have been to Grimwood Hall.”

“There is nothing you can say that can upset me, Master Holmes.”

“I am afraid there is.”

Someone comes out of the Hunts’ little home across the street. It is a girl about thirteen or fourteen years of age with reddish-blonde hair.

“Mother?”

Penny smiles. “I will be there shortly, Polly.”