The 100-Year-Old Secret

by Tracy Barrett

  A few other people were walking around, either alone or in pairs, pausing at each picture. There weren't many.

  Xena inspected a few landscapes, a drawing of boys playing with puppies, a pretty woman doing needlework, and the same woman gathering flowers.

  Even though Xander knew he should be looking for clues, he wasn't really studying the art. Instead he kept thinking of that girl with the purple hat. He knew he wasn't crazy. He had seen her.

  His boots squished when he finally moved on to the next group of pictures, and people turned to glare at him. He tried to walk quietly, but what could he do about noisy boots?

  Then he heard Xena calling him in a loud whisper from three sketches away. “Check this out!” she said when he arrived. She was pointing at a card on the wall that gave information about the piece.

  “Steeple of Church of St. Freda, Taynesbury, Herts.,” it read.

  “Hey—Taynesbury! That's the word in the notebook!” Xander's blue eyes sparkled. “What do you think it means?”

  “I don't know,” Xena said. “Maybe we could ask somebody.”

  They stopped at the front desk. The man looked up from his paper. “Yes?”

  “Do you know anything about that painting that disappeared? Girl in a Purple Hat ?” Xena asked.

  “'Fraid not,” the man said. “Nothing more than what it says in the art history books. I think the drawings are just as fine as the paintings, though.”

  “They are,” Xena agreed. “But we were wondering about a couple of things.”

  The man looked inquiringly at her, so she went on. “Is Taynesbury the name of the town where the artist lived? And what does Herts. mean?”

  “Yes, indeed,” the man said. “He did most of his painting in Taynesbury. It's in Hertfordshire”—Xena and Xander noticed that he pronounced it Harfurdsheer— “which is abbreviated to ‘Herts.’ It's not far from London, although in the old days it would have been considered a good distance. Horses and carriages were quite slow, you know.”

  Xena and Xander thanked him as they walked out. Xander did a little dance on the sidewalk.

  “Cut that out before someone sees you,” Xena said.

  He did, but he was still excited. “We already have a lead!” he said. “We know where he lived. Let's find out more and then see if we can get to that town.”

  “Mom and Dad will love to take us someplace outside of London,” Xena said. “And there are bound to be even more clues at the museum where the Batheson exhibit is going to be next week—the Victoria and Albert. Let's go there next.”

  The street was crowded with people, and shop windows were bright in contrast to the gray sky. The sidewalks were narrower than what they were used to in America, and they constantly had to dodge people who were in a hurry.

  Fortunately, the Victoria and Albert was nearby. “Hope they're still open,” Xander said, and Xena nodded. They found the museum, though the sign on the door said it would be closing in fifteen minutes.

  Inside, a guide was sitting at a desk, twirling a pencil with his fingers. The museum was practically empty.

  “Hullo!” the man said with a wide grin. “You two must be real art lovers to come out in this wet!”

  “Oh, I love art,” Xena said.

  “Anything in particular you want to see?” he asked. “You won't have much time. We're about to close for the day.”

  “We're interested in Nigel Batheson,” Xena said. “We've looked at some of his work online, and I wanted to see it in person.”

  “Right this way.” The man led them past a white wall with bright watercolors of fruit hanging on it. Then he stopped in front of a pencil sketch. “Well, here it is,” he said. “Not much to see, I'm afraid. We're preparing his important works for the showing next week.”

  Xander examined the picture. It showed a little boy in a garden who seemed absorbed in cuddling a rabbit while behind him some adults and an older boy were sitting on the grass. It looked like a happy family picnic. “No girls in purple hats,” he said.

  The man laughed. “No, no girls. Batheson wasn't fond of strangers, so his only models were his wife and sons. He never painted girls, except in that one instance. People have always wondered who the model was. I'm not sure it matters, but it would be nice to find out, don't you think?”

  Xena silently agreed with him and glanced at the wall. “Mostly I wanted to see his sketches for Girl in a Purple Hat,” she said.

  “Oh, those were destroyed,” the man said. “This sketch here—like all of Batheson's sketches still in existence—is a study for a painting he never completed. It's interesting how he worked, actually. He made lots of drawings, sometimes more than a hundred, for each painting, and then he worked on the paintings for a long time. And when the painting was done, he would have the servants light a big fire in the drawing room, and he would burn the sketches.”

  “Why?” Xander asked.

  “I think it was his own little ceremony to celebrate the end of the project,” the man explained. “That's why the only drawings left are for paintings he never completed. If you could find a sketch for one of his finished paintings, a collector would pay you a lot for it.”

  “So, did he make many paintings?” Xander asked.

  “No, he was a perfectionist,” the man said. “He actually completed only fifteen oil paintings and a few watercolors. And now only fourteen of the oils are left. Luckily, we have them all here at the V&A.”

  “Except Girl in a Purple Hat,” Xena put in.

  “Right,” the man said with a sigh. “It must have been a stunner. What a loss, when his collection is already so small.”

  The sun was setting by the time they left the museum, but at least it wasn't raining anymore.

  “I can't believe we learned so much about Batheson already,” Xena said. “Especially about him living in Taynesbury and that he burned his sketches.” She glanced up at the cloudy sky. “I hope it'll be a nice day tomorrow. I don't want to do our entire investigation in the rain.”

  But Xander had more on his mind than the weather. “I wonder who that model was?” he said. “Maybe she took it. If we could find out who she was, then maybe we could find the missing painting!”

  “Why would she take it?” Xena was intrigued at the idea.

  Xander shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to keep it for herself?”

  Xena considered this. “Or maybe she was shy about it being on display,” she said. “If we could figure out who she was, we might be able to find out more about the painting.”

  “Let's see if Mom and Dad will take us to Taynesbury,” Xander suggested. “They keep telling us they want us to see the real England, and Mom was talking about taking a car trip tomorrow anyway.”

  When they arrived at their hotel, the friendly doorman who knew Aunt Mary and the SPFD wasn't on duty. Instead it was the quiet one who acted as though letting them in was a big chore. The elevator had a sign on it saying OUT OF SERVICE so they had to walk up the three flights, with Xander's boots squishing at each step.

  They found their mother in their room, sitting on Xena's bed with a map unfolded in front of her and guidebooks propped up on either side. Xander threw himself down next to her and pulled off his boots and wet socks.

  “Just in time!” Mom said. “I have some great news. We found a place to live! It's not far from here. Dad and I will move our things into the flat on Monday, while you're getting to know your new school.”

  “Awesome!” Xena said.

  “Now I'm trying to figure out a fun place for us to go tomorrow. I deserve a break after all this house hunting before I get back to work.” She glanced at the corner of the room, where a bright yellow box waited. Xena and Xander both recognized it. It came from the producttesting company that their mom worked for, testing new gadgets.

  “Anything good in there this time?” Xander asked, following her gaze. There'd been a video game that used some kind of new technology last time, and with any luck there would be something equ
ally cool now.

  “Just some cell phone,” their mother said. “I haven't looked at it yet. We can bring it along tomorrow, and you can check it out in the car, once we decide where we're going. The problem is there's just so much to see. Help me narrow it down, will you?”

  “How about Taynesbury?” Xena asked. “We were just at a museum with art by a man named Batheson, and he's from there.” She left out the part about wanting to check out clues for one of Sherlock Holmes's unsolved mysteries, in case Mom wasn't keen on the idea.

  “Yeah,” Xander added. “The place seems very educational.”

  “Taynesbury?” their mother said. “That's one of the places I was considering. It sounds charming.” She flipped the pages in the guide-book. “It's a quaint little town that's supposed to look like the villages in the nineteenth century. And we can tour a mansion where King Henry the Eighth spent some of his childhood. Sounds like a good choice.”

  “Great!” Xena said.

  “Oh, and by the way, Mary Watson called and asked if we could take her nephew Andrew with us tomorrow. She thinks you could all be wonderful friends.”

  Xena groaned and flopped onto the couch. “Not him, Mom! He's such a jerk!”

  “Xena! How can you say that?” Mom asked. “You barely know the boy. I think Aunt Mary is being very nice, finding people your age for you to get to know.” She gathered up her books and went back to her room through the connecting door. “Dinner soon,” she said as the door closed behind her. “We're going out for curry tonight.”

  Xena loved Indian food, but who could think about dinner now? Just yesterday she and Xander had been sitting around with nothing to do, and today they were on their way to cracking one of Sherlock Holmes's unsolved cases!

  While Xander took the cell phone out of its shrink-wrap and read the manual, Xena's heart began to thump in anticipation. Tomorrow they'd do some real detecting!

  CHAPTER 8

  For the last time, stop crowding me,” Andrew said, shoving Xander away.

  “Why don't you leave my brother alone?” Xena told him. “He can't help it if the three of us are squished in the backseat.”

  “If I'd had my way, we wouldn't be,” Andrew replied.

  Me too, Xena thought. It was going to be tough trying to solve the mystery without Andrew butting in.

  “I don't know why my aunt insisted I come along,” Andrew complained. “I told her that I had better things to do than to go to Taynesbury.”

  “Like what?” Xander asked, leaning close to the other boy on purpose.

  “Hey, hey!” Mrs. Holmes turned around in the front passenger seat. “No more arguing, please. Can't we have a nice conversation? We've got only about a thirty-minute drive.”

  Mom's right, Xena thought. We can be nice for a half hour. “Do you like detective books?” she asked Andrew.

  He rolled his eyes. “Can't figure that out on your own, can you?” he asked. “Are you sure you're the descendant of the great Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I know!” Mr. Holmes said from the driver's seat. “Let's play a memory game or a word game or—”

  Andrew yawned. “No, thank you.”

  Xena thought about suggesting a license-plate game, but then decided against it. “So what's the deal with that phone?” she asked Xander.

  “It has voice-recognition technology on it,” he said. “No keypad. You speak the numbers into it.”

  “One point against it right there,” his mom said. “What if you don't want someone near you to know what number you're calling?”

  While her mother and Xander discussed the pros and cons of the new phone, Xena looked out the window. At least it's not raining, she thought, trying to stay positive. It wasn't exactly a bright, warm day, but soft sunlight fell on the hills. Almost as soon as they were out of the confusing snarl of streets and circuses—roads circling a monument—they were in the country. Or the suburbs, actually, but still, it was nice to be out of the noise and hurry of London. The road was narrow, and at times it was bordered by such high, thick hedges that it seemed as if they were driving through a tunnel.

  “The next left,” Mrs. Holmes said, checking the map and glancing up at the street sign. “Then right, then we should be in front of the mansion.”

  As they turned the final corner, Henry the Eighth's mansion appeared before them, and Xena's jaw dropped at the sight. The house was not only huge but graceful and noble-looking, sitting atop a lush green lawn. It was bigger than any house she had ever seen before, with two tall towers soaring above each side of the house. It was made of reddish brown stone, with windows that reached at least ten feet high. The windows were framed by the same white stone that made up the front steps.

  “Nothing like this in the States, is there?” Andrew asked.

  “Well, we do have the White House—” Xena started, but then she shrugged. “No,” she said. “Nothing like this. Can we take a tour, Mom?”

  Xena quickly lost count of how many rooms there were. Some had ceilings elaborately painted with fat little angels holding back painted curtains to show scenes of gods and goddesses. In other rooms, enormous fireplaces were topped by stone mantels covered with carvings of people hunting in the woods. They explored the grand staircase, the stained-glass windows in the private chapel, the portraits of grim-faced men and women lining the lofty corridors. The guide threw open a door. “This is where the future King Henry the Eighth played when he was a boy,” she said.

  “Imagine trying to play in here,” Xander whispered to Xena. The room was huge and cold, with tapestries on the wall and hard-looking furniture.

  “He probably had toys and things,” Xena whispered back, but she couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy for the little boy who'd tried to amuse himself in this formal hall, even though he'd lived and died centuries ago.

  The tour ended in the same room where it had started.

  “Let's go through the gardens now,” Mrs. Holmes said. “They look lovely.”

  Xander grimaced. How could he and Xena get away to do some investigating?

  “Now, don't make that face, Xander—” their mother began.

  “Why don't we go into the village, and you can meet us there after the tour?” Andrew broke in. Xena looked at him in surprise. Did he actually want to spend time with them?

  “I've been here on a school trip,” Andrew explained. “There's a bus to the village at the gate.”

  “Great idea,” Mr. Holmes said.

  “Why don't you guys take the new phone, Xena,” their mother said, handing it to her. “Call your dad's cell when you're ready to be picked up.”

  “Or we'll call you,” their father said. “Or—”

  “Dear, the garden tour's leaving,” their mother said.

  Mr. Holmes fished in his pockets and gave Xena a handful of bills. “Here, get yourselves something to eat.”

  On the bus Xena whispered to Xander, “While we're eating, make an excuse to leave the table and go find a phone book so we can check if any Bathesons still live in town.”

  “Got it,” Xander whispered back.

  The village was as quaint as their mother had said it would be—if “quaint” meant “really small and with not much to do.” There was a narrow road with shops, some little houses, and lots of gardens. That was it.

  They stopped in a tea shop where Xander ordered scones and clotted cream. Any food with clotted in its name didn't sound too appetizing, but that didn't stop him from eating the biscuits spread with soft cream until he thought he would burst. Andrew ordered something called bangers and mash, and even though she didn't know what it was, Xena ordered it too. I hope it's nothing weird, she thought, but fortunately it turned out to be sausage with buttery mashed potatoes.

  Then Xander slipped away from the table while Andrew ordered another Coke. “No Bathesons in the phone book,” he whispered to Xena when he returned. “And the waitress has never heard of them.”

  “What did you say?” Andrew asked.

&nbs
p; Xena and Xander looked at each other. Maybe Andrew could help. Of course, he'd probably be obnoxious about it, but they might learn something anyway.

  “We're working on a mystery,” Xander said. Andrew snorted. “Well, we are,” Xander went on. “It's about a missing painting—”

  Andrew stood up, pushing his chair back noisily. They looked at him in surprise.

  “What makes you think you can solve a mystery?” he hissed at them. “Just because your ancestor was the great Sherlock Holmes—” his voice dripped with sarcasm “—and mine was only Dr. Watson. Watson was as smart as Holmes. He was just too modest to write about himself. And all the movies about them make him out to be an idiot. Well, I'm sick of it.” He smacked his hand on the table. “I'm going to that Internet café across the street. Come get me when it's time to go home.” He strode out the door.

  Xena and Xander looked after him in stunned silence.

  “Wow,” said Xena.

  “Wow,” agreed Xander. “Well, at least now we know why he doesn't like us. He's jealous that his relative isn't as well known as ours.”

  Xena took a deep breath. “We have to shake it off,” she said. “Who knows when we'll be back here again? Let's find the Batheson house.”

  They paid for their meal and went outside. The wind had picked up a little, and it was chilly.

  Xander pointed to a little stone church across the street. “I read somewhere that churches keep records about people. Maybe someone over there knows about the Bathesons,” he suggested.

  They crossed over to check it out. A note on the church's door said “Back at 3:00.” It was 2:45, and with any luck their parents wouldn't call too soon.

  Xander picked up a pamphlet. “Anything useful?” Xena asked.

  “Nope,” Xander said. “It's all about how old the church is and about the fine architecture of the nave, whatever that is, and about how some famous poet wrote a poem there. Nothing about people who lived here.”

  “Well, we might as well look around while we're waiting,” Xena said.