by F. C. Shaw
“That Mr. Hood is most peculiar!” Mrs. Wilson exclaimed. “I offered him a cot in the library by the fireplace, and he refused. He’s going to sleep on the floor in the entry hall right in front of the front door. I feel obligated to show him hospitality in exchange for his services, but he won’t accept it.”
“Fact: You need not get worked up over it, Eloise.” Mr. Wilson glanced up at her from his bowl. “Let the man be. Some people are just quiet souls.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Edward said as he chewed on bread and butter.
“Fact: I’m afraid you never will, son,” Mr. Wilson quipped.
Rollie spoke up. “Dad, there’s this shop near school that we really want to go to. It sells detective stuff. Could you take us sometime this week?”
“It is called Mycroft’s Mercantile,” Auntie Ei abruptly croaked.
Rollie snapped his eyes at her in surprise before he could stop himself. “You know about that shop? You never told me.”
“Another secret I have been hoarding,” the old lady retorted sharply.
“Let’s go tomorrow, son,” Mr. Wilson decided.
Cecily sneezed into her napkin.
“Bless you!” a chorus of voices responded.
“Cecily, let me feel your forehead.” Mrs. Wilson reached over and placed the back of her hand against Cecily’s pale forehead. “You feel a little warm, and your cheeks are flushed.”
“I don’t feel good,” Cecily admitted meekly.
“I think you had better go right to bed.” Mrs. Wilson stood and beckoned Cecily to follow her. “I don’t want you getting terribly ill.”
Without a word, Cecily followed Mrs. Wilson out the dining room and upstairs.
“Is she sick?” Eliot screeched in panic. “I do NOT want to get sick! I probably will! I’ve been in close proximity with her for days now. We need to sterilize your room, Rollie.”
Everyone except for Auntie Ei laughed.
“This is no laughing matter!” Eliot looked shocked at them. He bolted up and fled the dining room.
“I’m sure Cecily will be fine,” Mr. Wilson assured them. “She probably just caught a chill from outside. You’ve been playing out in the snow a lot lately. Building more snow forts?”
Rollie and Wesley exchanged glances.
Rollie shrugged. “And other things.”
Auntie Ei shot them a sharp look.
As the family dispersed, Rollie followed Uncle Ky into the parlor. The elderly man sat down to work on the jigsaw puzzle.
“Uncle Ky, could you help me with something?”
“Ah, you’re on a case, aren’t you? Well, I was never a professional detective, but I have done my fair share of investigating in my day. I once tailed an Oxford student who I suspected was changing the time on a clock as a prank. Turned out that particular time piece was broken. High-maintenance contraptions, clocks are. What can I help you with, Rollin Holmes?”
Rollie fished out the black-and-white photograph from his pocket and showed it to his great-uncle. “Did Auntie Ei work for Scotland Yard a long time ago?”
Uncle Ky’s face clouded. “Where did you find this photograph? I have not seen it in years. I think Eileen keeps it hidden.”
“It’s not hers—at least, I don’t think it is. I know she still works with Scotland Yard a little, but did she used to work with them full-time? Along with everyone else in this photo?”
“Before Sherlock Academy opened, Eileen and the others shown here worked for Scotland Yard—inspectors they were. Almost all the Academy staff once worked for Scotland Yard at some time. Then when the Academy opened, they chose to retire from the Yard and teach, you know.”
Rollie got excited. “Even this man? He used to be a Yard inspector?” He pointed to Herr Zilch.
“Yes, they had all been a part of a highly secret division of Scotland Yard—a sort of secret society. I believe that man in question had a falling out with everyone. I daresay he was fired from the Yard—Eileen had something to do with that. I am not entirely sure what happened to him. It was a very long time ago, as you can tell by how much younger everyone looks.” Uncle Ky shifted his attention back to the puzzle.
Rollie slipped the photograph back in his pocket and headed upstairs. The history involving his great-aunt and his archenemy was beginning to take form. The two of them, including the Yardsly siblings, had worked together, had been comrades. They had gone on to work at Sherlock Academy—except for Herr Zilch. Something had happened, a disagreement or a fight. Herr Zilch had been fired and henceforth hated the Academy. Maybe that was how Zilch had gotten involved with MUS. Auntie Ei had had something to do with it all.
Rollie fished out the photograph again to study it. He noticed a minute detail he had overlooked before. He could barely make it out . . .
He ran upstairs and flew into his room.
Eliot was wiping down everything imaginable. The air smelled of bleach.
“That’s strong!” Wesley was nearly gagging.
“It has to be strong to kill the germs,” Eliot panted, feverishly scrubbing the desk. “You’ll thank me later when you stay healthy while Cecily is sick in bed.”
Rollie rummaged around in his desk drawer until he found his magnifying glass. He studied the photograph through it. “Take a look at this!”
Wesley and Eliot peered through the magnifying glass, and gasped.
“They’re all wearing wristbands!” Wesley exclaimed. “I can’t see any symbols on them—”
“Uncle Ky just told me that the four of them were part of a secret division of Scotland Yard. They were part of the Holmes Brigade!”
Eliot shook his head. “Euston said the Brigades were made up of current Academy patrons. Herr Zilch was never a patron.”
“Or was he?” asked Wesley. “We never thought Zilch was a Yard inspector, or even more, part of the Holmes Brigade.”
“So the Brigade is a secret division of Scotland Yard,” Rollie deduced. “This is becoming more and more interesting!”
“And confusing,” Eliot mumbled.
“I hope Cecily is better tomorrow,” Rollie said. “I can’t wait to tell her about this.”
But the next morning, Cecily was not better; she was worse. She was running a high fever, her throat hurt when she swallowed, and her nose was stuffy. Mrs. Wilson moved Lucille and Daphne downstairs to the parlor to give Cecily rest. The little girls did not mind, for they enjoyed camping out downstairs. Daphne cheerfully gave up her bed to Cecily. Being the mother of five children, who had had their share of illnesses, Mrs. Wilson was the perfect nurse. She kept Cecily comfortable and hydrated, letting her rest but also checking on her every few hours. She forbade the boys from bothering her. The boys thought it only fair to postpone their trip to Mycroft’s Mercantile until Cecily was well enough to join them.
“She’s gonna be okay, right Mum?” Rollie asked, a little worried.
“She just has a cold. She’ll be feeling better by tomorrow, I’m sure. Keep your voices down so she can sleep.”
While Rollie enjoyed the company of Wesley and Eliot, he missed her. He and Cecily had been friends for so long and had worked on so many cases together that he had come to rely on her input. She tended to point out details he missed, to voice concerns he failed to consider, and to rally him on when he needed extra courage. He hoped she would not be sick too much longer.
Rollie rejoined his friends in his bedroom. They sprawled on the floor, working on their Independent Study homework. “Cecily’s got a cold.”
“I told you!” Eliot preached. “Now aren’t you glad I bleached your room?”
“I need a break.” Wesley yawned. “We’ve been working all morning. Want to get some fresh air?”
Rollie smiled. “By fresh air, do you mean explore the vacant house again?”
Wesley grinned back. “We’ve alre
ady found two hiding spaces with Zilch’s secrets. There could be more.”
“I don’t want to distract Euston again,” Eliot whined. “It was so exhausting!”
“Let’s see where he is,” Rollie said. “We might be able to sneak past him.”
The three boys tiptoed down the hall, past Cecily’s sick room, and downstairs. Rollie peeked out the narrow window beside the front door.
“I don’t see him. Maybe he’s in the back.”
They hurried into their coats, scarves, boots, and mittens. Outside, a soft snow fell. Rollie led the way down the front walkway to the street. Still seeing no sign of Euston, they scampered next door, through the garden gate, and into the back garden. They entered the house the usual way through the cellar window.
Since they had not explored downstairs much, they started in the grand formal entry hall. They headed into a large room off the right, which they concluded must have been a parlor. White sheets shrouded a settee and two armchairs with gold and scarlet upholstery. Wesley and Eliot pressed their toes along the marble tile. Rollie poked around the grand fireplace large enough for him to stand in. They were disappointed to find no secret hiding places of any kind. Rollie headed for the doorway but suddenly stopped, causing his friends to bump into him.
“Someone’s coming down the stairs,” he whispered.
Cautiously, they each peeked through the doorway.
Euston silently padded down the stairs and toward the front double-doors. He gripped a manila file folder in one hand. He let himself out through the front doors, clicking the locks closed behind him. When he was gone, the boys quietly tiptoed out of the parlor.
“What was he doing upstairs?” whispered Rollie.
“He was probably just checking everything out,” Wesley whispered back. “Yardsly wanted him to. He said he’d give Euston a key, remember?”
“He had a folder though. Does it belong to him or did he find it upstairs?” Rollie entered another large room across the entry hall, which boasted empty bookshelves. “Let’s finish investigating the first floor. Libraries are great places for secret hiding spots.”
The boys searched the spacious built-in bookshelves, the ornate mantel and fireplace, the carpeted floor—nothing turned up. They finished searching the dining room that boasted a coat of arms above its fireplace, the coat closet that housed only a dusty broom, and the kitchen with its black stove and bare cupboards. Finding nothing, they climbed back through the cellar window.
“I guess there are no more secret hiding spots,” Rollie muttered. “I think Euston found that folder upstairs, which means it belongs to Herr Zilch. And if it belongs to him, then it must contain more secrets. We need every extra secret we can get. Hopefully there will be a clue about the MUS list.”
“I agree.” Wesley closed the garden gate behind them. “We need to get that folder from Euston.”
“Shh! There he is.” Rollie crouched down behind the low brick wall that separated Zilch’s front yard from his.
The boys spotted Euston standing rigid on the front porch. He was flipping through the papers in the folder.
“How do we get back to your place?” Eliot whispered. “He’ll see us coming and will know we were in the house.”
Rollie bent low and crept through the snow back to Zilch’s garden gate. Once through the gate, he stood up and said, “We’ll have to climb over into my back garden. Then we can go through the kitchen door.”
Eliot spotted some empty wooden crates under the leafless willow tree near the back wall. The boys stacked the three crates. Without hesitation, Wesley climbed to the top of the stack. At the top, he easily scrambled onto the brick wall, looked left and right, and then dropped down over the side. Rollie and Eliot heard a crunch of snow and a grunt. Next, Rollie climbed up and over. He had barely hit the snow on the other side when Eliot landed beside him. They hurried through the back door and into the kitchen.
As they wiggled out of their winter garb, Wesley asked, “So how are we going to get that folder from Euston?”
Rollie licked his lips. “I’m not sure yet, but I know we can come up with a plan.”
The Mystery in the Folder
They did come up with a plan.
By now, Euston had made himself quite at home on the Wilson’s front porch. A low stool and wooden crate served as his chair and desk. A tin canteen of water, a paper bag of peanuts, and a flashlight cluttered the top of the crate. Atop this crate also rested the file folder from Zilch’s house.
If Euston would not leave the porch, Rollie would have to make him leave. He went to his mother’s workroom where she was sewing.
“Mum, you should invite Mr. Hood in for some afternoon tea,” said Rollie. “It’s really cold outside, and I think it’s about to snow again.”
Mrs. Wilson frowned and looked up from her sewing machine. “Rollie, I’ve tried. He said he would only impose on us for dinner. Impose was his word! He is not imposing at all. I want to be hospitable, but he doesn’t seem to want it.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t mind just coming in to warm himself by the fire for a few minutes. Should I invite him in?”
Mrs. Wilson aligned the fabric under the needle. “Be my guest. Oh! Tell Mr. Hood that.”
Rollie rejoined his friends in the entry hall. “Mum already invited him in, but he declined.”
“Our plan won’t work unless he leaves the porch,” Wesley reminded them. “Or we do plan B.” He turned to Eliot.
Eliot rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I won’t like it one bit—and neither will Euston.” With a grunt, he dressed warmly and went outside.
“What do you want now, Mr. Tildon?” Euston muttered in his deep voice.
“Well, I . . . uh . . . ” Eliot stammered for perhaps the first time in his life. “I would like some advice on how to be a better sleuth. You seem very knowledgeable and stealthy and I would like to learn how to be more like you. Being more stealthy could really aid me as a detective . . . ”
“Is he turning away from the crate?” whispered Wesley.
Rollie nodded. Ever so slowly, he eased open the front door. Squatting, he edged out onto the porch and toward the crate, all the while keeping an eye on Euston’s back. Eliot played his part well, never once glancing at Rollie behind Euston. He chatted on and on, using animated gestures and direct eye contact to keep Euston facing him.
Rollie was almost to the crate.
Rollie’s fingers touched the file folder and snatched it up. He whipped around to check on Euston. The quiet man was nodding at Eliot. Rollie edged back inside the house and handed the folder to Wesley.
Wesley flipped open the folder and found two sheets of paper inside. One paper had typed text and the other had a blueprint. Wesley was ready with his own pocket notepad and pencil. At a remarkable speed, he copied down the text from the folder paper to his notepad. Since there were only a few lines, it only took him a few moments. Next, he placed another paper atop the blueprint and started to trace it.
“Wait a minute.” He paused. “This is a blueprint of Sherlock Academy!”
Rollie studied it. “You’re right! Don’t copy it. I have a blueprint of school on my old newspaper map. Let’s get this folder back to Euston’s crate.”
Wesley stuffed the papers back in the folder and handed it to his friend.
Rollie poked his head out the front door.
“Mr. Tildon, if you will just let me speak I will—”
“One last thing, Mr. Hood. I’ve been wondering lately if I need to have a deep dark secret to make myself more interesting and mysterious. Holmes had lots of great secrets, and I just think that maybe I need one. That seems to be the rule. You’re part of the secret Holmes Brigade. But I can’t think of any secrets. I don’t belong to any secret societies and I don’t have any treasures to hide—I’m not wealthy. Well, I do get birthday money from my father, bu
t that’s really not much to speak of. I don’t have any eccentric relatives that are spies or anything . . . ”
Rollie edged back across the porch.
Creak!
The front door squeaked on its hinges.
Euston started to turn his head.
“Mr. Hood! I almost forgot! I do have a secret! Let me tell you it and you can decide if it’s worth using to define myself as a detective. Please?”
Euston sighed. “Go ahead.”
Rollie slid the file folder back onto the crate and crawled back inside. He wiped his glistening forehead, and then he signaled Eliot to rejoin them inside.
“On second thought, Mr. Hood, I don’t think I should tell you my secret because then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. That’s how secrets work, you know. Nice talking with you.” With a wave, Eliot darted into the house. “I hope you were successful because I am NOT doing that again.”
“We were. Let’s go to my room.” Rollie led his friends upstairs. On his way down the hall, he paused at Cecily’s door. It was open a crack, so he peeked in.
Since the room was dark, he could not tell if she was awake or not. He guessed she was sleeping, since she did not acknowledge him and she was breathing deeply. He continued down the hall and up the twelve steps to his room.
“So what was in the folder?” asked Eliot.
Wesley laid his notepad on the desk.
“What’s this supposed to be?” Eliot pointed to the paper with the half-traced blueprint.
“That’s a blueprint of Sherlock Academy,” explained Wesley. “But I didn’t finish tracing it because Rollie said he already had a blueprint of school.”
Rollie rummaged around under his bed for his large hollow Shakespeare book. He opened it and dug around inside. Frowning, he shoved aside Auntie Ei’s letters to Yardsly that he had taken from school. He pulled out an antique newspaper. He separated the yellow pages and spent the next few minutes shuffling them around on his bed.
Wesley and Eliot flanked him and gazed upon a black ink sketch of the Academy’s floor plans. The page corners were matched like a puzzle to complete the sketch.