Vanishing Girl

would satisfy her father, too.

But she is being played for a fool.

Sherlock turns back to the rich girl. He is boiling. She will never help the workhouse boy. Paul will go blind and die. He thinks of the child’s enormous, cloudy eyes. He thinks of these criminals getting away with all the loot; he thinks of Lord Rathbone, hard and unforgiving, caring so little about his daughter that he doesn’t know her … a daughter barely worth knowing anyway; he thinks of Malefactor, gaining in strength; and finally, of Irene … lost.

When Sherlock Holmes feels bitter about life, he not only grows furious, but starts to show off. His ego expands with his temper. He decides to exhibit his brilliance to this snobby, hard-hearted girl … and say things that hurt her. The entire story of the case of the vanishing girl is in his head now. And no one else’s.

“Would you like to know exactly how all of this happened, Miss Rathbone? I doubt your brain capacity is such that you even have a clue.”

Victoria looks at him as if she would like to have him sent to the Tower of London.

“First, tell me your mother’s maiden name. I believe a former friend of mine once mentioned it to me in passing.”

“It is Shaw, if you must know.”

“Precisely. There is a relative of yours in this house.”

“What?”

“This was never a real kidnapping. These fiends could care less about you or extorting money from your father in that way. They wanted to rob him in a very particular manner. This was, from the beginning, a majestically conceived robbery. A man named Captain Waller, a Royal Navy officer, an old ‘friend’ of your greedy, ill-deserving mother, who advanced due to his charms and little else, was behind it all. He and two men he employed have been planning it for a long time, perhaps for more than a year. Your father was the perfect target and not just because Waller hated him. Why? Well, it is simplicity itself, isn’t it? Lord Rathbone has a ridiculous view of justice and how to deal with criminals, and just like many of his class, he doesn’t really love his children or spend any time with them. He simply loves himself, his position, and his money. Such were the perfect qualities in a victim.”

Victoria gives a snort and turns her back on him. But she listens.

“Waller made enquiries in the London underworld and was given the name of the boy you previously mentioned, a rogue with his finger on the pulse of things in the city, one who does thorough research about the rich. The lad found out all there was to know about Rathbone and how to deal with him. Waller was reminded that the lord had just one daughter, not particularly attractive, who was away in India, had been gone for some time. She was almost a stranger to the lord and lady. They concocted a way to snatch her soon after her return to England. But that was still months away.

They developed the key to their plan well ahead of time: they found another you. The larcenous boy must have searched out girls in your mother’s family; distant relations, near you in age. Or perhaps it was the captain who recalled once meeting a particular girl relative who resembled you. However they did it, they located a third cousin named Eliza Shaw from Manchester way – her accent betrays as much. She was about your size, had similar bone structure, was nearly twenty but adolescent in appearance and able to pass for fourteen. She was a spitting image of you once they clothed her, adjusted the color of her hair, and trained her. They told her their scheme: they offered her the world. And she, of course, surrendered.

Then they searched for, and found, the perfect hideaway: a dark manor house in St. Neots, a nice distance from London, but not too far. The house was said to be haunted … no one ever came near it. Man-eating beasts lived on its grounds, headless ghosts inhabited the hallways. They brought Miss Shaw here and continued her early training in how to talk like a spoiled, snobbish, upper-class girl. They copied your dresses, your walk, and your accent.

Then their plan entered the truly clever part. They kidnapped you and brought you here and put you in this room. Every day, Eliza Shaw came up through a secret passageway from her bedroom downstairs and watched you through a hole in the wall.”

He spins around theatrically. “Right here!” Victoria’s mouth hangs open as he points to a hole, about eyeball-size down near the floor on an inside wall.

“She examined your face, your hair style, the way you walked, and the way you talked when you conversed with the other two men. They always wore scarves in your presence. She even smelled your clothes and copied your scent. When you were allowed outside, she came up to this room and observed you from here as you took your daytime exercise … while those nocturnal beasts slept.

Meanwhile, they didn’t say a word to the world or the police. They sent no ransom note, nothing. That was by design. It seemed like a most curious crime. But they knew your father would not respond. He would give them all the time they needed, play into their hands. And then, when Miss Shaw was ready to become you for a week or two, they sent their ransom note. They gave him three days. Concern about you grew to fever pitch in London and among the police, and especially in the confused mind of one Inspector Lestrade. On the third day, your captors took Eliza to Portsmouth, where the captain lived and had arranged some time earlier to have a home rented in a respectable part of the town, far from any dangers that might interfere with their plans. Portsmouth, of course, lies to the south of London (in the opposite direction from where you really were) and is near the English Channel, so as to appear to be a place for a quick getaway by water. They deposited her there and immediately sent the police an anonymous telegram, a ‘public tip.’ Inspector Lestrade had asked for one, as they expected, so anxious had he become to solve this crime. The Force came like an army to Portsmouth and found you … a glorious day for them and their senior detective.”

Victoria is trying not to turn around and gape at him.

“But the entire crime was really about getting inside your father’s house, identifying every last one of his valuables, opening doors from the inside, and stealing him blind while he was away. Your mother’s room and its contents, dear to Captain Waller, were not to be touched. She was most certainly not the target.

“From the moment ‘you‘ were conveniently recovered in Portsmouth by the police, the main part of the crime was in motion. Eliza Shaw, thought to be you, and confirmed as such by your mother and father, was inside the Rathbone mansion, free to roam about and make notes, hear conversations about money matters, and discover the location of the safe. I know because I have seen the notes she made.”

Victoria can no longer resist turning and staring at him. Who is this boy, this Sherlock Holmes? But he disregards her, lifts his hawk nose slightly and goes on.

“The moment your parents notified Eliza Shaw that they were adjourning to their country home with her, she sent word to St. Neots via the aid of one of those boys in that London gang. She told her accomplices that only two aging housemaids would be in the house that day. She left one rear door unlocked. The fiends pounced within a few hours. They entered the home, immobilized the maids, and found Eliza’s notes hidden in a pre-appointed place in the house. They then proceeded to crack the lord’s safe and remove all his money, pick out every painting of great value, every bit of his jewelry, his silver, every precious thing … to which they were so perfectly directed. They came and went in an hour, and the house was plucked nearly clean!”

Sherlock smiles as he sees the anger in Victoria’s face.

“Shocked at the news of the robbery, the Rathbones immediately returned to the city. Eliza Shaw, with her job done, tried to slip away to St. Neots … but I intercepted her.”

“You what?”

“She is an industrious sort though, so she tried again, not long after I left, and was successful. Thus … you were kidnapped a second time!”

Sherlock pauses and regards her intently.

“They are downstairs, the three of them, their cartons and bags filled with extraordinary wealth, the wealth to which you should be heiress – they will sell it all when they get to America and live happily ever after. The captain, of course, will be joining them.”

“But they shan’t get away! You have notified the police!” She is trying not to shout.

“I have, and a distinguished scribe from The Times of London. But they aren’t here … yet.”

The boy looks out the window. In the distance, he can see the steam from a train lifting into the sky as a locomotive whistles across the white-blanketed countryside toward St. Neots.

They are coming.