Vanishing Girl

The ransom note was sent yesterday and had a three-day deadline. Rathbone won’t pay, there is no doubt. There are just forty-eight hours left before they kill his daughter … before opportunity vanishes.

Sigerson Bell is hard at work in the chemical laboratory when his apprentice arrives with a smile pasted on his face, ready to pick the alchemist’s big brain. At first, things don’t seem promising. The old man’s eyes look slightly wild and cloudy, likely from some sort of solution he’s administered to himself. But, as usual, there is a file inside his skull that promises to be of considerable help. They dip into it.

“Yes, I once had a papermaker as a patient,” says Bell. “Something wrong with his bowel, if I recall correctly. Not enough water in the gut was producing a hard stool that smelled like –”

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes, my boy?”

“I’m not certain I need to know about the odor of his stool.”

“Quite. A very good point! More pertinent for your purposes is the question of the watermark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s see…. This patient was a foreman at one of those new-fangled mills about a forenoon’s walk from central London, out Surrey way to the south where they use wood pulp to make the paper and steam-powered machines to process it. In his earlier day he had toiled at a smaller operation where they used rags, so he was conversant with all aspects of the making of paper. A loquacious sort, he was, though what man in England who has risen above semi-literacy cannot talk your ear right off when given a chance? We are a chatty race. Had terrible halitosis, as I recall, his breath smelled like a dog’s behind after it rolled in …”

“Uh … watermarks, sir?”

“Keep me on the trail, my boy, my nose right to it. Excellent! … What was the trail again?”

“Watermarks.”

“Watermarks! Right you are! Let me see. This gentleman used to speak of the fact that not long ago there were nearly a thousand paper mills in England, but just a hundred or so now, much bigger and more efficient at the art. I recollect him speaking of watermarks indeed, saying they have become much simpler. Just a single letter often suffices now, the sign of the mill. That wasn’t the way in the old days.”

It isn’t much, but it’s a start for Sherlock. The watermark is an old one.

There’s no sense in going to school now: it is early afternoon. It would be impossible to concentrate anyway. The boy works for several hours in the shop, cleaning up around the laboratory, his mind focused on what he should do next. The big clock in the lab seems to be ticking faster and faster. His thoughts wander back to Irene. Her possible contributions remain tantalizing. Does she really know something valuable? But it wouldn’t matter if she did. He simply cannot share the credit for the solution to this crime.

He grows anxious – he needs to come up with something. But he reminds himself to be as emotionless as possible. He sets jars of oozing liquid, containers of severed limbs, mysterious cans of powder that make his nose tingle, all in their proper places. He dusts the many leaning towers of books that make up Bell’s teetering library, and polishes the three precious statues of Hermes.

Trying to construct a theory, he focuses on how he might learn more about old watermarks. Just as he does, he notices an old copy of the Telegraph on a stool, and an idea comes to him. When Bell goes off on a mid-afternoon call, he slips out the door. His next stop is Trafalgar Square to speak to the cripple, Dupin, who will be setting up to sell his evening publications. Nothing in the newspaper business escapes the legless man, and Sherlock is betting he’ll know something about the material his sheets are printed upon. An old watermark should be his cup of tea – Dupin adores the history of everything.

“Paper? Don’t know much about it Master ‘olmes.”

The boy’s heart sinks.

“But I do have the acquaintance of a stationer, one of the best in London, been in that line for many generations. He buys his dailies from me. Loves to talk about our glorious past, ‘e does. Just like me, Master ‘olmes.” Dupin’s twisted lips smile. “Two faces, you say? I’ll inquire of ‘im. ‘e’ll be ‘round in about an hour.”

Sherlock can hardly wait. He doesn’t want to pause more than a minute, let alone an hour – he may be about to make progress on the only clue to the kidnapping. He stands near the newspaper kiosk, examining every customer, sure he will be able to guess which one is the stationer. For a while, deciphering the occupations, ages, and habits of the many men and women who buy Dupin’s papers is interesting. Then his interest wanes. But after Big Ben chimes the next hour, the game becomes more tantalizing: the stationer should be here soon. Which customer will he be? Finally, the perfect candidate appears: a middle-aged chap with an intellectual look on his bespectacled face, a certain historic flair in the cut of his suit, and great height to his hat; he takes the paper from Dupin with long fingers tipped with the black-smudged nails of someone who often works with ink.

Sherlock can’t stand it any longer. He approaches to eavesdrop. The two men are engrossed in their conversation.

“Two faces, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is interesting.”

“‘ow so, sir?”

“Why, it’s the mark of the Fourdrinier Brothers, pioneers in our line, stationers here in London long ago. They used some of the first modern papermaking machines very early in the century, but you can’t get that material now.”

“Why not, sir?” Sherlock pipes up.

The two men turn. Dupin regards him with a look that says “Shoo!”

“Who is this?” inquires the stationer, raising his head and looking down his nose and through his spectacles at the boy in the worn-out frock coat.

“No one,” says Dupin, glaring at Sherlock.

“Be that as it may, he has an excellent question,” smiles the man.

Dupin looks relieved.

“You can’t get that paper these days, my son, because it isn’t manufactured anymore.”

“But where was it made in its day?”

“The town of St. Neots, well north of the city, not far from Cambridge, but …”

The boy doesn’t wait to hear the whole answer.

King’s Cross Station serves those passengers taking the Great Northern Railway to and from London. Though Sherlock isn’t exactly sure where St. Neots is, he certainly knows all about Cambridge, forty or fifty miles north of here, dominated by its famous university. He’s guessing this rail line will take him close to where he needs to go – he’ll find out at the terminus. He rushes through the city, not even stopping at the apothecary’s to tell the old man he is leaving London. All his work responsibilities have fled his mind. So impetuous is he that he barely considers what awaits him at his destination, if it might all be for naught, how long he might be gone, or if he can even get onto a train. He is simply filled with a desire to go.

He has to pass through Bloomsbury, and decides to slip up Montague Street where Irene lives, not to see her, mind … just … he isn’t sure why.

A leg wearing a big dirty boot sticks out as he turns the corner onto Montague, knocking him to the hard foot pavement.

Grimsby.

He is Malefactor’s most vicious lieutenant: dark, wiry, and sadistic. Beside him stands the silent Crew: big, blond, and blue-eyed. Grimsby steps over Sherlock, arms folded, one foot on either side of his torso.

Their boss materializes from behind. Dark-haired and gray-eyed like Sherlock, he sports his black top hat and fading, long tailcoat, and carries a walking stick, which he twirls in the air. His head protrudes as he talks, as if