The boy’s face is lit up.
Scotland Yard’s famous offices are in White Hall not far from Trafalgar Square in the center of stinking, eardrum-popping London. But Sherlock pays little attention to the rush of rumbling omnibuses and sprite hansom cabs, the advertising signs, the desperate poor, or even the celebrated faces. His mind and his senses are riveted on what will take place outside the redbrick exterior of the Yard, and what he hopes to hear from the mouth of the police spokesman who will break the silence on the Rathbone case. He imagines what he would do if he were to pursue this case: he would be alert for even a whiff of a clue, of something that could open the tiniest of cracks in this mystery. This could be his one chance.
The mouth that does the announcing doesn’t belong to an underling. This is not a time for those low on the pecking order to be seen. It sits under the bushy mustache of the one and only Inspector Lestrade. And the mouth is not upturned as it speaks. It is more like a line. Lestrade is not in a happy mood. And his attitude is not lightened when he notices young Holmes standing at the rear of the crowd of reporters. It is the first truly chilly morning of the season and one of those thick, bitter-tasting fogs has settled in. Lestrade squints out at the boy. If he had the time, he would have the meddlesome half-Jew removed.
“Master Holmes,” says a familiar voice right next to him.
“Master Lestrade, your stealth is growing. Your approach escaped me.”
The Inspector’s son smiles. Though he is at least three or four years older than Sherlock, he is barely taller, and inherited, ferret-like features are unfortunately evident in his face.
“This one is said to be unsolvable, you know.”
“I am only an interested observer.”
“Ah! A mere observer…. Nevertheless, you may be intrigued to know that there are still no real clues.”
“That may soon change.”
“Were someone such as you to try a little investigating on this case, Holmes, I would wish them good luck, but my father will triumph this time, you can take that to the Bank of England.”
The older boy walks away, with a grin. He snakes through the crowd and back toward a spot near his father on the temporary podium, which creaks as he ascends it.
But Sherlock is watching someone else. He’s spotted a bespectacled young man in a brown coat and black top hat near the front, who turns and sees him too. There is a moment of recognition. Sherlock recalls him instantly – the reporter from The Times, the man who saw him in the midst of the action during the dramatic final moments of the Crystal Palace case, but then was silenced by the older Lestrade. The boy has since learned that the man’s name is Hobbs.
Lives in central London, thinks Sherlock, in the old city, age twenty-four, five foot five, not much more than a hundredweight, perhaps nine and a half stone … yet flabby … father is a clerk … not given to bravery … could be used again for my purposes in a pinch. He has picked up clues from the man’s frock coat, the make of his spectacles, and his physical attitude. But he chides himself for making plans. Just listen to what the police have to say. Make mental notes for future cases. Such puzzles as this aren’t for you to solve. Not yet.
“Gentleman,” begins the senior Lestrade in a booming voice, “you have been called to Scotland Yard this noon hour to aid the authorities in the solution of a most heinous crime, that of the abduction of Victoria, dear daughter of the esteemed Lord Rathbone of the upper House, seized two weeks prior to the last instant of August, early evening, approximately five fortnights past, whilst minding her own business riding with her coachman in Hyde Park upon Rotten Row.”
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“I hold in my hand a ransom note …”
Though he brandishes it high in the air like a trophy and the sun even co-operates by suddenly shining past the breaking clouds and glowing through the fog, none of the reporters offers the intake of breath he hoped for, so he goes on.
“It reads …
Lord Rathbone:
I have captured your daughter. She is breathing … but perhaps not for long. You may save her life by preparing a quarter-million pounds in small bank notes immediately, and placing said sum at my command when and where I say. You shall be notified of the details of this exchange within three days. Failure to comply will result in your daughter’s execution before the sun sets that day. Be assured that I shall not be made a fool of … though I may make a fool of you.
I remain,
The Enemy”
As the reporters write furiously, Lestrade begins to exhort them to publish this “evil” note verbatim, to encourage their readers to search its contents for clues, and to report anything they know to the Force.
But Sherlock Holmes is ignoring the detective’s drivel. He is focused on a series of distinctive points he’s heard and an enormous one he’s seen. First, there is the fact that this ransom note comes after more than two and a half months of absolutely no communication, but then suddenly puts a very short deadline on its target; secondly, since the note insinuates that there is just one fiend at work, there’s a high probability of there being several; thirdly, the money asked for is gargantuan (making it almost impossible for Rathbone to comply on time), and fourthly, the abductors seem to want to taunt the rich man, again making it difficult for such a man as he to accede to their demands. But the most important clue is the visual one. It is so good that it scares the boy – it is almost irresistible.
As Inspector Lestrade holds the paper high in the air for the reporters to observe and the noon-hour sun begins to dominate the day, Sherlock glimpses something … a very faint watermark. It is the barely detectable outline of two faces.
“I knew you would be here.”
That sweet smell of soap.
Instinctively, Sherlock’s hands go to his perfectly-combed, raven-black hair, intent on making sure it is in place. He had spent a good deal of time attending to it this morning, gazing into the cracked little mirror he has attached to the inside of his wardrobe door. He straightens his poor frock coat, adjusts his necktie, and smoothes out the frayed waistcoat.
Irene Doyle is standing directly behind him, and likely has been for a while.
“It is a case of some interest.”
“Turn around and look at me, Sherlock Holmes. I won’t bite you.”
She is radiant in the sun-drenched fog, dressed beautifully in a buttoned-up white coat with high collar, holding a parasol delicately above her bonneted blonde hair. He hasn’t spoken to her for months, though he’s seen her once or twice, when he just happened to pass by her home. He could swear that he’s also noticed her at least three times on Denmark Street, glancing toward the shop as she walked by on the foot pavement across the road.
Irene has a way of looking at him, examining, almost caressing his features. It is different from other girls. But today there is a grim intensity in her expression, as if she is deeply worried about something.
“It isn’t that, Irene.”
“Then what is it? Because I have never been certain why we can’t be friends. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I … I must be going.”
The parasol comes down violently on his head.
“So must I.”
Sherlock rubs his scalp.
“I am acquainted with the victim,” says Irene as she turns and starts moving rapidly away from him.
“You know her?”
“Now you are interested.” She keeps walking.
“Irene!” He runs after her. “You are acquainted with Victoria Rathbone?”
She stops and smiles. “Why else do you think I came here? To see you?”
Sherlock would never admit that he had ever thought such a thing, had hoped that it might be true.
“Yes, I know her.” She pauses and her voice drops. “She will be murdered, won’t she?”
The boy is surprised to see her eyes moistening.
“Not necessarily,” he says.
“But her
father will never pay.”
“Perhaps she can be found.”
“By whom? Inspector Lestrade? He of the remarkable Whitechapel and Crystal Palace solutions?”
“He is a professional of long standing.”
“Sherlock, you hate him. And what about you? I can’t believe you are simply here to watch?”
“I was fortunate before: in the right place at the right time. My day will come.”
“Yes, you are correct. You would fail at this one.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You are just a boy and one who works alone. This case would be much more difficult than the others. You would begin it without a single clue and no inside knowledge of the incident or the people involved.”
“There may be a starting point.”
She smiles.
“Sherlock, you’ve noticed something! You are interested. You are going to look into this, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“You would need assistance this time.”
“Not necessar –”
“You would need to know something about Victoria and her family, what her life is like, who she really is in person, who her father’s enemies might be. Does she know her abductors? Was it an inside job? Is she delicate? Did the kidnapping kill her? … Is that why there has been silence?”
“There are ways to –”
“How could you, working class and a boy, know anything about her and her world?”
“I –”
“But I know her. I know a great deal about her … and I understand girls too, and how they think. In case you haven’t noticed, I am one.”
The boy wraps his frock coat tighter around his thin frame in the bright, cold air. Inside job? It disturbs him to think of where Irene is picking up talk like that.
“If you were to try to investigate this, you would need someone with such information on your side. I want her found too, and not just because I know her. We could help each other, Sherlock. The police are the most proficient at this, you’re right, but who knows how we might contribute? It’s worth trying.”
The people who committed this crime must be desperate fiends – he does not want Irene anywhere near them.
“You are under the illusion that I want to do this.”
She gives him a sly smile.
Sherlock wonders if Irene knows as much as she claims. She is a girl, that’s true. He will admit that. But he doesn’t believe that she could help him with this case simply for that reason. How different can girls be, anyway? He’s not sure about that smile though. Is she toying with him? Usually he can take the measure of anyone; but this young lady has always been puzzling. Does she indeed know things about Victoria Rathbone that might be useful?
“Tell me what you know, Irene.”
“It’s my father and I who want her back … for reasons I cannot say. We need to find her. I will do whatever I have to do to help solve this. If you won’t lend a hand, then I have a friend who will.”
He knows who that is.
“I should tell you that the life of a little boy hangs in the balance, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He lives in a workhouse. I saw him yesterday. He is going blind and the Rathbones are the only people who can help him. But they aren’t speaking with anyone now.”
“There are thousands of little boys like that, Irene. You know that better than I. Why do you care about this one? And why is Miss Rathbone so important to you?”
Her eyes moisten again; then she looks angry.
“I knew you wouldn’t care about the boy. I don’t know why I told you. He’s a child, Sherlock, with even less in his life than you have! I thought that might mean something to you, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Tell me what you know first, then maybe we can talk about what we might do.”
Irene pauses.
“Before I give you any information, you must promise me that we will share everything we find. This will be you and me … or my other friend and me. What is your answer?”
“Irene, let’s just … maybe …” he hesitates.
“Whoever solves this will have my father’s eternal gratitude. If someone were to lay the solution at his feet, he would provide that person with anything that is within his power to give.”
Sherlock feels a surge of excitement. Anything? He thinks of school – which he must continue to pay for with the meager income that Bell has started paying him – of university after that, of A.C. Doyle’s influence at such institutions and at Scotland Yard.
“I …”
“Yes?”
If Sherlock agrees, it would mean that he would have to include Irene, put her in danger, and share the credit. She thinks she has him right where she wants him. But does she? Surely her father wouldn’t want her involved. In fact, he might very well thank the boy for keeping her out of it.
“Such a case … could be very dangerous.”
This time, when she turns, she keeps moving. She steams east toward central London.
Irene wouldn’t work with Malefactor, would she?
Still rubbing his head, trying to resist watching her walk away, Sherlock turns back toward Scotland Yard. He tells himself that her attractiveness has nothing to do with her golden hair, the sweet sound of her voice, or those beguiling smiles that disarm him…. It’s simply that she may have a tantalizing connection to the kidnap victim, which would indeed be helpful to anyone investigating this case. What does she really know? He turns back to watch her. She is far away now, nearing the ornate stone arch that connects The Mall to Trafalgar Square. I must get her to talk to me. He wants to run after her. But then several short figures and a tall one appear in the shadows near her. Irene pauses, looks back at Sherlock, and vanishes into the darkness under the arch.
He moves toward the Yard again, thinking about what he’s seen and heard this morning. He has a clue, a good one that he doubts the police have noticed. And if he doesn’t hesitate, looks into the case while he has this advantage, there is an opportunity before him that can change his life. Can he let this chance go?
At that instant, there is a commotion a few hundred feet in front of him.
Inspector Lestrade and his son are attempting to walk out from police headquarters onto wide White Hall Street, where a black four-wheeler awaits them, but the veteran plainclothesman is being hectored by a dozen newspapermen, among them Mr. Hobbs. They surround him like a swarm of bees buzzing with questions. He isn’t answering and looks angry.
This case has been a monstrous public failure for the senior inspector. Sherlock smiles and scoots over. He wants to hear this. It will do his heart good.
“How is it possible, Inspector, to have no clues for three months?”
“Do you think she is already dead?”
“Has anything like this ever happened before?”
“Is your job in jeopardy?”
Even that question cannot draw a comment from Lestrade, but the next one does. And not simply because of its content, though that is bad enough. It comes from Sherlock Holmes. With his lust for vengeance growing as he watches the inspector get what he deserves, the boy shouts at him from behind the mob.
“Are you not ashamed?”
There is silence. All the reporters turn to look at the audacious working-class boy who has just insulted the senior inspector at Scotland Yard.
“What was that you said, you young blackguard?” shouts Lestrade. “Step forward!”
The reporters part and Sherlock walks through them like Moses, unafraid, his big nose lifted high and proud. This is for his mother.
“I said … are you not ashamed?”
Lestrade reaches out with one hand for the boy, the other balled in a fist, but his son pulls him back.
“I ought to thrash you here in public!”
“Desperate men often resort to violence.”
The newsmen are speechless for an instant. Then The Times reporter recogn
izes the boy.
“Say, aren’t you the lad who –”
“Shut your gob, Mr. Hobbs!” hisses Lestrade. “This child is a loiterer and if he does not move along I shall call a constable.”
“But he isn’t –”
“SHUT UP, Hobbs!”
“I have a clue in the Rathbone case,” says Sherlock calmly.
Several reporters laugh.
“You what?” asks Lestrade Junior.
Aha, thinks Sherlock, they have none.
“And I am the Duke of Wellington come back to life,” smirks the inspector. He puts his hands on his lapels, as if to commence a speech. “This boy is a lunatic. A Jew who wanders the streets, does bit work for an impoverished quack, and several times has pretended to know things about certain well-known crimes. He consorts with young ruffians and has been in jail. We are well aware of him. His parents’ reckless marriage made him a half-breed.”
“Father, I don’t think it is kind to –”
“If you choose to work with me, sir, then you shall be silent.”
The older boy looks at his feet.
“As I was saying, he has delusions and deserves our pity more than anything else. Let me demonstrate. I ask you, Master Holmes, did you not solve both the Whitechapel and Crystal Palace crimes?”
“Yes, I did.”
The reporters roar with laughter.
“Father, we shouldn’t –”
“Silence, boy! I shan’t speak to you again.”
Lestrade is hitting his stride now. He sees Sherlock Holmes shrinking in front of his very eyes and smells blood. It feels so good to get the upper hand for once during this black time. At least he can put an end to this meddler.
“The truth is that his mother was murdered in cold blood by the Whitechapel villain, poisoned like a rat … and he, gentleman, was the cause!”
With that, Lestrade steps up into his carriage, pulling his astonished son with him.
The reporters walk off, mimicking the boy in the threadbare dress clothes. “I have a clue,” snorts one in a child-like voice. They all laugh again, except Hobbs, who gazes at the boy.
With eyes as red as blood, Sherlock Holmes stumbles into an alley off White Hall. He boots over a rotting rain barrel and lets the water in it drain. Then he picks it up and flings it against a wall. When it doesn’t smash, he kicks it, again and again and again … until it splinters into pieces.
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