“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes, my good fellow. Are you in need? The lord …”
“I am a friend of Irene Doyle’s.”
There is a pause.
“You are?”
“And I would like to see Paul Dimly.”
“Ah, Dimly. That is not his Christian name, young man. Better to simply call him Paul, like the saint. A friend of Irene Doyle’s, you say. Would you like to help the child?”
“Uh … yes, yes I would.”
“And how will you do that?”
“I … uh … I don’t know, sir. I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Barnardo smiles.
“Come with me.”
The Ratcliff Workhouse isn’t a particularly large version of those mostly black, soot-encrusted, granite or wooden monsters that stain London every few dozen streets or so. It is built in a U-shape, on three floors, with Spartan accommodations, a large work area outside, and a cavernous dining hall in the basement. Paul Dimly lives alone in a very small room on an upper floor once used as a broom closet. He has no one to live with and would shun company anyway.
When Thomas Barnardo ushers Sherlock into the little room, they are startled to find it empty. After a moment of panic, the kindly man realizes what time it is, and that the little boy must have been taken down to dinner. The dining hall (though it is hardly fitting to call it that) is tall and long and cold and filled with crude, wooden tables set with tin plates and cups. At a thick counter at the front a burly male cook is ladling out a lumpy, dark stew. It seems to have a good deal of cabbage in it, for the stench of that vegetable fills the fetid air. Sherlock spots a small, scraggly Christmas tree, undecorated, on a wooden pedestal, just over the cook’s shoulder. He has forgotten that December has just arrived, and a dart of pain pierces his chest – his mother always celebrated Christmas and his father used to join in, too. This will be his first year without her, without his family.
Paul Dimly isn’t difficult to find. He is the smallest being in the room. Sherlock is alarmed at his size. He seems no larger than a dog, a living Tiny Tim. And he crouches over his meal, not touching it, pulling himself into a tight ball in the cold, as if he were trying to get back into his mother’s womb.
“Paul,” says Thomas Barnardo. “I’ve brought a friend of Miss Doyle’s to see you.”
Sherlock thinks the boy moves a little at the sound of Irene’s name, but he doesn’t look up. His dirty, reddish-blond hair is so thin that he seems to be balding. He has no shoes and his torn workhouse uniform is the color of dirt.
“Oi!” shouts a rough from across the table: he’s a few years younger than Sherlock. “‘ere’s a bloke to look at you.” Paul doesn’t respond. “Look up! Dimly!”
As other nearby boys laugh, Paul stares up.
It nearly makes Sherlock Holmes cry. The little one’s enormous eyes are a beautiful deep brown like Irene’s and seem to fill up half his face, but they look right through his visitors and can’t focus. The lids are swollen and turned inward, the iris and pupil, even the whites, are covered with dirty clouds like those that dominate London’s winter skies. The mists that still float across Lady Rathbone’s similar brown eyes are nothing compared to this. The child seems as though he is already blind.
“He can barely see your face,” whispers Barnardo, “I would guess he has little more than a week … then he won’t see anything at all.”
Sherlock wants to leave the hall. He must find a way to talk to Victoria Rathbone. Now.
But there is another concern inside him. And it worries him. He is just as excited about gaining Irene’s admiration, the adoration of London, and the envy of Inspector Lestrade, as he is about helping this forlorn child.
He feels he should say something to Paul Dimly before he goes. As he regards him again, he notices that more than his eyes are like Irene. He has her high cheekbones, a face that somehow looks fine and well bred. He is remarkably like Lady Rathbone too, now that Sherlock considers it.
“Is that your hat?”
Worried that the bullies would enter his room and steal it, little Paul has brought his precious hat with him again.
“It … is his father’s,” says Mr. Barnardo, smiling at the child.
Dimly’s eyes are resisting tears so the young doctor steers Sherlock away, but not before Holmes examines the boy’s treasure as best he can, half-hidden as it is in two small hands. A cocked captain’s hat, deep blue with a camel hump in the middle, flattening at either end. Royal Navy. Initials on the brim … first one … can’t see it … second … W.
Mr. Barnardo walks down the creaking staircase with Sherlock, his hand on his shoulder.
“There are many children like him in London, you know. We cannot help each and every one. He may be lost. But we can, all of us, attempt to reform the society in which we live. That will change everything in the long run. There are several ways to do that, even the poorest can help. The first and most important is to turn to our Lord Jesus Christ for guidance and admonish all others to do the same. The second is to petition our government to care for our poor, to enact …”
“Sir,” says Sherlock.
“Yes, young man?” There’s an air of expectation on Barnardo’s face.
“Who was his father?”
“Paul’s? I have no idea. And neither does he, I should think. He was adopted by a man and wife who died of the cholera about a year ago. He was brought here by the parish beadle.”
“How old is he?”
“Just five, God bless him.”
Sherlock’s questions have a purpose. And the answers are putting a shocking possibility into his mind. The boy looks like Lady Rathbone. He has her eye problem. She disappeared for many months five years ago. She loves a captain whose last initial is W … the same letter on the little boy’s hat. But it is a laughable notion and he rejects it the instant it enters his mind. This is simply a series of coincidences. Impossible.
“There he is now.”
Sherlock looks up to see the fat, uniformed beadle on the staircase landing, speaking to one of the workhouse nurses, twirling the mustache on his red, fleshy face, trying to impress her with a long-winded story filled with the biggest words he can muster.
“Beadle?”
The man turns to Mr. Barnardo, annoyed to be interrupted.
“Can you tell us about the little one with the eye infection?”
“Who wants to know?” He glances down his nose at Sherlock Holmes.
“I do,” says Barnardo.
“Yes … well … Paul Dimly … I got word of ‘im about a year ago, I did. ‘is folks passed from the cholera and ‘e was left alone in that flat they was living in.”
“Where?” asks Sherlock.
“Believe it was on White ‘orse Lane,” says the beadle reluctantly.
“You have such a sharp memory, you does,” says the nurse, smiling up at him. He clears his throat.
“North of ‘ere just south of Mile End and the Jews’ ‘ospital, two buildings up from where White ‘orse Lane meets Friendly Place, beside O’Neil’s green grocer shop.”
“Thank –”
“And they weren’t ‘is own folks. They was old. Others around said they was distant relations to a captain in the navy who ‘ad fathered the lad … gave ‘im to ‘em. ‘e was from the ‘igh end of the family, such as it was. Doubt the truth of that, though. Poor folks talk.”
When Barnardo turns back to the boy, he is gone.
White Horse Lane is a thoroughfare to the north of St. Dunstan’s Church. It runs straight up to Mile End, which is the eastern part of Whitechapel Road. It isn’t the best neighborhood, but not the most frightening, either. Sherlock even spots an unkempt little park nearby.
It seems impossible that this desperate child in that dark workhouse could have anything to do with Lady Rathbone. He tells himself it is ridiculous one more time. But the more he thinks of the lad’s face … and then hers … the more the two look alike.
&
nbsp; It doesn’t take him long to get to the intersection of the streets he seeks. He sees the Jews’ hospital up near Mile End and spots the Irishman’s green grocery. He counts two buildings to the north. The residence he is looking for is obviously tenanted by more than a single family, one to each of the three floors. It is a non-descript lodging, neither poverty-stricken nor comfortable. There are two boys playing skittles on the street nearby, both about ten years old, dressed in threadbare trousers and shirts, but at least fully clothed and not barefoot. Perfect. Never ask questions of adults.
“Do you lot know of the family that used to live here?” asks Sherlock pointing at the house in question. “The old folks who had a boy?”
“The Wallers?” says one lad immediately.
It sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine. “The Wallers,” he repeats in a monotone.
“That’s what I said, you prat. Are you deaf?”
“And he weren’t their son.”
“No?”
“Me mum says he was a bastard.”
“Heard that too. A navy man, his real daddy was. Wallers had no folks left around here when they died. They croaked awful sudden like. The beadle came and took the boy away. It was winter time and he was freezin’.”
But Sherlock is barely listening. He is thinking of Lady Rathbone, fear on her face, admitting to the name of her secret lover.
Captain Waller.
Within an hour he is on Montague Street, tingling with excitement, anxious to tell Irene, barely able to wait and see the look on her face. They may never be friends again, but at least he can have her admiration.
He is certain that what he has learned will save little Paul’s life. The child was given away at birth so Lady Rathbone likely doesn’t know where he is or even that he is alive. But if it is at all possible for her to help him now, she will surely move heaven and earth to do so. What mother wouldn’t? And even if she can’t, the Doyles can now take little Paul into their home – the child is their relation. And there’s still another possibility … they could all force Lady R. to help them. The facts are there for the three of them to blackmail her.
He wants to speak to Irene alone.
It’s been another cold, rainy day. There is green Christmas holly on the Doyles’ front gate. He squeaks the gate open and walks quietly up to the doorsteps. Looking down, he finds Mr. Doyle’s footprints on the muddy surface, heading out. If she’s here, she is on her own.
Then he hears something startling.
Singing … coming from a second-storey room of the Doyle home. And though it is beautiful, it isn’t an opera piece or a hymn. It’s the lusty sound of a music hall ditty:
“I love you like
You love me
We’re so alike
Don’t you see?
But gems and pearls
Would make it better
Gems and pearls
In your next love letter.”
Though he is surprised to hear such a song in the Doyle home, that isn’t what is startling. It’s who is singing it. Irene’s voice, a voice Sherlock never dreamed she had, sounds remarkable: strong and clear, filling the risqué song with bold intent. For a moment, he forgets what he has come for. Then he picks up a pebble and tosses it at the window. The singing ceases abruptly, the window opens, and Irene looks down. At first she appears embarrassed, then angry.
“Go away.”
“May I come up?”
“Up? … Here?”
“Yes. I have something very important to tell you.”
She hesitates, but then disappears from the window.
In minutes they are sitting far apart on the settee in the morning room on the ground floor and Sherlock is feeling a sort of homesickness. He glances around at the familiar furniture, the warm, wood walls. This was where he and Irene used to talk. But today she is close-mouthed. And she barely looks at him.
“Was that you singing?”
“No.”
“Then who was it?”
“None of your business. Why would you care, anyway?”
“I didn’t know you –”
“I have always wanted to sing. I told Malefactor about it and he encouraged me.”
“I see.”
“Father wouldn’t approve, but it appeals to me.”
“He is a wise man. That is not the sort of song –”
“What did you have to tell me?”
Sherlock isn’t sure how to begin. “I went to the Ratcliff Workhouse.”
She steals a glance at him. “You did?”
“Irene … I think I have uncovered something about little Paul, something incredible, utterly inconceivable, until I put together some facts.”
“Tell me, and then go.”
He describes what he found in Lady Rathbone’s room, the navy captain’s gloves entwined with hers, her admission that her beau’s name was Waller, how the boy’s birth occurred at the same time as her longest disappearance from home, their similar eye problems, similar appearances, and the house on White Horse Lane belonging to aging caretaker parents with the same last name as the captain, people who adopted their child from a relative in the Royal Navy.
Irene is stunned. She stares into the distance for a long time after he finishes.
“That explains why the boys are like twins,” she finally says.
“I beg your pardon?”
She goes upstairs without saying a word. Sherlock follows. They enter the master bedroom. She opens a closet and brings out a framed painting.
“What are you –”
Irene turns the painting around so he can see it. The image floors him.
“Why … it’s Paul Waller. Why is he dressed like … how could you –”
“It’s not Paul Waller … it’s Paul Doyle.”
“Who?”
“My brother.”
“Your what?”
“When I saw that child in the workhouse I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My brother had come back to life … Paul is a favorite family name … this explains it all.”
Her story is long and filled with emotion. She recounts how her brother’s death tore her father apart, how the boy was never spoken of again, especially after she was born and her mother died; how she has striven all these years to be an heir who will make her father proud.
“That’s why I couldn’t tell you or anyone else why we wanted to save him.”
“But you can save him now. Go to Lady Rathbone, Irene. Tell her about her son. She will help cure –”
“Sherlock, you know even less than I imagined about the upper class. She can never acknowledge the existence of a child born out of wedlock, not to anyone, not even in secret. If it ever became public, it would destroy her and be the death of her husband’s political career. And my father would never consent to forcing her to do anything with this information; that isn’t his way. In fact, I doubt he would be party to even speaking of the child’s existence in her presence.”
“Then, just tell him what I told you. He would adopt Paul now, wouldn’t he? His own relation? Even if the child’s eyes cannot be healed, he will have the two of you … and all of this.” He looks around at the beautiful room.
She blanches and doesn’t say anything. He had expected her to be overjoyed.
“Irene?”
“Yes … yes, I suppose that is what we should do.” She gives him a frozen smile, turns her back and stands gazing out the window. The master bedroom looks out over Montague Street. The thought of being replaced in her father’s affections stands before her. His son will return.
“Sherlock!” she says suddenly, seeing something through the window. “My father is coming!”
She shoves the painting back into the closet as they rush out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
“I don’t understand,” she says, “he was supposed to be away all day. He looks like he’s in a hurry. I wonder if something is wrong. Maybe it’s the robbery. Maybe the thieves have been found!”
&
nbsp; By the time they reach the ground floor, they can hear Andrew Doyle opening the front entrance. Irene pulls open a closet door in the hallway, grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and shoves him inside. He listens in the darkness.
“Irene!” Mr. Doyle exclaims, out of breath, barely into the vestibule. “You will never believe it! The news is all over London!”
“Calm yourself, Father. You are too excited.”
“It’s Victoria Rathbone!”
“What has happened?”
“She has been kidnapped … again!”
PART TWO
ABDUCTION
Sherlock Holmes doesn’t wait for the Doyles to get to the other end of the hall. He opens the closet, quietly rushes to the entrance, and flies down the front steps into the London day. He hits the streets on the run. At first, he doesn’t even know where he is going. He’s just moving, and his mind is racing, too.
Kidnapped … a second time! What does this mean? What does this MEAN?
He has to get somewhere. He must do something while the criminals’ trail is fresh. But where should he go and what should he do? He is betting that he is uniquely positioned to solve these crimes, knows things that the police (and hopefully the Irregulars) don’t. It is essential that he act immediately. These villainies may very well be connected. What if he solved the robbery and located Victoria? She is out there now … to be found.
Little Paul is facing blindness even if the Doyles adopt him, but if Sherlock can throw light on both crimes, all will be well: Victoria will get the physician to work his magic and Andrew Doyle will be even more grateful to him than he would have been before … the gift of sight will be gained for his adopted son. Sherlock’s future will be made. His heart pounds.
Be calm.
He stops running as he turns onto Great Russell Street. Breathing hard, he walks up to the elegant stone steps of the Roman-looking British Museum and sits down. Think. Quickly, but without error. What must I do?
What do I know? Two thieves, two carriages, intimate knowledge of the inside and outside of the house, mother with a secret, daughter acting strange, leaving the house on her own. But none of that still seems to go anywhere, so he sets it aside. What else? Think of both crimes. He remembers what Lestrade said when he found Victoria the first time. The culprits had held her somewhere on the southern coast. That tells him little as well. But … what is his instinct saying? Perhaps he can put that together with the facts. He feels there is some connection between Lady Rathbone and the robbery. It would explain the most singular fact about the crime: why the thieves didn’t so much as enter her room. Lady Rathbone … her lover … and that crime … either crime. How do they all go together? His mind slips back to the police information again. A place on the southern coast? He goes from east to west remembering coastal towns and cities. Folkestone? Eastbourne? Brighton? Portsmouth?
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