Vanishing Girl (25 page)

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I have my sources.”

Sherlock is a bit taken aback, but he goes on.

“If Miss Rathbone cannot be found, then the little boy will go blind. But … I may know the identity of the fiend we all seek. And I think I can locate him.”

“And you want to do this for the cause of the little boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That settles it then.”

“It does?”

“Whatever you wanted to ask of me, the answer is yes.”

“It is?”

“I am guessing that you want to go to the southern coast … Portsmouth?”

As Sherlock looks at him in disbelief, the old man spins like a whirling dervish and advances toward his little strongbox.

“Yes, I too would make a devilishly good detective,” he smiles. “The first train available to you is the six o’clock morning express. Fare by the London and South Western
Railway will be one pound return. Take this and be off with you.” He hands the boy a couple of coins. “School and this shop shall await anyone with such lofty goals.”

An idea occurs to Sherlock.

“Would you come with me, sir?”

The old man is as agile and alert as a rabbit. He wouldn’t be a burden, and his quick mind would help the boy at every turn of the Portsmouth investigation. There shouldn’t be much danger in this outing, and Sherlock likes the idea of having a companion, especially in the person of his dearest friend.

But Bell’s answer surprises him.

“No,” he says instantly, “no, I … uh … I have … work I must do.” He looks like someone who is hiding something. A guilty expression spreads across his face.

I know he can spare the time. What is he up to? And how did he know about Portsmouth?

“Now, I would suggest to you that you clean up this shop and then take to your bed. You have much to do in the south, a long day ahead of you. You must be up early and on your way.
Shoo
!”

The old man usually rises before the boy in the mornings. Holmes is given to lingering in his wardrobe, pondering his life and then spending a good deal of time at the mirror. Today, Bell is up long before him. Just as Sherlock appears, the apothecary quickly throws a cloth over a vial of liquid
ammonia and a shard of yellow sulfur, with which he had obviously been experimenting. He then motions to the table. The boy’s breakfast is already waiting: a display of fried liver and buttermilk arrayed in mortars and tubes. The minute the apprentice has swallowed it, Bell begins rushing him.

“Now go. Go, go, go!” He says, almost shoving the boy toward the door. But just as Sherlock walks through it, the old man takes him by the arm.

“Are you sure that you are doing this for the child?”

Sherlock considers his answer for a few seconds. “Uh … yes, sir.”

When Holmes is almost all the way down Denmark Street in the cold and bustling London dawn, he glances back at the shop. He isn’t sure, but he can almost swear that the front door is held open a crack and one lens of a pair of field glasses is eyeing him as he walks away.

Within the hour, Sherlock Holmes is speeding toward the southern coast.

A
s the first morning train on the London and South Western Railway from Waterloo Station pulls into the Portsmouth terminal, an hour and a half after departure, Sherlock gets up from his seat and walks toward the doors. He is clutching the backs of the wooden third-class benches, staggering about as the locomotive chugs to a halt, warily watching the passengers, anxious to get out.

He wants to be down near the dockyard
now
, the area where the Royal Navy has its barracks, its officers’ mess, its magnificent ships in the Portsmouth Harbour. He is telling himself that he has made the right choice coming here. A southern coastal town? A captain in the navy? That
must
go together. But he has begun to have doubts. His faulty reasoning in St. Neots still affects his confidence, and all the time he had to think on the train has made him wonder why he is assuming that Waller must be involved in either of the crimes. There is really no sound evidence, just clever guesswork, and he remembers how his father felt about guessing. But Sigerson Bell thought Portsmouth a good choice, too.
Why, he isn’t sure. Because it is a city known for its crime, the best of all the port towns for getting away by sea?

Then he spots something that puts all his doubts on hold.

There’s a youth, a little older than he, stepping down from the second-class carriage ahead, glancing around in a suspicious manner. Sherlock smiles. The lad wears a beard and mustache. Definitely wears it. Underneath all that hair, Holmes detects a ferret-like face.

He follows young Lestrade along the platform under the curving glass ceiling, through the beautiful booking office and out of doors. On Station Street, he buys the morning edition of the
Portsmouth News
from a vendor, something to hold in front of his face should his prey suspect a lurker and look back. Lestrade must be on his way to the very spot where Victoria was found the first time she was kidnapped. He will lead Sherlock right to it! Searching for Captain Waller can wait.

Lestrade, heading south and slipping in and out of crowds of pedestrians and often glancing back, is sticking to a main thoroughfare, but when Sherlock looks down side streets he sees the tightly packed neighborhoods for which this gray-and-brown city is known. They house its tough, seafaring class. This is where Charles Dickens came from and it seems fitting. There appear to be pubs on every corner, drinking holes for sailors, and a sense of danger hangs in the air.

Sherlock expects his guide to take him toward the dockyard or into the heart of the city. Instead, he is heading
south in the direction of the green Commons and the suburb of Southsea, a newer, middle-class area much more genteel than the center of Portsmouth. It isn’t where one would have expected to find much criminal activity.

Sherlock starts to think, and this time, it’s a mistake. Suddenly, the junior Lestrade isn’t there. Holmes picks up his pace, anxiously searching the crowds ahead. The streets aren’t nearly as busy here: he can see everyone in front of him, respectably dressed folks bundled up in early winter clothes … and not one of them is his quarry. He approaches a park. Disgusted with himself, he slouches down on a bench.

“May I be of assistance?”

Young Lestrade is standing right behind him.

Sherlock starts. “How … Master Lestrade, nice to see you.”

How does he do that!

“On a seaside visit, are you? Perhaps the ferry over to the Isle of Wight?”

“You know why I am here. We might as well continue our walk. I shan’t cause any troubles. I simply want to see where she was found.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

“So, you are on holidays, too?”

“Yes.”

“A stroll through lovely Southsea?”

“Without question.”

“A walk along the boardwalk?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the early winter breezes?”

“One can’t be choosy.”

“In disguise?”

Lestrade doesn’t respond at first. They look out across the park.

“You must turn around and go back to London, Master Holmes.”

“I will not.”

“Oh, but you shall. Or I will call a constable to send you on your way.”

Lestrade sits down beside him, smiling.

“What will be the charge? I am causing no harm. But you … you are a boy in disguise.
Very
suspicious. Does anyone know you here? Perhaps it is I who should call the police?”

The other boy glowers. “Then I shall notify my father and the detectives who are with him.”

“Thank you for informing me of the presence of your father in this city, and should you do as you say and speak to him, I will have reason to doubly appreciate you … for you will lead me directly to the scene of the crime…. I assume that is where your father is?”

“I will not lead you anywhere!”

“Then … we shall wait.”

The two boys sit on the park bench for a full half hour without saying a single word. But it is Lestrade who is first to suffer from a case of the twitches, then a distinct coloring in his face. He rises to his feet.

“All right! You have me … this time!”

“Master Lestrade, you could simply return home and I would be none the wiser as to the location of the scene.”

“You know I don’t want to do that! You know I want to be part of this!”

“Yes, I do. Who wouldn’t?”

“Here is the deal we shall strike. You may follow me, but only at a distance. You must not enter the building, and you must not speak to my father or let him see that you are in the city. Your presence will be our little secret.”

“Agreed.”

“This thoroughfare is called King’s Road. In about five minutes we will turn off it and go downhill in the direction of the water. Our destination is a small street called Bush Villas, the address is number one. I shan’t speak to you or see you again in Portsmouth or anywhere nearby. Good day.”

He stalks away at a great pace.

Sherlock keeps him in sight, but slows when they near the crime scene for he sees the lean figure of Inspector Lestrade far ahead, coming out the front door of a three-storey brick home. The detective’s son nods to his father and enters the house, glancing furtively back to make sure Holmes is nowhere in sight. He has stopped in the alcove of a church nearby and is considering how to proceed.
All is fair in love and crime
. The English Channel isn’t far away and a cool breeze wafts in from the water. Gulls cry above.

This is a strange neighborhood indeed, in which to keep a kidnapped girl. Instead of hiding her where all sorts
of skullduggery is a daily occurrence, where one could vanish into the snaking streets and alleys and hole up in a grimy, little flat, where grappling with a struggling victim wouldn’t make a scene or cause others to run to her aid, where lips are sealed … they chose this middle-class area with it’s wide-open vistas.
Why?

What if she wasn’t struggling?

Lestrade is speaking to a man in a suit with a checked waistcoat, who carries a top hat and walking stick. The detective shakes the man’s hand and sends him on his way, then reenters the house. Sherlock steps out from the safety of the church and approaches number one Bush Villas. From a first-floor window, the younger Lestrade spots him and frantically motions for him to leave. But Sherlock is watching the well-dressed gentleman briskly pacing away, regarding the other houses as he goes, heading not into Portsmouth central, but toward the wealthier residential areas in Southsea.

About fifty years of age, lives nearby. Self-made: those born to wealth don’t walk so industriously. Interested in other houses … the landlord!

Sherlock is off, rushing along the footpath after the gentleman. Upstairs in the window, Lestrade Junior is aghast. Holmes follows for a while, until he is sure that he and the landlord are out of sight.

“Sir!” He finally shouts.

The gentleman turns and looks down his nose at the boy.

“Inspector Lestrade … he sent me with a message. He has a few more questions for you. I am to bring back the responses.”

“You are? I thought this was secret stuff. Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Doesn’t like to run.”

The gentleman laughs. “Yes, I can imagine that, our Lestrade.”

“And he prefers unlikely messengers. I am not what I seem, you will understand.”

Susceptible to flattery
, thinks Sherlock as he watches the man straighten his waistcoat.

“What would he like to know?”

“He wanted me to say, firstly, that he was impressed with your keen memory of the events in question.”

The gentleman smiles.

“It is nothing. I make it a habit to train my mind. I am told I have a large bump of mnemonic recall on my cranium. Ask me anything, and I shall see what I can do for the Inspector by way of retrieving files from my brain banks.”

“When did you let this house to the people who were holding Victoria Rathbone?”

“He has already asked me this!” snorts the gentleman. He looks suspicious.