Vanishing Girl by Shane Peacock Read Free Book Online Page B

countryside, spots a grassy field … and jumps.

    Sherlock’s arm is screaming. And it is pitch-black. He struck a rock soon after hitting the ground and then whirled around countless times until he came to a stop. Fortunately, he had kept his head tucked into his chest.
    He is near Biggleswade village, the last stop before St. Neots. There is no need to hide here. Though the railway guard will be livid and the local constable may be called from his home for a search, that will likely be the extent of the inquiry on this cold, dark night. Sherlock can’t see more than a few feet in front of his face; just a scattering of lights show dimly in the distance.
    He crawls to his feet and begins to walk, clutching his throbbing arm, which aches at the elbow joint. St. Neots can’t be more than an hour away. He takes a big detour around Biggleswade and keeps going. When he feels something dripping from his hands, he remembers the rim of the steel vent slicing into his fingers. He opens his coat and wipes little streaks of drying blood onto his waistcoat, then buttons up again. Later, he stumbles into a stream and cleans his hands as best he can.
    But Sherlock stops before he’s certain he is at his destination. He can’t go on: the pain in his arm bothers him too much, and he doesn’t want to be seen coming into the town in the middle of the night. Besides, fatigue is consuming him.
    He steps over a stone fence within a football pitch or two of the first lights of the town. Shivering, he curls up and gets as close to the fence as he can. Lying there, he surveys the dark, starlit sky.
    This harrowing trip will be worth it, he tells himself, if it saves a human being’s life, if it secures his own future … if he gets to see defeat on Lestrade’s face.
    But it is dawning on him just how rash he’s been. When he left London he was enraged and full of thoughtsof vengeance, trying to do something very adult. Perhaps his actions today have proven his immaturity.
    Why did he come here with so little evidence? It is against everything he believes a scientific detective should do. Where will he search in the morning? Will anyone speak to someone like him? Will the parish constable be called in to collar him and take him away? Even if the paper is made here, the culprits could have purchased it somewhere else. He was
far
too impetuous. It isn’t smart to be so driven.
    Sherlock examines himself. He is a mess. He had preened himself early this morning, like a monotoned peacock. Now, he isn’t even presentable.
    He twists around on the cold, damp ground like a stirring child in the womb. But finally, sleep begins to descend upon him, so he isn’t sure whether it is a dream or not when he sees something eerie on a hill in the distance. It is a manor house, big, dark, and spooky on the horizon. Only a single, weak light shines from one part of its innards. He hears the frightened calls of animals, exotic beasts, crying and growling way off on its grounds. Or is it the wind? Then a shadow lurks up above it all, like a gigantic phantom against the moonlight, rising in the glow of a lamp that is being carried across the grounds, the light swinging back and forth as if someone were walking with it in the middle of the night. The phantom seems to snarl.
    “A dream,” he whispers to himself.
    Then he drifts off.

S herlock Holmes is surrounded when he awakes. A circle of little people are looking down at him. The sun is bright directly behind them in the cold, early morning and he can barely make them out. Their faceless heads are ringed with black lines, and their breaths hang in clouds.
    “Is it real?” asks one.
    “Course it’s real, donkey-face, but it ‘as a costume on, it does.”
    One of them pokes Sherlock with a stick. The boy decides he’s had enough. He jumps to his feet, feeling pain in his arm and surprised to find his whole body aching. They all step back, five farm boys and a girl, all dirty, all wrapped in layers of