by F. C. Shaw
“By heck! What in the . . .” Eliot jumped.
Rollie stared down in shock at the contents of his suitcase. Instead of his trousers, sweaters, blue-striped pajamas, red knit cap, and other such clothing, his suitcase was full of ivory articles of clothing with lace trimmings and satin fabric. He recoiled from the suitcase, taking several steps back.
Eliot’s face wore a horrified expression. “What is that?”
Rollie swallowed. “I—I think my mum mixed up the laundry again.”
Just then Rupert entered the room. He looked first at Eliot’s face screwed up in disgust, then at Rollie’s face pale with dread. He followed their gazes to Rollie’s open suitcase. He arched an eyebrow, and a devilish grin formed on his round face.
“Is that what I think it is?” he chortled.
“His mum mixed up his laundry—it’s not his,” Eliot rattled.
“Really! Whose is it then?” asked Rupert, crossing his arms.
“My great-aunt’s,” said Rollie in small voice.
Rupert doubled over in laughter. “You have old lady underwear!”
Rollie slammed the suitcase shut and shoved it under his bed. He stormed out of his dorm room as his face turned a deep shade of scarlet. At the door that opened onto the roof he stopped to compose himself. He took a few deep breaths, and then opened the door.
The rooftop glowed orange from a good-sized bonfire blazing in the center. The light threw off ghostly shadows that danced against the perimeter tarps. A few jack-o-lanterns lent extra light. Mr. Chad, dressed in his black pea coat and blue jeans, offered students sitting on park benches near the fire some candy corn. Miss Gram, cozy in a red coat and matching mittens, passed out mugs of steaming hot cider topped with whipped cream and cinnamon.
“Rollie!” Wesley heralded, waving from a bench near the fire. “I didn’t know you were coming back early.”
“Hey, kiddo,” Mr. Chad greeted next. “You’re just in time for my favorite Halloween tradition, ghost stories!”
“They’re not too scary, right?” Eliot asked worriedly as he joined them.
“I can’t promise anything.” With a wink, Mr. Chad popped candy corn in his mouth.
“There’s room here,” Wesley offered, scooting down the bench for his friends. “How come you came back tonight?”
Rollie hesitated before answering, his stomach fluttering lightly with guilt at having to skew the truth for his friend. “My family was busy and I needed to finish some extra work.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I was a little bored this weekend.”
Rollie tapped Wesley’s arm with an invitation.
Wesley tore open the envelope, read the card, and grinned. “Count me in.”
“You and Eliot can stay the whole weekend since the party’s on Saturday.”
“Where are we going to sleep?” Eliot questioned.
“We can camp out in the parlor or the library,” Rollie suggested. “My brothers have sleeping bags you can use.”
“That would be fun,” agreed Wesley.
“I suppose I could sleep like that,” Eliot said thoughtfully.
Cecily and her roommates found them. “Can we sit with you?”
“This is the boys’ bench,” Eliot told her.
“I don’t see a label,” Cecily countered.
“Don’t be stingy,” Tibby added.
“There’s plenty of room,” Margot pointed out.
Wesley scooted to the end of the bench, and beckoned Rollie and Eliot to follow suit. The girls squeezed in on the other end.
“Do you fancy hot cider, boys and girls?” Miss Gram chimed.
The children nodded eagerly. Their teacher handed them each a mug. She smiled and flitted over to Mr. Chad.
“Chadwick, we should begin before it gets too late,” she cooed as she settled onto a bench and wrapped a plaid blanket around her lap and legs.
Mr. Chad cleared his throat with a tinge of embarrassment toward Miss Gram and announced, “Welcome to an American camp site! Back home my family and I love to sit around a campfire on a brisk fall evening and tell ghost stories. Tonight anyone can tell a story. Gwen, would you like to tell the first story?”
She daintily sipped her hot cider. “I suppose so. Let me see . . .”
Miss Gram proceeded to tell a tale about a princess who got lost in a haunted wood and was rescued by a handsome prince. Her tale was not the least bit scary, but it managed to enchant the girls and repulse the boys.
“Who’s next?” Mr. Chad called.
“I’ve got one,” Wesley spoke up.
“Go for it, Wes,” Mr. Chad said as he munched on candy corn and offered the bag to Miss Gram.
“One stormy night, a brother and sister headed home from a friend’s party. They lived a few blocks down from their friend, so they decided to walk home. As they walked, they sensed someone following them. When they turned around, they were horrified to see a huge shadowy figure with blood-shot eyes and mangled teeth. They screamed and ran. They were relieved when their parents’ car pulled up beside them. They crammed into the back seat and slammed the door shut. ‘Go!’ the brother yelled. ‘We saw a horrible specter following us!’ said the sister. ‘He had blood-shot eyes and mangled teeth,’ the brother said. The driver turned around and stared at them with blood-shot eyes and grinned with mangled teeth. ‘Like me?’ he croaked.”
Silence ensued until someone in the group whispered, “Crikey.”
“That was spooky!”
“Best story yet!”
“Nice!” Mr. Chad approved. “Anyone else?”
“Me.”
To everyone’s surprise, Rupert stepped into the firelight. He started to tell a tale about a haunted suitcase, how its contents came to life and strangled its owner to death.
Rupert ended the tale by saying, “That story was inspired by true events.” He looked pointedly at Rollie.
Rollie felt his temper rising.
“Although the clothes I’m thinking of didn’t come to life,” continued Rupert. “But they could be haunted. What do you think, Rollie?”
All eyes turned to Rollie who squirmed in his seat and glared at Rupert.
Rupert sneered. “Yeah, right now Rollie’s suitcase is full of old lady underwear!”
Rollie barely heard a few titters of laughter as he bolted up and lunged at Rupert. He grabbed the pudgy boy around the middle, and tackled him to the ground.
“Whoa! Hold on there!” Mr. Chad jumped in and tried to pull the boys apart. He grabbed Rupert while Wesley held back Rollie.
Rollie panted, still glaring at Rupert. In return, Rupert narrowed his eyes.
“So, that was a first!” Mr. Chad declared. “Didn’t see that coming, especially from you, Rollie. Do we need a little trip to the headmaster?”
Rollie shook his head. “No, sorry, it won’t happen again. I don’t want to see Headmaster.”
Rupert shook his head as well.
“Fine then. You guys gonna behave or do we end the night right now?” asked Mr. Chad, turning to each boy at a time.
“I’ll behave,” muttered Rollie as he took his seat on the bench, eyes cast down.
Without another word, Rupert skulked back into the Academy.
“Geez, boys,” Mr. Chad shook his head. “We’ve got time for one more, so I’m gonna tell it. I think it might be the strangest, most haunting story ever. Brace yourselves. This story takes place on the eerie English moors and it involves hounds and fire and—”
“Hound of the Baskervilles!” the children cried, and a few clapped excitedly.
“One of Sherlock Holmes’ most famous and bizarre cases. I guess I don’t need to retell it.”
“Tell it!”
“Please!”
“Let’s hear it!”
“Alright, al
right,” Mr. Chad chuckled. “All great stories start with . . .”
“Once upon a time!” Eliot blurted with self-satisfaction.
“No, no, no, Tildster. Fairytales start that way. Great stories—especially mysteries—start with . . . It was a dark and stormy night . . .”
The children listened, captivated by Mr. Chad’s animated retelling of Holmes’ mysterious case in which a fire-breathing hound haunted the moors. Holmes hid out in a prehistoric hovel on the moors in order to investigate. Only after baiting the devilish dog did Holmes uncover the truth.
When the story ended, the children applauded and helped tidy the roof. They stacked their mugs on the dish rack and dragged the benches back in place at the tables. Miss Gram ushered the girls indoors while the boys stayed to help Mr. Chad extinguish the bonfire. By now it had nearly died, only embers glowing in the center. Mr. Chad poured a pitcher of water onto the fire while Eliot and two other boys stamped out a few rogue flickers.
“Help me clean up, guys,” Mr. Chad called. “Let’s hope the janitors come back soon.”
Wesley grabbed a charred twig from the rubbish. “En garde!” He posed into a fencing stance.
Swiftly, Rollie swiped a twig and mimicked Wesley’s stance.
“Bend your arm closer to your chest—that’s what you have to protect,” Wesley instructed. “Good. Now when I advance, retreat one step.”
Rollie responded as Wesley moved. He blocked a blow, and lunged forward. Wesley gently struck him in the ribs.
“One point for me,” he grinned.
“Again.” Rollie bent his arm closer to his chest.
They repeated their moves, but this time Rollie struck Wesley’s ribs.
“Ouch!” Wesley laughed. “It’s practice, so go easy.”
Rollie swung again, smacking Wesley’s shoulder.
“Hey!” Laughing harder, Wesley blocked another blow and stooped down to the ashes. He grabbed a cooling coal and chucked it at Rollie.
Rollie ducked. His heels slipped on loose ash and he fell back on his rear.
“Sorry, mate.” Wesley offered his hand and pulled Rollie up.
“Rollie, mind your bum!” Mr. Chad called.
Rollie glanced behind him and dusted ash off his rear.
The boys laughed, and tossed their charred weapons into the garbage can beside where Mr. Chad stood. Rollie’s spirits were lightening and for a brief moment he had forgotten about Rupert’s humiliating antic.
“You’re a good competitor,” Wesley praised as they headed inside. “You should try out for the fencing team next year.”
“Am I too young?”
“Ms. Yardsly might allow you to join if you’re good enough.”
“Want to coach me?”
Wesley socked Rollie in the shoulder. “I will as long as you don’t try to kill me!”
“I guess,” Rollie replied playfully.
“I might regret this someday!”
“You might.”
The Dead Weight of Secrets
Risk.
There was a lot of it. Rollie risked being caught by Rupert, the night guards, even Herr Zilch’s mole. He risked being taken off the mole case. He risked Zilch finding out he was on the case and coming after his family and friends. But Rollie had learned that risk always played a key role in every case. The more he practiced being a detective, the more comfortable he grew with risk.
His middle still fluttered every time.
He decided to risk just a little more by trailing Rupert Monday morning to confirm his innocence or involvement with the Dancing Men messages in the Daily Telegraph. If Rupert caught him, he would tattle to Headmaster. But the risk was worth the outcome . . . or so he hoped.
Groggily, Rollie noticed Rupert leave the room. The alarm clock on the desk showed four-twenty. It was still dark outside the window. The radiator rumbled on to reheat the room. Rollie scooted out of bed and wrapped his arms around his chilly body. He tiptoed out the room and down the hall.
He watched as Rupert walked downstairs. After a few seconds, he crept after him, careful not to make a noise as he followed. He wished he had grabbed some socks; his toes were numb. He obeyed Mr. Notch’s ten-pace rule as he followed Rupert all the way down to the first floor. He crouched on the stairs behind the banister and watched Rupert unlock the deadbolt on the front door.
Rupert cracked open the door, leaned outside, and dragged in a small stack of bound newspapers. Shuddering from the frosty air, he hastily closed the door and bolted it. With a grunt, he picked up the newspapers and trudged down the hall.
Rollie padded after him. He peeked into the teacher’s lounge, and watched Rupert untie the stack of newspapers and spread out the variety of different morning dailies. With a yawn, Rupert turned to leave. Rollie pushed open the secret passage entrance and crouched inside, leaving just enough of a crack to see through. After a minute, Rupert left the lounge and headed back upstairs. Rollie crept into the lounge.
He quickly found the Daily Telegraph. Thumbing through the crisp pages, he found the business section and scanned it for Dancing Men. He spotted several. He whipped out his notepad and pencil stub from the front pocket on his pajama top and wrote down the code. He put the business section back in its proper place and rushed into the hall.
Clip-clop, clip-clop
He froze. He recognized the dull sound of those heels on the thin carpet. Cecily had not yet confirmed if Gwendolyn Gram and Herr Zilch’s secretary were the same person. Yet Rollie did not believe it was a coincidence that Miss Gram was showing up right when the newspapers were delivered. Why was she up so early?
He pushed open the corner and ducked inside the secret passage again. He let the corner close behind him just in time as those high-heels clip-clopped past. When he was sure Miss Gram was in the lounge, he eased open the corner and crawled out into the hall.
Through a crack in the door he saw Miss Gram laying out a tea tray with toast and jam. The setting was pretty with the rosebud tea set, white doilies, and a little vase of daisies. She sat down and poured herself a cup of tea, then thumbed through a folder of sheet music. She paid no mind to the stack of newspaper on the table near her.
Rollie retreated back into the secret passage. He thought it best to take the passage back up to the fourth floor to avoid anyone else who might be wandering the halls. A soft feathery material dusted his bare soles. It was ash. Regrettably he noticed his own toe-marks; he wished he had been more careful. Mingled with his own footprints were others that didn’t belong to him.
Shoe prints.
A few had shuffled the ashes and were hard to determine. But one whole footprint was clearly preserved in the gray ash. The print was narrow with a large star on the heel. Rollie compared the print with his own foot and noted it was an inch longer than his. He had no idea whose shoes had stars on the soles. He would think about that later. At the moment, he could only think that . . .
Someone else had been in the secret passage.
This strange footprint confirmed the mole had found the passage. The mole now could burrow through the tunnel at his leisure. Surely he would discover the stored treasures on the third floor and would tear them apart to find Watson’s Case. Then he would deliver it to Herr Zilch.
Rollie swallowed. He had to stop the mole before that happened. He hoped he and Cecily could glean some clues from the footprint. Between his classes with Miss Hertz, and Cecily’s superb observation skills, they would find something useful.
In the meantime, Rollie worried about the mole finding Watson’s Case. He made his way up to the third floor passage to check on it. After sliding a few boxes aside, he found the lock box where he had hidden it. But that hiding spot was not good enough. He wracked his brain for another hiding spot, but it would not fit under his loose floorboard and his room was not safe with Rupert around. As he thought, he st
arted to wonder why Zilch wanted Watson’s Case. What was inside?
He fiddled with the lock. It was old and decrepit. If he had the right tool he could easily snap it off. He perked up with a thought.
Quickly he went down to the second floor passage. It was early enough that the hall was still empty. He lightly knocked on Miss Gram’s classroom door, but got no answer. He figured she must still be down in the teacher’s lounge. He tried the doorknob. It was open, so he let himself into the dark classroom. He found Miss Gram’s pink toolbox, and looked through the tools. Snatching up a pair of wire cutters with a pink ribbon, he darted back to the secret passage in the hallway corner and rushed back up to the third floor.
With one clench of the wire cutters the rusty lock snapped off Watson’s Case. Rollie opened the case.
“Papers?”
He lifted out a thick stack of old paper yellowed with age and filled with fading type. He started to read the first page:
As personal biographer to my singular friend and renowned detective Sherlock Holmes, I am obligated to record his cases and have the pleasure of publishing them for the world to read. However, there have been multiple cases of such a delicate nature, that involve powerful figureheads and sensitive state secrets, that Holmes has forbidden me from publishing them. For doing so would jeopardize the safety of our nation. Therefore I have chosen to lock them away, for perhaps there will come a time when all said parties involved in these cases will no longer be living, and all secrets divulged will no longer be a threat to national security. At such time the world will be enriched yet again by the Master of Deduction.
Rollie stopped reading. He remembered Watson mentioning in his other published cases that there were many cases that never made it to the public for exactly the reasons he had just read. He had assumed that Watson had never written them down.
Rollie felt a little thrill at holding the large stack of pages typed by Doctor Watson himself. He felt the pull to continue reading, but stopped. He had no right to read more. He had to respect Holmes’ wishes for these cases to be unread, and he had to respect Watson’s decision to hide them. And he had no right to know any of these secrets recorded on the old pages he held in his hands.