The Case of the Disappearing Child

1

In regard to the records of the cases in which my friend; Sherlock Holmes has been involved, I have, I fear, been forced to withhold many of them from publication. I don't regret this, since it would cause a great many scandals, were I to publish every case in which my friend demonstrated his talents; to say nothing of damaging our friendship. Even as I write this for my own records, I doubt very much if it will ever see the light of day. Yet, the story is so astonishing; so fantastic, that I don't feel it would be right to let it fade from the world, whether it sees publication or not.

In many ways, the story is a unique one; one which I myself didn't learn until very late in my own life, as I wasn't personally present to witness the events as they unfolded. However, I trust the testimony of my friend, and I have no doubt that it all occurred, precisely as he told it to me.

The tale is also unique with respect to the reason why it mustn't, for the moment, be published. For the most part, certain cases have been withheld from publication in order to prevent scandal to respectable families, or clients whose reputation would be injured by the full truth being made known, or even, in a few cases, for the protection of certain secrets that mustn't be divulged, outside of the circles overseen by my friend's brother Mycroft. This case is of a different sort, in that the secrets it reveals are so strange, and have such potential for causing disaster in the wrong hands, that the very record of the case may well be a threat of a monstrous and unprecedented kind.

It may be remembered that my visits to my friend continued for quite some time after we had both left Baker Street and moved on to other pursuits. My wife didn't generally join me on those visits, nor did any of my other friends or relations, none of whom took any remaining interest in Holmes or his talents. So, when I knocked on the door to my friend's home that day, he wasn't surprised to see that I was alone.

"Watson." Holmes said to me by way of greeting; a pleasant smile crossing his face at the sight of me, though that was the extent of his greeting to me at the time, before he turned back to take up the place which he had, it seemed, occupied before my arrival; a leaned-back armchair with a stack of old books taking the place of a footrest.

"Do come in, old friend." Holmes remarked after spending a few seconds in the armchair; apparently deep in thought, "If it becomes too uncomfortable for you to relax, with your neck the way it is, you will simply need to invest in a shorter doctor's bench."

In spite of all the years, through which I'd endured Holmes' incredible and jarring idiosyncrasies, I still found myself amazed when he used them on me. However, in this instance, I too noticed the evidence which had lead my friend to his conclusions.

"It's the way that I've been moving my neck." I concluded, "From that, you deduced that I'd developed a form of muscle strain, most likely from looking upward a great deal. Why, in my practice, would I look up often, if not that my new doctor's bench is too tall?"

"Precisely, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as I followed his deductions, "Truly superb. You are absolutely correct in every particular. Of course, a man might develop the same symptoms by looking up into the faces of patients much taller than himself, but as you are, even at your age, rather more than five foot eight, I didn't consider that probable, especially so close to London, whose inhabitants, as a rule, are one or two inches shorter than yourself. The conclusion that your doctor's bench was the cause was a simple one."

I nearly laughed. To receive such compliments from Holmes without further critique was both uncommon and most welcome, and yet, it was still obvious that his great mind had considered far more factors in drawing his conclusions than I'd been able to anticipate. As skilled in his methods as I'd become over the years, I was still the student, and he still the master.

Such thoughts didn't disturb me, however. We talked for a few minutes about some matters that Holmes had been thinking over; mainly to do with mathematics and the behavioral habits of common honeybees. A few minutes later, however, he emerged from his reverie and got to his feet again with the energy of a man half his age. I was astonished by the sight of my old friend, hurrying into the back room and emerging, just a short time later, with two cups of hot tea. However, on that day, Holmes' compliments had inspired within me a determined and ambitious spirit, and I resolved to unearth some clue about the recent activities of my friend, entirely without his assistance.

I watched my friend carefully as he took a sip of his tea, holding the cup handle with his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds. However, I'd already noticed something odd about my friend's behavior. He was looking into the teacup as though daydreaming about something; reminiscing over some past occurrence, which he'd never shared with me. Something, I mused, which involved tea, or someone who was fond of tea.

Then, I saw Holmes' hand shift in place on the teacup, until all five of his fingers touched the handle, and his other hand supported the bottom. I'd never seen an adult hold a teacup in that manner, but children, I reasoned, did so from time to time. Then, my friend's eyes strayed to the bookcase, where, I knew, the records of his old cases were kept, though he said not a word about them. I could see in a flash, that he was recalling something to memory; something pertaining to an old case.

Soon, I saw him put down the teacup and glance to one side, where an old photograph was hung from a spot on the wall; a photograph of a happy-looking couple with three beautiful daughters of various ages. It was signed, and a note of gratitude to my friend was written on it, but I saw enough there to give me another clue. He was thinking about a child; a small girl, and possibly one who had very good reason to be grateful to him. Finally, my friend gazed lazily out the window, and I felt, at last, confident enough to draw my conclusion.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, leaning forward in exultation, "You've had a case recently."

"I have taken three cases within the last month, though none by choice." Holmes explained, putting a bit of a damper on my discovery for a moment, "Come now, doctor. You can do even better. Tell me which case you mean."

"The one involving the young child." I replied, but much to my dismay, no look of recognition crossed my friend's face at all.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, doctor." Holmes replied, looking, perhaps, a bit disheartened, "I have taken no recent cases involving children."

"Then it wasn't recent." I insisted, pressing the matter once more, as sure of myself as I'd ever been, "But you have taken a case which involved a child; a young girl who had a reason to be grateful to you, who drank tea with one hand under the cup, and who eventually left your presence through a window."

As I'd been reciting my conclusions, however, to my satisfaction, a look of surprise had spread across the face of my friend; Mister Sherlock Holmes, then that surprise had become clear recognition, then an absolutely ghastly expression, which could not be mistaken for anything but fear. For a moment, I was deeply concerned about my friend's health as he began to look very ill, but at last, when I'd finished speaking, he did something that I certainly would never have expected; he burst out laughing.

"Oh, doctor!" Holmes exclaimed, when his laughing fit had finally stopped, "You are not to be as highly commended on this last deduction. You are too ambitious, and have gone beyond the evidence again. In most of those things, you are quite correct; jarringly so. However, the young lady you mention didn't leave through a window. I merely glanced out the window because I was reflecting on the fact that I still know nothing of her whereabouts."

I began to feel morose at this reprimand from Holmes, though I had, it was true, unearthed a few facts about one of his old cases. I knew that to him, my last deduction had been insufficient, and that grieved me as I leaned back in my chair, looking sideways at my friend.

However, the moment that I saw what my friend was doing, I tried to get to my feet, but it was too late. Sherlock Holmes had dug a key out of his pocket and swept across the room to the front door; locking it. In a flash, he was at the front windows, closing and locking them as well, and pulling shut the windowshades, until only a few, thin streams of light entered the room. My concern for my friend was growing as he did this, but when he returned to his seat, looking very grim, I received the distinct impression that I'd made a very unwelcome observation after all.

"My apologies, doctor." Holmes said, staring at me carefully as he spoke, "I should not have been so careless as to think about such a thing in front of you, but I truly didn't expect you to interpret my motions so well, and I forgot the degree to which you had already learned to make use of my own skills. It is entirely my fault, but in any case, I must now ask you to take a solemn oath."

"I certainly will." I replied, looking back into his eyes with the same air of gravity.

"I am about to tell you something which you have already caught a glimmer of; the story of the case which you alluded to." Holmes began to explain, "However, you must give me your word that it ends here. No one else must know of this; no one. Not even your own wife. I have placed my trust in your confidentiality, as though it were my own in matters of royalty, of wealth, of blackmail and of the secrets of heads of state, but this goes beyond them all, and I must have your absolute silence."

"You will certainly have it." I replied without a moment's hesitation, though my incredulity was growing as he spoke, "But really, Holmes; this is a bit much; locking the doors and windows. Surely, this is not to prevent my escape..."

"Mainly, it is to prevent us being overheard." Holmes explained, "This is a tale which I meant to take to my grave, but I do feel concern for the girl even now, and it will be a relief for one other person to share this secret at last. It is a very old secret, Watson."

"Then the case was not recent." I observed.

"Not at all," my friend replied, "In fact, it may give you some notion of just how long ago it was, when I tell you that the case concerns Professor Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" I asked in astonishment, "This occurred when he was alive? I would very much like to hear more about it, Holmes."

My friend looked very weary, but soon enough, with a smile starting to spread across his face, he began his tale.

It was only a short time after we set up together in Baker Street for the first time, my dear Watson. People had begun to receive word of my skills from neighbors or friends who'd received some minor assistance from me, though I was hardly notorious at the time. Public awareness of my skills was spread largely by word of mouth, so there were often periods of fair length, in which no work was forthcoming, and I would walk, in one disguise or another, through the streets of London, in search of some opportunity to provide my mind with the activity that it craved.

It was primarily through these escapades that my name first became known at Scotland Yard. When Inspector Lestrade broke the harbor drug ring back in 1879, the one bit of information about the case which is often overlooked was that the lion's share of his evidence came from me. On the very evening when he stormed through with his officers to arrest the ringleaders, I was disguised as an opium addict on the very floor below, gathering usable evidence against them. I'd have gathered a good deal more, too, had he had the good sense to wait another twenty-one hours before making his arrests. Still, the job was done, and three men were hanged from that affair, who'd done much to deserve it.

That night was my first clue, however, that something had gone wrong in London. It should have been five men, Watson. The evidence was ample; the arrest warrant sufficient... Everything; absolutely everything was against those two men seeing another morning as free men. Yet, two weeks went by, and at the end of that time, George Cooper and Harold Morris both stood free and in the open London air. The judge had ruled the evidence too weak to convict them. Rubbish, Watson. I kept my eye on Judge Clark Mitchell from that point on, and it's just as well that I did. You see, it was from a study of the bookkeeping of Mitchell and his associates that I first heard the name; James Moriarty.

The man had covered his tracks well, Watson. At first, I suspected nothing. He seemed to just be another well-educated friend of certain individuals in high society. Even, I am ashamed to say, when I started to ask questions about Moriarty's financial situation, I failed to give the matter the serious attention it deserved, until the fifth time that I found his name listed among the acquaintances of the financiers of a criminal who had recently escaped justice.

It has been many decades, Watson, since I have allowed myself the luxury of believing in a coincidence, and James Moriarty was the reason why. There was nothing, Watson; no hard evidence of any sort to implicate him. He left no material evidence behind, and only rarely did witnesses of his own crimes speak a word of what they'd seen. Even this lead to nothing more than rumors at best. No one ever testified against him. Still, I was sure that he was at the root of these problems, and the incredible coincidences were the reason why.

When the man's name, coincidentally, continued to appear on the guest lists of gatherings of dangerous revolutionaries and secret societies of various types, I knew that something was horribly wrong. When his name was found in various transactions surrounding unsolved mysteries, I knew there could be no mere chance about it. Now, of course, Moriarty's own name rarely appeared in this way; it was always an associate. Someone like Harold Morris or Sebastian Moran. Still, they always had one thing in common; they were "friends" with James Moriarty.

The more that I traced this network of influence and funds, the more I came to realize, Watson, just how many criminal rings had been funded or guided by this man, under a wide variety of intermediaries and pseudonyms. The man's guilt seemed like such an obvious thing, and yet, to prove that guilt before a jury, and worse, to pin down one specific charge, and bring forth evidence of it proved to be a Herculean task. Still, I followed every lead I could find; determined to protect as many people from this titan of crime as I possibly could.

As you may recall, Watson, I failed in this task more than once. However, I had my successes as well. In this particular instance, the intended victim was a middle-aged woman, several years my senior, who entered our room unannounced, and insisted on speaking to me in private. I could tell at once that she was unmarried, was an active woman for her age, that she spent much time in the open air, but very little in the sun, that she frequently used a typewriter and was accustomed to wearing a hat with a wide brim...

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, interrupting my friend's tale, in what I hoped wasn't a discourteous manner, "I feel that I am being left out. No doubt you can see the lady clearly in your thoughts, but you really should explain how you deduced all that. The fact of a woman being unmarried, of course, is clear from the lack of a wedding ring, but how did you deduce all of those other things?"

Holmes paused for a moment to think the matter over, as though remembering the details was a bit difficult for him, but at last, he explained himself.

"If I recall correctly, Watson," Holmes explained slowly, "she had left almost none of her skin exposed from the neck down, but the shape of her ankles, though covered by her stockings, and the swiftness of her stride gave me my evidence for deducing her athleticism. The dress that she wore was of the sort only worn by wealthy ladies during outings, and it was relatively new, yet I noticed the beginnings of fraying along the edges. For a woman to wear out a dress of that type in so short a time, I knew that she must spend a great deal of time outdoors, yet the skin of her face and hands was only slightly tanned. Therefore, she spent little time in the sun. Do you follow my deductions so far?"

"Perfectly."

"As to the last two points, I have on many occasions deduced a frequent user of a typewriter from the shape of their fingertips. The same result can be produced by a piano as well, but as the woman clearly preferred to spend her leisure time outside, the probability was against that, and I soon noticed a slight black mark on a fold of her dress; evidence, my dear Watson, of contact with a specific make of typewriter ribbon."

"Wonderful! And the hat?"

"Ah... That I observed from her behavior. She was wearing a very small hat that day, Watson, and she reached up to remove it as she entered our room. The slight disorientation of handling a small-brimmed hat was clear in her fingers, even though she attempted to disguise it. The probability was very high, therefore, than her hat or hats normally had much wider brims."

"Amazing!"

"Oh, hardly. They were simple, everyday deductions, but it gave me some preparation for our interview. She took only a moment to confirm that I was indeed Mister Sherlock Holmes before introducing herself as Madam Elizabeth Liddell. There was, I believe, a short greeting, and I invited her into the sitting room, locking the door behind us. Remember, Watson, that this was before I'd fully taken you into my confidence. I handled nearly all clients in that way."

"I remember. Go on."

"Mister Holmes," the woman said to me once we were both in private, and seated across from each other, "You must help me. I am at my wit's end."

The woman certainly did look distressed, but it was more than that, of course. There was a distinct look of fear on her face, which told me, at least, that her problem wasn't merely some missing piece of jewelry or lost cat, though it might still have proven to be an unremarkable one.

"Go on, Miss Liddell." I replied, "What sort of problem has terrified you in this way?"

The lady seemed to be making some attempt to calm herself, and at last, she began to tell me her story in earnest.

"Mister Holmes..." she began again, "I fear... I fear that many of the people who I know have been disappearing."

However, those words had drawn my thoughts to an old newspaper article, which I'd seen several years before, during one of my long studies of sensational crime. In an instant, I remembered where I'd heard the name "Liddell" before, and snapped to attention.

"Interesting." I remarked, perhaps a bit too eagerly, "Are you, then, the same Elizabeth Liddell whose name featured so prominently in the reports of that unsolved mystery which the papers often called the 'Disappearing Child of Sussex?'"

For a few moments, the lady seemed taken aback, then looked away from me sadly, and I feared, doctor, that I'd touched on a rather unpleasant subject for her, without realizing the hurt it would cause. Still, she soon recovered her composure, nodding in response to my inquiry.

"That was some twenty years ago, Mister Holmes, but I remember it as though it were yesterday. However, it wasn't of my poor sister that I wished to speak to you."

I swear to you, Watson, that I should have begun wringing my hands then and there, were it not for the fact that doing so would have involved putting down my notebook. Odd mysteries, as you know, interest me very much, and old mysteries, which no other man has ever solved... Well, I should have liked the chance to look into it, if only to test my own skills. Still, my obligation was to my client, so although my own desires urged otherwise, I encouraged the lady to continue her story.

"That was the first disappearance from which I have suffered, Mister Holmes, and until very recently, it seemed as though it would be the only one. However, almost a month ago, after a visit to the bank where most of our family's money is kept, I was walking down the road to the place where my carriage and driver were waiting. However, as I did so..."

"Pardon me..." I interrupted her, "but what is the name of your driver, and what can you tell me about him?"

"Ah. His name is Henry Tailor, and it's just as well that you should ask about him, Mister Holmes. He's no more than a year younger than myself, and was hired by my mother some five years ago. He was very loyal, and... Well, I found him to be... most polite as well, Mister Holmes."

"I see. Where does he live? In the house, or..."

"There's a separate wing of the house for the staff, Mister Holmes. We're often quite some distance from each other, though the building is the same."

"Very well. Please continue."

"Well, I was in London to buy some steaks and shoes two weeks ago, and the street was uncommonly crowded, Mister Holmes, when a young lady in a fine dress seemed to spring from nowhere in front of me. As you might imagine, I was incredibly surprised, and it was only by acting quickly that I avoided colliding with her."

"The young lady was most apologetic, and introduced herself as Sarah Hopkins. I introduced myself to her in return, and before long, we'd become involved in a discussion of old literature. Sarah was surprisingly well-versed in that subject, and we had much to discuss. So much, in fact, that I needed to inform Henry that our ride back home would be delayed. Sarah and I purchased our lunch at a nearby restaurant, and spent nearly half an hour there, discussing poetry and fiction. I remember that during that lunch, she spoke more than once about her father, though I chose not to mention mine until almost a week later..."

"Then you've met with her since then." I observed.

"Only once, Mister Holmes. Much of our discussion since then has been in the form of letters, but I never tire of it. She clearly reads them thoroughly, and seems to respond to each point, perhaps even more cleverly than when we met in person."

"That is suggestive." I replied, "Please continue."

"This is the truly troubling part of it all, Mister Holmes." Miss Liddell continued, "My correspondence with Sarah had lasted for more than two weeks, when she wrote me a letter, telling me that she had learned something most unsettling, and wanted to see me again in person, to discuss the matter. Well, it wasn't convenient for me, but I have few friends, and I'd no wish to lose one, so I had the carriage made ready, and drove down to the apartment where, once before, I'd spent an afternoon with Sarah. There, Mister Holmes, I found the apartment occupied, but by a bachelor named Terrance Jordan, who had never even heard of Sarah Hopkins."

I could feel a thrill rush through me, Watson, when I heard those words. I was beginning to see just what had so horrified the woman from Sussex. However, her story wasn't yet finished.

"Well, Mister Holmes, I stormed back downstairs in a hurry, feeling very much offended by what I assumed was a sort of joke at my expense, but when I came to the carriage, Henry too had disappeared. The horses had been left completely unattended."

"One moment." I interrupted again, "How long a ride was it to reach your friend's apartment?"

"How long?" Miss Liddell asked, looking perplexed for a moment, but at last, she replied, "Ten minutes each way under normal circumstances. Still, the streets were busy that day, and I should say it was nearly twice that."

"Thank you." I replied, allowing her to proceed once again with her singular narrative.

"Well, you can imagine how afraid I was at finding myself alone with the horses, Mister Holmes. Henry has never left them before; not in all his years of working for us. I thought, for a moment, of searching for him, but there were the horses, there were the reins, and there was the riding crop. I... have never handled reins before, Mister Holmes, but I soon came to realize that an inexperienced hand at the reins would be far better than no hand at all, so I took them up, and conducted what little search I could, by merely asking passersby if they had seen a person fitting Henrys description, though I dared not even try to move the horses myself."

"Understandable." I responded, before she continued.

"In time, one passerby; a thin gentleman with a large forehead, saved me some difficulty by offering to fetch the police. Before long, a thorough search had been conducted, and Henry found, asleep in an alley nearby. However, he was far too dizzy and weary to manage the horses, and could remember almost nothing that had occurred to him after arriving at Sarah's apartment, so we and our carriage were escorted home by the policemen. On the whole, I considered the whole affair a dreadful waste of my time, but I truly expected nothing else to come of it, Mister Holmes."

"When you arrived home, someone else was missing." I concluded; a simple deduction, from all she'd said already.

"Yes." She replied, not surprised by my realization, as she continued her explanation; "Our head of the staff; Alcott Dixon. We didn't realize it until dinnertime, however, when we discovered that no one had seen him for three hours."

"In short, since your own journey into London."

"Yes. He must have disappeared while I was out of the house."

"That's significant. How many others were in your house at the time?"

"Only two others. We keep two maids, one of whom is also an excellent cook, but each looks after a wing of the house, and I'm certain that they were simply too busy to notice Alcotts disappearance."

"That's suggestive too. Tell me. Did you ever discuss the workings of your house staff with your friend Sarah, as you're now doing with me?"

"Well... That's what worries me, Mister Holmes. We did have a discussion once, on the subject of my two maids, and I mentioned to her the duties that both had. However, I said nothing about Alcott."

"I thought as much. Now, Miss Liddell, how long ago did your mother pass away?"

The young lady gave a violent start, and moved one hand to her throat, but recovered after only a few brief seconds, and answered me a bit coldly.

"Nearly two years ago, Mister Holmes. I was the heiress at her passing, as I'm certain you've deduced."

"Then your father was the first to pass away."

"Please, Mister Holmes. I should very much prefer not to discuss my father."

I felt most indignant at this refusal to answer my questions frankly, Watson, but I soon acquiesced. She had been most forthcoming in other particulars, and was quite well-mannered in her refusal. On the whole, I felt inclined not to refuse her anything.

"In that case, I have only one more question to ask you." I continued, "Someone clearly wishes to acquire something from you, Miss Liddell. Are any large sums kept inside of your house regularly?"

Again, she hesitated, but finally replied.

"A few hundred pounds are the most that I have in the house itself, not counting some few articles, such as paintings, decorations, furniture and the like, which bring a pleasant air to my rooms, but were rather inexpensive. It is a fine house, Mister Holmes, but we keep little money there."

"Yet, you are clearly well-to-do."

"My mother left to my name a sum of almost seven hundred thousand pounds, in addition to the property."

As you might imagine, Watson, this confession drew my attention. I had truly not realized that the woman who sat before me was quite so wealthy. A possible motive, I thought, lay in that, but I wasn't inclined to assume it, particularly since there was still much evidence which I lacked. However, it seemed unlikely that I would be able to aquire my remaining evidence from that wealthy, middle-aged, and somewhat willful woman.

"Thank you, Miss Liddell." I replied, getting to my feet quickly, "I'll certainly look into your case. I feel I should tell you at the start, however, that these are very deep waters. Certain points of your case are still in the dark, while others are already perfectly clear. Hopefully, I'll soon be able to clear the whole matter up for you."

Miss Liddell had gotten to her own feet a second later, but with an intensely curious look on her face, which seemed to bode unwelcome questions. As expected, they weren't long in coming.

"Mister Holmes, do you think that Alcott is dead?"

"Please, Miss Liddell..."

"You must tell me, Mister Holmes."

"I don't have enough data yet to say for certain."

"Then you think there is a chance that he is dead."

I didn't even want to answer that question, Watson, but this woman, I knew, would persist until she got at least part of her way, so I replied to her again.

"Yes. I think there is a chance of that."

Miss Liddell received my reply strongly, with a swallow and a nod, though it was clear that the notion distressed her.

"I will tell you one more thing before you go." I said in an attempt to discourage further questions for the moment, "The woman whom you knew as Sarah is no friend of yours, and never was. I would very much doubt that Sarah Hopkins is even her real name."

"Mister Holmes!"

"She met you deliberately in your visit to London," I continued, "because she wished to convince you that she could be trusted with your confidence. She has used this confidence to gain information about your house and servants, and when the time seemed right, she lured you out into the city under false pretenses, to convince you to leave your home at a certain point in the day. She, or perhaps an accomplice, then broke into your house by some entrance not connected with either wing, with the intention of avoiding both of the maids on staff. However, she had not been informed about Mister Dixon, and he surprised both herself and... we will suppose that she had an accomplice. In her desperation not to be discovered there, either she or her accomplice murdered Dixon, and working together, they concealed his body. Does this not seem to fit the facts?"

"Is there no other explanation?" Miss Liddell asked after several seconds, appearing more and more worried as I'd explained the nature of the crime.

"There are three other possible explanations, which would cover the facts," I replied casually, "but they all depend on outrageous coincidences, which I am hardly ready to admit without further evidence. Overall, I consider my explanation the most likely. However, even if I had proof that it was true, the case still would not be a complete one. Consider, Miss Liddell, the depth of the planning and skill required to manage such a thing. There is someone behind Sarah Hopkins. Of that I am sure; someone who is desperate to acquire something that's securely within the walls of your house, but is determined not to arouse suspicion if it can be helped."

"Mister Holmes, this is most serious. Will they make another attempt?"

"They may, or they may not. That will depend on whether they found what they were after. For the sake of safety, I would make the former assumption. These people have already displayed such cunning and determination in pursuit of their goals, Miss Liddell, that they will surely not give up the effort until their goal is achieved, or until they are brought to justice."

Miss Liddell looked truly despondent for several seconds, before she asked me one more question.

"Will you come to my house, Mister Holmes?"

"Not at once." I replied, "I'll be spending the next few hours in an in-depth study of certain newspaper reports, and following that trail where it leads. If I don't find enough evidence from those sources, I'll certainly call on you tomorrow. Good afternoon."

Miss Liddell seemed, at that moment, to have realized that there was nothing more to be said, since she left the room quickly enough, returning to the trap that she'd left outside of our little apartment, but I could see the puzzled and disappointed look on her face. She'd clearly hoped that I might solve her problem right away, through normal channels, as a Scotland Yard detective might do. However, I have, as you know, my own methods, and since she wouldn't give me the information which I needed, it was necessary to get it elsewhere.

Well, Watson, I did precisely as I'd said I would do; visiting libraries and other places where reliable records were kept. I have my own sources of these as well. The case, as I'm certain you see, seemed very clear with respect to what had actually occurred, and what crimes had been committed. The difficult part, of course, was in obtaining any data about the perpetrators themselves.

I suspected, of course, that some information might surface after an examination of Miss Liddell's estate. However, I felt certain that their motive, at least, was likely to be one of two things. The money, of course, was always a possible motive for illegal activity. Perhaps they were in search of some document, which might compromise Miss Liddell's ownership of her not-inconsiderable wealth. However, it was perhaps equally-likely that the crimes were connected in some way with the unsolved case, in which Miss Liddell's family had been involved; that of the mysterious disappearance of her younger sister, twenty years before.

I knew the facts of the case well, of course. It had taken place when Elizabeth's father; Phillip Liddell had been in charge of the estate. Phillip Liddell was a doctor, professor, physicist, and designer of some little improvements on commonly used, but simple devices, such as the telegraph machine, the printing press, the typewriter, and several models of firearms, many of which are still in wide use today. Fortunately, he was as fine a man of business as of science, and turned his small, less-than-obvious discoveries and improvements into a fortune, some of which, it seemed, still remained in the hands of his kin.

However, Liddell claimed, at the time, that even his fortune was merely a means to an end. He believed, like many great scientists before him, that he was on the brink of a discovery which might change the course of whole nations, and that he only needed currency, with which to complete his research. However, his claims were so outlandish; to do with controlled vibrations and the use of chemical mixtures to change the cellular makeup of life, that he received few grants. It was his own money, then, and his own effort, which eventually provided what he needed to begin his research.

Nearly two years after Liddell's research had begun, his youngest daughter Alice began to disappear from time to time. At first, it was thought that she had merely hidden from her family; once by the bank of a river, once in a large sitting room and so forth... However, her disappearances soon began to last for hours, then days. Alice Liddell is known to have disappeared at least fourteen times within the space of two months, and the fourteenth was her last, as far as can be determined.

The rooms in the Liddell household were arranged with hallways leading north and south, out of the building, and between them, a sitting room, a dining room and a parlor. Of these three rooms, the dining room was the one between the others, and the furthest from any form of exit. Two doorways lead to the west, out of the dining room; one into a bathroom, the other a play room. There were no exits out of the play room, except the one that lead into the dining room.

The Liddells had finished dinner on the night of February the twenty-first, in 1864, when Alice stood up from the table, and politely asked to be excused, that she might spend some time in the play room with her cat. Her parents, as concerned as they were about her recent disappearances, saw no harm in this, and Alice passed through the play room door, closing it behind her. Only ten minutes passed before Mrs. Margaret Liddell decided to open the door and check on her youngest daughter, and through that ten minutes, she swore that she never left the dining room, nor could she have failed to notice anyone leaving the play room. Nevertheless, Alice Liddell wasn't in the play room when her mother looked in on her, and she has not, to the best of my knowledge, been seen by any living soul since then.