The ceiling was supported by seven carved beams. Seven ribs . . . James counted them twice just to make sure. The back row of the center-facing pews was fixed to the chapel’s stone walls beneath the towering stained-glass windows. He thought he could probably climb from the back-row seats to the stone windowsills. From there to the beams would be far trickier and more dangerous. His eye traveled back toward the balcony, above the chapel entrance on the opposite end of the building from the apse. There, the final truss was nearly at head height. Equally intriguing, on either side was a narrow stone ledge upon which the trusses rested. If he climbed up on the last of the trusses he could reach the ledge and tightrope-walk his way to the center of the chapel. Problem was, if he fell he’d probably crack his head open.
He heard the clock tower above the Main House toll the first of its ten strokes. Curfew! He’d spent a substantial bit more time in the chapel than could be explained. The diversion of Clay and his faked fall was long past; there would be no more distraction. James knew he would have to move carefully to go unseen on his return to Bricks 3. He turned toward the impressively large main door. Leaving by that entrance would make him much too easily seen. He sprinted to the far end, turned left at the pipe organ, ran through what was a choir room—an upright piano, some choir robes—and left through a side door. He cut around the back of the chapel beneath towering trees and moved building to building in order to reach the Main House without crossing open lawn. The last of the bells rang. He was now officially past curfew.
Slipping around the front of the Main House, he ducked into a darkened staircase that led to the back playing fields and the lowest level of the Bricks. If he could just manage to sneak into the first of the lower dorms, and use the bathroom, he could invent an excuse of stomach problems and buy himself a pass to his own dorm. He was two steps from a door when a hand jutted out from shadow and grabbed him by the upper arm. James gasped, but managed not to scream.
“Mr. Moriarty,” came a man’s voice. It was far too dark beneath the breezeway for James to make out a face. “Technically, you are past curfew.”
“Yes . . . sir.”
“What are you doing prowling around the grounds instead of obeying curfew?” The authority in the man’s voice and his knowledge of school rules identified him as one of the many proctors who took turns handing out demerits in the evening hours.
“I wasn’t prowling. I . . . dinner didn’t exactly agree with me. I was stuck in the library bathroom after study hall. I had to throw out my underwear. Do you want to check?” He had no idea when, where, or how the proctor had spotted him. He couldn’t see the man’s face, didn’t recognize his gravely voice. Didn’t know what he’d do if the proctor took him up on his offer to check for his underwear. “It’s embarrassing, sir. So is being late to my dorm and having to explain it in front of my roommate.”
The grip relaxed and released him. “Go.”
James opened the door to Bricks Lower 1. With it came a flood of hallway light and James turned to see who’d apprehended him. The space was empty. James hadn’t heard the man depart, and for a moment he wondered if it was his own sense of guilt and imagination that had invented the incident. He pulled the door shut quietly behind him and headed straight for the nearest bathroom, now trusting his excuse more than ever.
“Has the room check happened?” James asked anxiously upon entering.
“Five minutes ago,” Sherlock answered. “The hall master did not ask after you, which I found most curious. I was about to tell him to check the bathroom when he informed me he’d received a call that you’d be along shortly. And here you are.”
James stood there. “A call?” The man who’d grabbed him? he wondered.
“Judging by your reaction, I will assume that comes as a surprise.”
“Dinner didn’t agree with me.”
“Indeed. The food here wouldn’t agree with a goat. So that was your excuse? And it was accepted?”
James’s eyes roamed to the acoustic tile ceiling, dotted with black holes from pencils being stuck there in previous decades. “I got trapped in the bathroom.”
“Of course you did. And what did you find?” Sherlock asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the red envelope. The clue to the missing Bible. What did you find?”
“I . . . ah . . . I told you: dinner made me sick to my stomach. I was on the toilet this whole time.”
“You were either in the gymnasium or the chapel, both of which have seven roof trusses. They are the only two buildings that qualify for that unique distinction.” Sherlock pointed to James’s bed and the red envelope lying there. “You dropped it on your way out. Not the best spy. You want to learn to hold on to your clues.”
“You stole it!”
“I didn’t. Ask Moria. We found it on the floor. But never mind that, was it the gym or the chapel?”
James didn’t say a thing. He snatched up the envelope and stuffed it into his back pocket. “You stole it,” he said.
“The problem is this,” Sherlock said. “The gym beams are approximately eight inches wide, whereas the chapel’s are closer to twelve. I’ve researched the Bible in question and it is oversized, more like an unabridged dictionary in relation to a standard dictionary. The chapel makes much more sense as a hiding place, both for the wider beams and because that was the building from which it was taken. If it is simply relocated in the same building, it’s a much easier prank, a much easier task. To remove it, transport it to the gym, and place it there is a far more ambitious undertaking.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then you’re a fool, and neither of us believes that, James, now do we? Has it occurred to you why I like you?”
“Am I supposed to care?”
“We all care why people like and dislike us, James. It’s part of what makes us human. You’re clever, that’s why. I’ve watched you do your assignments. Your math comprehension is impressive. You clearly have a quick mind, as do I. When you read, you read carefully and, judging by the deliberateness with which you approach your English papers, you choose your words carefully—another sign of high intelligence. I like people who at least come close to my own level of deduction and analysis.”
“You are so full of . . . yourself.”
“It’s true, I’m impressed with myself, almost daily. If I don’t impress myself then how am I ever to feel accomplished?”
“Who cares if you impress others?”
“Indeed. Others’ opinions hardly matter, but one’s own sense of accomplishment is paramount, is it not? The point being, you said I have no idea what you’re talking about, which is simply not the case. I know exactly what’s going on, James. And I promise you, you are going about things entirely wrong.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. Let us assume you just visited the chapel and not the gym.” Sherlock raised a finger. “Uh-uh! Deduced from your dry shoes. They water the upper playing fields each night at eight. We were in study hall until nine forty-five. Your shoes would be wet, even if you went on the paths between here and the gym, and they are not wet. So it was the chapel. You determined there are seven spans, as the note suggests. Did you happen to visit the balcony? I should think you did because you have dust showing on the right sleeve of your sport coat. I collected the same; they need to clean that staircase better.” He pointed to the arm of his sport coat that was hung on the back of his desk chair. “So, during your visit, did you happen to actually look at the center beam? Hmm? Did you see anything approximating the size of a family Bible? No, you did not. Nor would you have had you visited the gym. Not there, either.”
“I suppose you’ve already checked?”
“Of course I’ve checked. How else could I speak so definitely?”
“You never speak anything but definitely.”
“Because I happen to know what I’m talking about before I open my maw, a rare if not no
nexistent quality in these hallways.” He sized up James, which James didn’t care for in the least. “I further suspect you were attempting to come up with a solution as to how to reach that center beam, an act that I daresay involved some degree of climbing and balance. Am I correct?” He didn’t wait for James’s answer. “This, I imagine, is part of the challenge—oh, yes, challenge, for had you bothered to get a good look at the center beam you would have not seen a family Bible. You might not have seen anything at all.” He indicated a set of binoculars on his desk. “For bird-watching, but most informative in this case. What you would have seen is yet another envelope. This one also red. You are being led on a scavenger hunt, and therefore: a challenge. You are being tested or hazed, my dear friend—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“‘Dear’ or ‘friend’?”
“Both. Either! Neither!”
“Part of that test, I should imagine, is your approach to solutions. The challenge, I’m talking about. It’s not just what you accomplish, but how you accomplish it. Or, and I shudder at the thought, you are being set up to fail. In this case, to fall. To hurt yourself. Perhaps badly. I don’t think any of us has been here long enough to make such enemies, but this is the work of either an ally or an enemy, and you seem precious short of allies at the moment, having insulted your sister and this roommate only hours ago.”
“You are so strange,” James said.
“Rather than thinking how to retrieve it, ask yourself this: How was the envelope placed atop that beam in the first place? And before you make some critical or slanderous statement about me or my personality, let it be known Moria was the one who prompted this thought, not I.”
James sat down on the edge of his bed, temporarily without a comeback.
“This is important information, the placement of the second envelope. Did someone actually climb all the way to the middle of the center beam and leave an envelope there? When? It’s no easy task. And why require it be at night? I’ll tell you why—”
“I never doubted it.”
“Study hall. It had to be when no one would wander into the chapel and catch whoever’s behind this while in the act.”
“But we were all in study hall.”
“Interesting, isn’t it? Do we suspect a proctor? Perhaps! Given the school-wide study hall, if a student, he or she would have had to work quickly. A bathroom break during study hall? That’s what you’d think, but you’d be wrong. Moria again. The envelope has been there at least since this afternoon, when I discovered it. It didn’t have to be found at night; whoever put it there wanted it to be found at night, wanted you to miss curfew or get caught. In any event, wanted you in trouble. That leads me to wonder if the envelope contains anything at all. It may not, you know? It may just be there to make you go get it.” He raised his dark eyebrows inquisitively on his chiseled, pinched face. “But again: to the placement! No one went out on that beam, James. It is dust covered, that beam. It would show shoe prints, or might have been wiped clean by someone sliding out there. The envelope was placed there without such an effort, and can be retrieved in like fashion with no risk to life or limb.”
“And of course you have figured out how.” James sounded as disgusted and discouraged as he was at that moment. “Who asked you? What gives you the right?”
Sherlock threw his head back as if slapped. “Is this your gratitude?”
“Shut up! Zip it, don’t lip it. Clap your trap! Keep your nose—your beak!—out of my business and stay away from my sister. If you don’t, I’m going to smash that beak into your face.”
“Clay Richmond and the skateboard,” Sherlock said. “You two were passing notes at study hall. That little stunt of his was to help you slip away, correct? Do you think I’m the only one capable of drawing parallels, James? Do you honestly think some proctor was not watching you from the moment you left study hall?” Sherlock saw a spark of understanding or recognition in James’s eyes. “What? What is it, James? You saw someone? You were approached? By whom? This is a most important piece of data, James, I assure you!”
“I said . . . shut up!”
“And I shall, for I need to hear something only twice, I assure you. Once can be out of emotion, but twice requires forethought. Consider the matter closed. But if you try to walk out on that beam, James, we will be shoveling what remains of you into a dust bin. So I’d get another plan if I were you. And believe me, that’s rhetorical! I have no desire whatsoever to be you.”
CHAPTER 10
CRYING SHAME
MY ROOMMATES, NATALIE AND JAMALA, ONE A girl at home on a farm, the other a sleek African American girl from the Upper East Side of Manhattan, accompanied me to the dining room. We were heading there early because there are any number of card games played in the common room before dinner. It was a place to meet people, though none of us admitted that was her reason for going early. The maple, elm, and oak trees on campus were ginormous, their leaves clattering and swaying in the hilltop’s constant and often chilly wind. A few were tinged with color, signifying the premature arrival of a New England autumn that was by far my favorite season. I couldn’t wait for it to arrive, and I didn’t want it to arrive—because of the cold that followed. I felt caught between the like and dislike that pretty much described my daily sentiment since arriving at Baskerville. I had turned into a bit of an emotional yo-yo, loving the school, hating the school; loving my new friends, being scared of so many kids; overwhelmed by academics, secretly liking what I was learning. In Boston I’d had such a routine, most of it dictated by Father; here, I had to set a routine, find a routine, decide what mattered, and it all felt a bit out of my grasp.
While passing below the auditorium I overheard a single sniff of someone’s nose. I stutter-stepped. I felt a deep, resonating connection to that sound; it triggered all sorts of images from my childhood.
“I’ll catch up,” I told the others. “Deal me in.” I turned and hurried back to the twin doors, scurried up a staircase, and reached the auditorium. It took me nearly a minute to find James in the balcony, slumped down in the second row.
“Hey,” I said, when he refused to acknowledge me.
“Shut up!”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is the last time I’ll ever cry over him.”
“Father?”
“Nothing. He doesn’t answer the phone. No letters. Emails. Nothing.”
“Not true! I got this!” I dug into my backpack and showed him the postcard. He read it and flipped it over several times.
“Atlantic City.”
My brother didn’t miss much. “Traveling, like he said.”
“It’s like he got rid of us, and that’s it.” He wiped off the smeared tears. “I am so sick of this! We’ve never mattered to him!”
“He said he was traveling and he is,” I reminded him, feeling a knot in my throat. Father, not care? Impossible. “He told me we’d hear from him, and we have.”
“You have,” he said, emphasizing it to sting me.
“I would have shared it, but you treat me like I don’t exist half the time. The same way you treat Sherlock. What is it with you? Why are you so mean to me and him?”
“He is such a jerk!”
“It’s like you’re someone else, and not a good someone else. It’s me, Jamie. You and me, we’re a team, right? We’ve always been a team. I hate the way you treat me like I’m nothing. And so randomly! I never know which James Moriarty I’m talking to. Since when?”
“Go away!”
“See what I mean?” I sat down into one of the padded seats across the aisle from him, and began to cry. All my fears I’d kept contained and out of sight from my roommates came pouring out. James was familiar to me. He was comfort. My tears ran of their own accord. I didn’t want to be crying.
“Listen, Mo . . .” He reached across the aisle toward me. It was an olive branch, a peace offering. It was my brother, not the James Moriarty of Baskerville.
“Mori
arty!?” It was the voice of Bret Thorndyke from down below in the main part of the auditorium, but where we couldn’t see him.
“Up here,” James called out, withdrawing the offer of his hand. His eyes darkened and I felt a chill up my spine. If my brother had been connected to that outstretched arm, a different James Moriarty was now looking at me. His entire demeanor had changed—he was another boy; not one you would want to meet in a dark alley.
I gasped his name, but the coldness of his rebuke sent more tears running down my cheeks. I felt isolated and afraid. A number of boys were thundering up the stairs. As yet unseen, Thorndyke called out, “This meeting was your idea. You didn’t have to hide from u—”
There were three boys. Bret, Clay Richmond, and Ryan Eisenower. Despite only a few weeks living here, I knew these were not the best-behaved boys in the school.
“Sorry,” James said to the others. “My sister is sniveling about how homesick she is.” He looked at me so intensely as if daring me to contradict him. I would be punished if I did, of that I had no doubt. “I’m trying to tell her it’s going to work out. But look at her! What a child.”
The ache in my heart tore me into pieces, rendered me a blithering mess. My tears came harder than ever. I covered my face, came to my feet and pushed past the snickering boys, nearly fell down the stairs, and found my way outside. The deadness in my brother’s eyes, the cold, calculating way he’d threatened me without a word. Me, his sister. I never made it to cards or dinner. I cried myself out in my room, alone, and fell into a poisonous, dreamless sleep.
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