Sherlock Sam and the Sinister Letters in Bras Basah

by A. J. Low

  “That’s why you knew all about the letters!” Luis exclaimed. He suddenly grabbed me and gave me a big hug. “You’re going to help my dad!”

  “Yes, and trust me when I tell you that I will get to the bottom of this or my name isn’t Sherlock—” I said.

  “Your name isn’t Sherlock, it’s CHER LOCK,” Wendy said. “So technically you would be CHER LOCK Sam.”

  She laughed so hard, she doubled over and gasped for air.

  I glared at my sister.

  “By the way, Luis, this is Wendy, my sister, and Nazhar, our friend. They’re in Primary Five,” I said.

  Eliza cleared her throat.

  “Oh, and this is Eliza,” I said. “She’s also in Primary Five.”

  “We should get something for Luis’ parents,” Wendy said. “They’ve invited us to their house for dinner, so it’s only polite that we buy them a gift.”

  “Hey, Wendy, can I borrow two dollars?” I asked. “I want to get a hot dog.”

  “Sam, we’re going to eat dinner in less than an hour!” Wendy said.

  “But not at this moment, correct?” I asked.

  Wendy gave me an incredulous look and walked away. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. My logic had been flawless.

  We bought some famously delicious pineapple tarts from L.E. Cafe on Middle Road and the nice Auntie there gave us a box of scrumptious old-fashioned butter cupcakes for free! I munched on them as we walked to Luis’ family’s condominium on Niven Road.

  Luis let us into the building and we took an elevator up. When we reached his floor, Luis raced to his front door and disappeared within. As the rest of us reached the door, a large man in an apron that said Mariachi Jalisco greeted us.

  “Bienvenidos a la Casa Alvarado!” he said.

  “That means ‘Welcome to the Alvarado House’,” Officer Siva translated. “This is Mr Fidel Alvarado.”

  “Hello, Uncle,” we all said.

  Uncle Fidel led us into his home. Delicious smells that were unfamiliar to me wafted over from the kitchen.

  “Please, everybody, sit down and get ready for a feast!” Uncle Fidel said.

  Jimmy and Watson sat on my right, and Officer Siva sat on my left, while Wendy, Eliza, Nazhar and Luis sat across from us. The seats at the two ends of the table were for Uncle Fidel and Auntie Maria Olga, who were busy in the kitchen.

  On the table, I saw shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, onions in lemon juice, sour cream, beans, shredded cheese, guacamole, various sauces that I could only wonder about, and a flat bread of some kind in the centre. It looked a lot like prata, but flatter.

  Uncle Fidel brought in two plates full of shredded chicken and strips of beef. Auntie Maria Olga brought in a third plate full of something I had never seen before. They looked like large peppers covered in egg, but…was that for eating?

  “By the looks on your faces, I can tell you’ve never had a meal like this before,” Uncle Fidel said. “So let me explain: first, you take the tortilla—” he lifted the flat, prata-like bread from the middle of the table, and continued, “—and put either chicken or beef in it. You can put both, but my wife will scold you, so I suggest sticking to one only.”

  He grinned as Auntie Maria Olga frowned at him.

  “Then, put some beans on top, and fill up the tortilla with as many condiments as you like! There are fresh vegetables, tomato sauces, chiles, sour cream and guacamole. The end result is a taco!” he said.

  “What’s guacamole, Uncle?” Wendy asked.

  “It’s mashed up avocados with a little bit of lemon and tomato,” Luis said. “It’s super delicious on pretty much anything!”

  “What-kind-of-beans-are-those?” Watson asked.

  “These are pinto beans. They are a staple of Mexican cuisine, much like rice is a staple of Chinese cuisine. We put them on almost everything,” Uncle Fidel replied.

  “There-is-a-100-per-cent-chance-that-beans-will-make-Sherlock-fart,” Watson said.

  All the humans laughed. I glowered at Watson.

  “And what are those?” Nazhar asked pointing at the peppers covered in egg.

  “Those are chiles rellenos,” Auntie Maria Olga said. “They’re long peppers stuffed with cheese and fried in a flour-and-egg batter. They’re kind of like the stuffed peppers you see at yong tau foo stalls, but these are a dish all by themselves.”

  I was intrigued, but also a bit worried. “Are they spicy, Auntie?”

  “Well, some might be, but I cleaned out all the seeds, so the chances of you getting a spicy one are very small,” she said.

  “My mom makes the best chiles rellenos in the world!” Luis said.

  “We also have some homemade horchata, which is a sweet rice drink with cinnamon,” Uncle Fidel said.

  “Oh! Like barley!” Nazhar said.

  “Yes, but it’s a different kind of sweet. I’m sure you guys will like it,” Auntie Maria Olga said.

  “Uncle Fidel, Auntie Maria Olga, you had me at ‘feast’,” I said.

  It was time to eat! Taking Uncle Fidel’s suggestion, I piled up all the condiments in the tortilla, and had a rather messy first taco. But I learnt quickly.

  Over dinner, I asked Uncle Fidel about the Asian Children’s Literature Prize. “You’ve won it the two years you’ve been living here, right, Uncle?”

  “Yes, and the nomination ceremony for this year’s award is at the end of this week,” he said. “But I don’t know if I’ll win this year.”

  “Why not, papa?” Luis asked.

  “I haven’t been able to write very well recently, and I might not finish my book. I only had to submit a draft to be nominated, but I still need to work on it to make it better,” Uncle Fidel said. “Yvonne Zhang, who won second place the past two years, will probably win.”

  “I’m reading her book, Why Peas Taste Green,” Wendy said.

  “I can relate to her disregard for peas,” I said.

  “That-is-good,” Watson said. “Those-make-you-fart-too.”

  I was getting quite good at ignoring my robot.

  “You’ll win again this year, Uncle Fidel!” I said, confidently.

  There was no way I would let the sinister letters get in the way!

  Once the delicious dinner was over, it was time to focus.

  “Uncle Fidel, would it be possible for me to inspect the sinister letters you have received?” I asked. We were standing a little away from the rest of the group.

  “Of course, Sherlock. But perhaps we should do it in my study. I don’t want Luis to get upset,” he replied.

  Auntie Maria Olga was holding an impromptu Spanish class and the Supper Club was failing miserably at rolling their ‘r’s. Luis and Watson were trying to help them out. I motioned for Wendy to follow me because I knew that she had a skill that would be useful. She got up and walked over quietly.

  Officer Siva, Wendy and I stepped into Uncle Fidel’s study and he walked over to his desk to pull out the letters from a locked drawer. While he was doing that, I took the time to observe my surroundings. He had wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with books! Dad and Mom would have loved to visit! Plus, he had one bookcase that was devoted to children’s books! Luis was a lucky boy indeed.

  “You have a lovely home, Uncle, and I’m sure you’re doing everything possible to make Luis happy here, but is there any chance he is writing these letters himself?” I asked. “Maybe he’s feeling homesick and wants to return to California?”

  I didn’t really think this was the case, but I had to look at every possible angle.

  “When we first moved here, he took it pretty hard. He never believed we would stay for good. He considered this a vacation, even after Maria Olga told him her job was just too good to go back to the US. He was sure we would go back to California, back to his ‘real school’, as he called it,” Uncle Fidel said. “But now, this is his home. He hardly mentions California any more, and when his mother or I broach the topic of visiting relatives there, he doesn’t really want to go. No,
I don’t think this is him. He would talk to me if he had any problems.”

  I was convinced. There was no reason for Luis to act out in such a way. Uncle Fidel had put three envelopes on the table and was going to pull the letters out of them when I stopped him.

  “Please wait, Uncle Fidel. The envelopes might have important clues as well,” I said. “Right, Officer Siva?”

  Officer Siva nodded.

  “If the police were officially involved, we would run a fingerprint analysis. But this still cannot be classified as an official police case,” Officer Siva said.

  I picked up an envelope and looked it over carefully. There was no stamp, because the letter had been delivered by hand. It was a plain white envelope and looked to be of excellent quality. Why would the sender use such high quality envelopes? I took the letter out. The paper was cream-coloured and also looked to be of high quality. The words were written in capital letters:

  “Is that supposed to be a short poem?” Wendy asked.

  “If it is, it’s a terrible one,” I said. “Wendy, can you deduce any information from the handwriting?” The reason I had asked Wendy to join us in the study was because my sister was an artist and had recently developed an interest in fonts and handwriting. I thought she might be able to help.

  “Hmm, well, it’s all in capital letters so it’s hard to tell. The writer is clearly trying to disguise his or her handwriting,” Wendy replied.

  She rubbed the sheet of paper between her fingers, and continued, “This is really nice paper.”

  “I noticed that as well,” I said. “It’s odd that someone would use such high quality writing materials, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a waste of money for sure,” Officer Siva said.

  “It’s high quality paper. I don’t think you can get this from just any stationery shop. Mom usually goes to Bras Basah Complex when I need special paper for my art projects,” Wendy said. “There are tons of art supplies shops there. I’ve never been though.”

  “That’s the old multi-storey building near the National Library, isn’t it?” I said. “Dad goes there to buy second-hand books. I’ve never been inside either.”

  “Yep, we should go investigate,” Wendy replied. “Maybe Mom will take us.”

  I thought that was a fantastic idea. I knew Wendy’s knowledge of art and related things would be useful for this case!

  “Can you tell if it’s just one of Luis’ classmates playing a nasty prank on him?” Uncle Fidel asked. He looked increasingly worried.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell if this was written by an adult or a child, Uncle Fidel,” Wendy said, looking intently at the letter.

  I pulled out the other two letters, and each one had a short, terrible poem as well:

  And:

  All of a sudden, I noticed something. There seemed to be indentations on one of the letters. I quickly asked for a pencil and shaded lightly over the indentations. Faint words slowly started appearing.

  “I suspect this might be the writer’s true handwriting,” I said, holding up the letter for everyone to see.

  “That’s very clever, Sherlock,” Officer Siva said. “I have to admit I focused so much on what the sinister letters were saying that I completely missed this hidden clue.”

  The markings were written in cursive but were too faint for Wendy to make a proper analysis.

  “I think it says: ‘and they test fumbly’ or ‘and they tease bunny’?” Wendy read out. She was squinting really hard at the faint markings. “This is worse than the time I tried to read Jimmy’s chicken scratches.”

  “‘And they tease bunny?’” Uncle Fidel repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but now we do know these letters are very specific. And very vague at the same time,” I said. “This person, whoever it is, clearly wants you to stop writing for some reason, but he or she never openly states that Luis will be kidnapped. The person just hints at it.”

  “Then it must be an adult, correct?” Uncle Fidel asked. “Kids would be more obvious.”

  “Not necessarily. The person might not know that he or she is being vague. He or she is just trying to rhyme his or her terrible poems,” I said. “And these poems are very amateurish.”

  “What would the motive be, Sam?” Wendy asked.

  “Maybe this person doesn’t want to do any more book reports?” I said. “It’s a weak reason, I know, but never underestimate a kid’s distaste of homework. Not me, of course, but other kids.”

  Uncle Fidel suddenly broke into rapid Spanish and walked around the room wringing his hands. He was so upset he had forgotten his English. Officer Siva stepped in front of him to try and calm him down.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Fidel,” I said. “Officer Siva put me on this case and I will not let him, you, Auntie Maria Olga or Luis down. You can count on Sherlock Sam and the Supper Club!”

  “I thought we were here to investigate the case?” Wendy said, tapping her foot impatiently.

  Dad and I looked up guiltily from the stack of books we had been browsing through at one of the many second-hand bookstores at Bras Basah Complex.

  Dad and Mom had picked us up from Enterprise International School after lessons on Tuesday, and we went to the shopping complex afterwards. Nazhar and Jimmy had obtained permission to come along as well.

  The building looked much older than most of the modern shopping centres in Singapore, and it housed many bookstores, art supplies and stationery shops, and shops that specialised in printing customised stationery. Mom said lots of students from nearby art schools like the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts and LASALLE College of the Arts came here to buy art supplies.

  Once we had told Dad and Mom we needed to find out more about the high-quality paper and envelopes the previous night, Dad immediately volunteered to take the day off and accompany us to Bras Basah Complex. Mom then said she had better come along too so that Dad wouldn’t buy too many books. The way I heard Mom explain it to Dad was, “Space is finite,” which of course didn’t make sense as the universe, and the space in it, is infinite.

  “I guess we should head to one of the art supplies stores,” I said, reluctantly putting the comic book I was holding down. “Come on, Watson.”

  Watson put the book on robotics that he was reading down too. It just occurred to me that my robot might be capable of making his own upgrades. I would need to watch him carefully.

  “We can come back later, Sam,” Dad whispered to me.

  I nodded. Solving the Case of the Sinister Letters was definitely more important. What was I thinking!

  We took the escalator to the third floor. Wendy said there was a big specialised art supplies shop there and that seemed the best place to start.

  “Brrrrrras Basah is a funny name,” Jimmy said, giggling to himself as he rode up the escalator. “Brrrrrrras Basah Brrrrrras Basah.” He was trying to roll his ‘r’s the way Auntie Maria Olga had taught him.

  “Bras Basah actually comes from the Malay words beras basah, which means ‘wet rice’,” Nazhar said.

  “Why did they name this place after wet rice?” Wendy asked. “That’s a strange name for a place.”

  “Eh…From what my dad told me, it was because rotten wet rice used to be transported from sailing ships in the harbour through this area. It was really smelly,” Nazhar said. “In fact, it was so smelly that the local papers wrote an article about it, called The Night Soil Carriers.”

  “Night soil? What are night soil carriers?” Wendy asked, wrinkling her nose. We had reached the third floor and were gathered in front of the art supplies shop.

  “Nazhar, do you know what they are?” Dad asked. I had told him about Nazhar’s interest in history. Nazhar’s dad loved history the same way my dad loved science.

  “My dad told me as well,” Nazhar replied. “Night soil carriers were people who collected human waste to throw away.”

  “Human…waste?” Wendy said, wrinkling her nose even more.

 
“You mean…POOP?!” Jimmy asked, wide-eyed.

  “Yes, kids,” Dad said. “This was way before the invention of the flush toilet, so people had to manually dispose of—”

  “The toilet in my house has a seat that warms itself automatically when it gets cold,” a familiar voice said from behind us.

  We spun around.

  “Eliza!” Wendy said in shock. “What are you doing here?”

  My sister definitely didn’t sound happy.

  Eliza was in her school uniform, and she had come to Bras Basah Complex with her family helper, the same helper that usually picked her up from school in a taxi.

  “Hello, Auntie and Uncle, my name is Eliza. I go to school with Wendy and Sam!” Eliza said chirpily to my parents. Wendy was right; Eliza was very different in front of adults. Curious.

  “I heard that Sherlock was coming here to investigate his latest case and I thought I could help!” Eliza said, smiling prettily.

  “We don’t need your—” Wendy said.

  “Let’s go in!” Eliza said, pulling Nazhar’s arm. He turned and gave us a helpless look as he stumbled after her.

  “So that’s Eliza,” Mom said.

  “Yah,” Wendy replied unhappily.

  “I see what you mean,” Mom continued, patting Wendy on the shoulder. “Let’s go in. Your brother has a case to solve and he could use our help.”

  Eliza had already cornered a shop assistant and motioned us over. I didn’t like taking orders from her, but time was of the essence!

  “Hello, Auntie,” I said to the shop assistant. I took the envelope and letter that I had borrowed from Uncle Fidel out of my backpack. “Do you know if this envelope and paper are readily available here?”

  The shop Auntie took both items from me and examined them closely.

  “Yah, yah, we have. We have many different kinds of paper. You want to buy for your art project? This one is too expensive. I recommend you cheaper one. Don’t waste money!” the shop Auntie replied.

  “It’s okay,” I said, taking the envelope and the paper back from her. “Are you the only shop that sells this sort of envelope and paper?”