by F. C. Shaw
But Rollie loved his little room. It had one window overlooking Mr. Crenshaw’s garden next door—a great view for spying. Best of all, he was allowed to keep his room any way he wanted.
On the wall nearest the window, he had covered the surface with cork to tack up clues and notes from the cases he solved. On his desk below the window, a telescope peeked through, kept company by a magnifying glass, a spyglass, and binoculars. The rest of his room was filled with boyish delights like a BB rifle, a model airplane, a pennant of his favorite rugby team, and books and books and books.
Rollie plopped down on the navy carpet next to his bookcase. He did not organize his books alphabetically by author or title or even topic like the family’s private library downstairs. Instead he organized them by personal rating. Stuck to each shelf, a little label explained his rating system.
The top shelf’s label read in his best handwriting Excellent Books, My Favorites. The shelf below said Good Books I Like. Below that, Okay Books That Were Sort of Good. The last shelf read Books I Didn’t Really Like. The reason he bothered to keep the books on this last shelf was for appearances only—he hated empty bookshelves. The books on all the shelves constantly shuffled around as he read new ones and added them, or re-read others and revised his rating.
Running his finger along the spines on the top shelf, he read each title lovingly, mental pictures from the stories hugging his mind. Tom Sawyer, Robin Hood, Peter Pan, Lancelot, Sherlock Holmes—
Rollie slid out one of four volumes: The Return of Sherlock Holmes. He opened the green hardcover and flipped through the worn pages to “The Adventure of the Empty House.” These pages preserved smudges and creases from countless reads. This was his favorite story. He bookmarked it with an original telegram, from Sherlock Holmes to his comrade Doctor John Watson, that Auntie Ei had bought from an antiques auction and given to Rollie. The note read: Watson. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.
Rollie treasured this telegram, not only because it had been personally written by the great detective, but because he had earned it. A few summers ago Auntie Ei had commissioned Rollie to solve an important mystery for her: to find her sterling silver letter opener that had disappeared. She believed someone in the family had taken it. After questioning the Wilson suspects and searching the premises, Rollie found the letter opener and exposed the culprit, who turned out to be Edward. (He had swiped it from Auntie Ei’s desk to etch his initials on the handlebars of his bicycle so it would not get confused with Stewart’s matching bicycle.) When Rollie had spotted the telegram behind glass at the antiques auction, he knew exactly which Holmes case it was from. This impressed Auntie Ei so much that she bought it for him as a reward for recovering her silver letter opener, and for being a shrewd Sherlockian. Rollie kept the telegram safely in the Sherlock Holmes book Auntie Ei had given him.
Rollie set aside his book for Tuesday. But . . . He fished out the Sherlock Academy letter from his pocket and read it again.
We request that you bring only the following item and nothing else: your favorite book.
What he had picked out was his favorite story; but, when it came down to it, the whole volume was his favorite. Suddenly, he was not sure about bringing a Sherlock Holmes volume. Would every other student bring one also since they were visiting the Sherlock Academy? Maybe the school would frown upon that, thinking he brought it in hopes of being accepted.
He scanned the top shelf again. Maybe a different book. He had other favorite books.
No.
Sherlock Holmes remained his ultimate favorite. He revered that detective; Holmes was his hero. His siblings teased him about it.
“He doesn’t have any special powers,” Edward had pointed out.
“He has the power of deductive reasoning,” Rollie had argued.
“Any human can have that,” Edward had snorted. “Can he fly or stop a moving train? Does he even have muscles?” Edward had struck a pose in an attempt to show off the sinewy muscles outlining his tall, lean body. “No? Not a hero to me, then.”
“He’s smarter than Superman,” Rollie had insisted.
“What does that matter?”
Rollie did not care about his brother’s opinion. He knew Holmes was a worthy hero. Holmes did have muscles, for he was exceptional in boxing and fencing. He could disguise himself, identify all types of cigar and pipe ash, and solve any mystery simply by observing and reasoning. Rollie wanted to be just like him.
Maybe this Sherlock Academy would show him how . . . if that was even what it was all about. No way of knowing until Tuesday. He leaned against his bed and flipped open the volume again. He started reading his favorite case for the umpteenth time just to refresh his memory in case they quizzed him about it on Tuesday.
“Hallo, Rollin Holmes!”
Rollie snapped his head up from his book. “Hallo, Cecily Watson.” He hid the book behind his back. “Guess which case I’m reading.”
“Good detectives don’t guess, they deduce.” His best friend, Cecily, bounced into the room, her curly, auburn ponytail bobbing around her neck. She wore a pair of brown slacks too big for her, with the legs rolled up above her ankles and the waist scrunched by a belt to keep them up. She wore a green cardigan with a little patchwork bird on one shoulder. “Your favorite Holmes book is missing from your bookshelf—the green one. I noticed before you closed the book that you were reading at the beginning. The first story in that volume is “The Adventure of the Empty House.” Although I should have known from the beginning—it’s your favorite. I love “The Adventure of the Dying Detective.” Brilliant!”
“Did you steal your brother’s trousers again?”
Cecily wrinkled her nose peppered with freckles. “Yeah. Mum still won’t buy me my own pair. She says it’s not ladylike.”
“It’s not.”
“But I can’t climb fences and crawl through bushes and spy in a dress,” she pointed out.
“Mr. Crenshaw is in London today, remember?”
“I know. Ooh, which reminds me! The Secret Delivery Case . . .”
“Mrs. Pratcher ordered tulips from Graves Florist,” Rollie told her.
“Right.” Cecily gave a curt nod. “Only Graves Florist delivers flowers in silver boxes. How do you know she ordered tulips?”
“There was an advertisement in Friday’s paper that tulips are half off,” said Rollie. “I dug out Mrs. Pratcher’s paper from her rubbish bin and noticed she had cut out the advertisement.”
“Nice. There’s another case wrapped, Holmes.” Cecily pulled out a small pocket notebook and a stubby pencil from her back pocket.
Rollie reached over and grabbed the same from his desk. They both flipped through a few pages of notes, then scratched check marks next to Secret Delivery Case found at the bottom of a long list of cases they had solved so far that summer.
Cecily cleared her throat. “I have a secret. At least I think it’s a secret. I want to tell you because you’re my best friend.”
Rollie grinned. “I have a secret, too! I think I can tell you. I mean, I wasn’t told not to.”
Cecily’s green eyes sparkled. “You tell me yours first.”
“But you mentioned your secret first.”
“Oldest to youngest.”
“Cecily, I’m only two months older than you.”
“It still counts.”
“Nope, ladies first.”
“We decided I’m not a lady.” Cecily shoved her hands deep into her trouser pockets. “Tell me or I’ll call you Roly-Poly.”
Rollie grimaced, “I hate that. It’s not even close to my name. It’s Rollie with a short o. Not Rolie with a long o.”
“Roly-Poly, Roly-Poly—”
“Wait!” Rollie held up his hand. “I know how we can settle this. Let’s both tell each other at the same time in code.”
; They concentrated quietly, and wrote in their notebooks. Then they tore off their papers and exchanged them. They used a common cipher: a long strand of letters with only every third letter used to make words. Quickly they circled every third letter, read the letters, then gaped at each other.
“You got a letter too?” Cecily gasped.
“It came this morning!”
“Mine too!”
“What’s your favorite book you’re bringing?” Rollie eyed her.
“Um, that is the least of my questions right now. How about this question: what is this all about?” Cecily whipped out her letter from a back pocket. “I’ve never heard of this Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths.”
“It’s really exciting.”
“I’m not so sure yet. It could be a fraud.”
Rollie blinked at her. The thought that the Academy might be illegitimate never crossed his mind. He was too enraptured by the idea of becoming a detective like Holmes. “Are you going?”
Cecily shrugged. “I suppose so. There’s nothing to lose, but I’m not getting my hopes up.”
“Where is the school?”
“The return address says London.”
“That’s not much to go on. London’s huge.” Rollie scanned the letter for any more details.
Cecily stood and paced the bedroom. “Jot down the Five Ws.”
Rollie flipped to a new page in his pocket notebook. He listed down the page WHO, WHAT, WHERE, WHEN, and WHY. “Who is it?” he mumbled, scribbling. He chewed on his pencil.
“What is it?” Cecily stopped, then resumed pacing.
“Where is it? When does this Academy start?”
Cecily stopped pacing and narrowed her eyes. “Why do they want us?”
Rollie read his letter, “We believe you possess the qualities we seek in fine students.”
“What qualities?”
Rollie nodded his agreement and jotted that question down. “Tuesday seems like forever away.”
“Four days if you count today.”
Rollie shook his head. “Let’s not. Let’s say three days. It’s more bearable.”
Cecily nodded. “Very well. Three days until we clear up this mystery.”
Before You Go
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About the Author
F.C. Shaw started writing stories when she was eight years old. She loves children’s stories, Sherlock Holmes, and mysteries, so had to write a book combining all three. She spends her afternoons writing for kids, and her nights dreaming of new stories. She lives with her husband and two sons in a home they have ambitiously dubbed The Manor in Santa Maria, California. When she’s not plotting stories, she teaches visual arts in local schools and enjoys a good game of Scrabble.
Want F.C. Shaw to come to your school?
F.C. Shaw’s fun and interactive assembly encourages kids to explore their own imaginations. Using the great Sherlock Holmes and her own Sherlock Academy series as a base, she teaches kids how to write a mystery story by developing characters, creating a setting, placing clues, and devising a solution. F.C. Shaw’s assembly is a perfect educational experience for your school. For more information visit: http://www.futurehousepublishing.com/authors/fcshaw/
Or contact: [email protected]