Vanishing Girl (34 page)

Sherlock sees Lestrade do something he never dreamed the ferret-faced man had in him: he leaps onto the granite wall in one jump, grips two bars of the iron fence on top, and swings himself up. Off to the side of the house, Eliza Shaw is hustling out the door, wearing “Victoria Rathbone” traveling clothes. The scar-faced villain motions for her to climb into the carriage. The other phaeton, manned by the game-legged thief, is about to pull out.

Lestrade sees them.

“Halt!” he cries, “Or I shall fire!”

The phaetons begin to move.

The Inspector fires his gun and surprises himself: the bullet goes exactly where he intends it to go, right between the first team of horses and their buggy. The phaeton draws to an immediate halt, and the second crashes into it from behind.

“This way!” shouts Lestrade, motioning for his wheezing men to run to the side of the house and intercept the villains. The dogs are un-muzzled and begin to bark and snarl. “Toby!” a constable cries. “Seize them!” Sherlock sees the younger Lestrade arrive, and look up proudly at his father. In the distance, the heaving figure of Hobbs from
The Times
is struggling toward them.

In Stepney, the workhouse door has been opened.

“I am here to see a child named Paul Waller,” says the bent-over old man to the foul-smelling concierge.

“Paul Dimly, you means.”

“No, Paul Waller. Now, take me to him.”

“And who might you be?”

“I am Sigerson Trismegistus Bell, here on an errand from God.”

Sherlock crouches by the window and motions for Victoria to remain silent. He doesn’t want Lestrade to know he is here, not yet. The plan he has been concocting has a much more dramatic climax.

Outside, the police have taken only a few minutes to bring the villains around to the front door. Sherlock can hear every word.

“An interesting bit of merchandise you lot are carrying,” says Lestrade. “Take these two away.”

Sherlock peeks up over the sill. He notices Hobbs, far behind, just reaching the grounds and struggling over the wall. Right below the window, Lestrade has turned to Eliza Shaw with a buttery smile.

“And you, Miss Rathbone,” he coos, “it is a pleasure to be in your presence again. You shall be returned to your father forthwith.”

Neither of the two male villains utters a word as they are pulled away.
Perhaps there is honor among thieves after all
, thinks Sherlock.

“They were making off with me,” says Eliza in a shaky voice. “Right off with me!” The
R
rolls perfectly. “I feel I can find my own way home now.”

“Nonsense,” insists Lestrade, “I shall personally escort you.”

“Perhaps just to London, then. I would like to surprise my parents alone.”

Sherlock can see that she has a big purse over her shoulder, likely filled with all her incriminating notes.

“That can be arranged,” intones Lestrade, doffing his bowler hat at her. As he does, he hears a thump upstairs, coming from an upper window.

“What was that? Are there others upstairs?” asks Lestrade.

“Oh, that is the ghost,” laughs Eliza nervously. “The headless lady of Grimwood Hall. Quite famous. Shall we be off?”

“Did someone mention a ghost?” asks little Hobbs as he finally arrives, huffing and puffing. He wrestles a pen and pad from his coat pocket.

“If I might say so, you seem much older in person, Miss Rathbone,” interjects the younger Lestrade, “more grown up, that is.”

The Inspector rolls his eyes and then frowns at his son.

There’s another thump from the upper storey.

“There is someone up there, Father.”

“Nonsense,” says Eliza. “Might you take me to St. Neots station now, Inspector? I am flushed with excitement … and
so
impressed with your actions. I may faint if I don’t get away. I cannot wait to tell my father.”

There’s another thump, this time very loud.

“I must conduct this investigation personally, Miss Rathbone. And you cannot leave the grounds without me.”

“Yes I can!”

“Excuse me?”

“I demand that you accompany me this instant to the St. Neots train station!” She shouts, stamping her foot.

“Ah,” says Lestrade Junior under his breath, “fourteen after all.”

“The constables will stay with you. No need to fear. My son and I are going upstairs.”

“No!”

He turns to two of his men and speaks softly.

“She is hysterical, gentlemen. Comes under the heading of ‘woman.’ Restrain her if you must. I shall be back down shortly. This is likely nothing. The window up there
looks shattered, so it is probably the wind … or that ghost.”

The constables guffaw as Lestrade winks at them and he and his son make for the front door. Though very pleased about things, he is also a little concerned. He keeps glancing around the grounds. Where is that boy, Sherlock Holmes? Hobbs is immediately beside them.

Upstairs, Holmes is readying himself for his greatest moment. Fame is about to be attached to his name. All of London will not only know he solved this sensational, mystifying case, but that he, too, was behind the Whitechapel and Brixton solutions. He will reveal everything. His future rises in front of him like a dream.

He hears the front door close and footsteps advancing through the vestibule, down the corridor, and up to the first staircase.

T
he excitement is building inside Sherlock Holmes. His heart pounds harder than it has ever thumped during any moment of danger he has experienced since he first fancied him-self a detective. This is not only what he has been working for since the moment his mother died, but really, in a sense, from the day he was born. He is about to get his due.

He strides across the room and opens the door. It has all worked out in the end. He has Lestrade exactly where he wants him. The senior detective will not be able to wriggle out of this one.

Sherlock steps out into the hallway. He can hear the distant voices of the two Lestrades and
The Times
reporter at the top of the second staircase several corridors away. They are trying to figure out which passageway to take.

Sherlock whacks his foot on the floor and then hears Lestrade commanding his companions in the right direction.

The boy can hardly contain himself. How will he put this? He should have something very clever, very dramatic, to say.

“Inspector Lestrade, how nice to see you,” he intones quietly, so Victoria won’t hear him. His chest, however, is swelling, his eyebrows raised. “Good of you to come. If you step right this way, I shall introduce you to … Victoria Rathbone. You say that is impossible, that she is in your custody already? I think not. You see, you have been duped, sir, taken for a fool, a boob, an imbecile. Let me explain.”

But as he gloats in the hallway, Sherlock experiences a great surprise. He doesn’t like the sound of this pride-filled speech at all. There is something hollow in it, something juvenile.

“
One must pursue things for the right reasons
,” he hears Sigerson Bell say.

Back in Stepney, the concierge, who has foolishly revealed to the strange visitor exactly where little Paul Waller is in the workhouse, is in trouble. The ancient, bent-over apothecary will not wait while officials are notified and asked if a visit will be permitted. In fact, he is getting hard to contain.

“You must ‘alt ‘ere, old fellow,” the man insists, placing his hand on Bell’s scrawny chest. The intruder begins to push past him.

“I shall do no such thing.” Bell looks up the stairs that lead to the first floor. They are filthy. As he glances down, a rat scurries between their feet. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir, and so ought this entire enterprise, so ought England itself. I shall see the boy!”

“I’m afraid –”

But the concierge doesn’t finish the sentence. A masterful Bellitsu move results in his chubby hand being removed from the old man’s chest and in his falling, face forward, onto the floor, where he remains for more than a few minutes.

Sigerson Bell goes up the steps four at a time, heading for Paul Waller on the double.

Sherlock figures that Lestrade and company are less than thirty seconds from his door. He looks back through the entrance at haughty Victoria Rathbone and then toward the
T
in the hallway just up ahead. That’s where they will appear. Then he hears another voice, a woman’s, coming up behind the men.