But before she could try again, Xander tugged at her arm.
“Look!” he said, pointing out the window.
Xena glanced out and groaned. Boys were streaming across the courtyard toward the dorm.
“We'll just tell them about the painting,” Xander said. “We'll tell them—”
“Forget it!” Xena said. “They'd never believe us. They're not about to tear up a wall just because two American kids say that there's a famous painting behind it. Would you believe that story?”
“Yes,” Xander said stubbornly, but he didn't mean it. He knew it sounded nuts. And worse, now he heard voices echoing in the corridor.
“I tell you, I saw someone in there,” said a boy, adding, “sir.”
“Nonsense,” came the deeper voice of a man. “Who would break into your room?”
“I don't know,” said the boy. “But I saw—”
“Quick,” Xena said under her breath. “No time to lose.” In one swift motion, she shoved her brother under the bed, then slid herself under as well. They were in the middle of what looked like an entire family of dust bunnies, but at least they were invisible to anyone standing up—she hoped. And she hoped that Xander's allergies wouldn't betray them with a sneeze.
They tried to quiet their breathing as the door opened. Xander's heart was pounding so loudly he was sure that the whole of England could hear it. He swallowed.
“See, nobody here,” the man's voice said.
“But I know I saw someone,” the boy answered. “The light was on and the curtains were open . . .”
Oh, shoot, Xena thought. Why didn't we think to close the curtains? She would have slapped her own forehead for stupidity if she hadn't been worried about the noise.
“Is anything missing?” the man asked. There was a pause.
“No,” the boy finally said. “I don't think so. But this picture is moved.” A small scraping sound must mean that he was lining the photographs up on his desk again.
“Would a thief be interested in your family photos?” the man asked, after a pause. It sounded as if he was trying hard to be reasonable.
“No, sir,” the boy mumbled.
“Well, then, let's just go on,” the man said.
“I'm sure you have some work to do in preparation for the exam on Monday, don't you?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
Xander allowed himself to relax a little.
The door opened again, and the man's heavier footsteps sounded in the hallway. Xena and Xander looked at each other. What if the boy stayed here to do his studying? They heard rustling sounds. Xena longed to peek out from under the bed, but why risk getting caught when they were so close?
“Coming, Fraser?” the man called from outside the door.
“Just gathering my papers, sir,” the boy called.
A pause. What could he be doing? Then, “What's this?” came the boy's voice, higher-pitched than before.
“What's what?” The man seemed at the edge of his patience.
“This, sir.” There was no mistaking his excitement. “I found this on the floor. It's not mine. I've never seen it before. What is it?”
This time it was Xander who almost slapped himself on the forehead. The stud-finder! They had left it right in plain view!
Footsteps again. Xander couldn't resist a quick peek. He saw a youngish-looking man with blond hair. He was standing with—oh no, it was the boy who had acted as if he recognized Xander. The man took the stud-finder from the boy's hand and turned it over slowly.
“Why, it's a—”
“Ah-choo!” Xena exploded next to him.
CHAPTER 19
For a moment all anyone could do was stare. Underneath the bed, Xander stared at Xena. She was the one who sneezed? Xena stared at the man who was now on his hands and knees staring at them, and the boy stared at everybody.
The man stepped back and Xena and Xander scrambled out. They stood together, not knowing where to look.
“Now,” said the man. “Who are you? Why are you hiding under this bed?”
But before either one of them could say anything, the boy broke in. “I know you!” He was pointing at Xander, who looked back at him and winced.
“I know you too,” he said. “You're the guy who stole the ball from me at the soccer game.”
The boy snorted, a grin on his face. “You Yanks just don't know how to play footer,” he said.
“We do too!” Xander said hotly and would have gone on, except that the man, standing with his hands on his hips, interrupted them.
“Let's continue this discussion of sport superiority another time,” he said. “I'm Mr. Nolan, the art master. You'd better have a good excuse for being in Fraser's room.”
Xena took a deep breath. “Well, you see, it's like this,” she began. “We're detectives, and we're direct descendants of Sherlock Holmes.” She stopped, knowing she must sound ridiculous.
“Go on,” Mr. Nolan said, and Xander thought he saw the corner of the man's mouth twitch as though he was trying not to smile.
So Xena told him the whole story, interrupted by Xander when he felt the need to add a detail.
The boy made little disbelieving noises, but Mr. Nolan hushed him and turned his attention back to their story.
Finally Xena stopped talking and once again silence fell.
“Please help us,” she went on after a moment. “We don't have any more clues. If Girl in a Purple Hat isn't here, we'll have to give up.”
“Brilliant!” the art teacher finally said. “It's strange, but it makes sense. I've always wondered what happened to that painting.” And he broke into a broad grin.
“So we can take off a panel?” Xander asked eagerly.
“Not so fast.” Mr. Nolan held up a hand. “Fraser,” he said, turning to the boy, “please go to the head's office and ask him to come here.”
“Why me?” the boy asked, his face sulky. “Why not send one of them?”
“What?” said Mr. Nolan with a laugh. “And give these dangerous criminals a chance to escape? I think not. No, you go.”
A few minutes later they heard voices in the corridor.
“In here, sir,” Fraser said as he opened the door. In came a tall man with steel gray hair.
“Well, Nolan?” he said as he rubbed his hands together. “Fraser's been telling me quite a story. What about it?”
The art teacher told the headmaster an abbreviated version of Xena's tale. “I suppose it could have happened that way,” the headmaster said, and he turned to Xena. “Where do you think it might be hidden?”
Xena pointed silently and the headmaster gave the wall a few taps.
“It does sound as if something could be rattling around in there.” He patted his robe as though feeling for something in the pockets of his clothes underneath it. “Nolan?” he said. “Got a penknife, anything of that sort?”
The art teacher made a regretful noise. “Sorry, sir,” he said.
“Fraser?”
The boy opened a desk drawer and pulled out a multibladed pocketknife.
“Thanks,” said the headmaster. “And I'll be taking this with me when we're through. You know you're not allowed knives in school.”
The boy turned to Xena and Xander and shot them a venomous look.
Meanwhile the headmaster had opened the longest blade and was running his fingers down the edge of the board in question. “Mind you, it's probably just a pipe or some ductwork in there,” he cautioned as he worked the blade into the crack.
The board popped out. It left a hole that ran from the floor to the ceiling, but it was no more than six inches wide. “Not even nailed down,” he said. “Interesting!” He slid his hand and wrist into the opening, grunting a little as he tried to reach behind the panel. “Can't reach in far enough,” he said. “The opening's too small.”
“Let's take out another piece!” Xander blurted.
“No,” said the headmaster. “We don't want a large repair bill for what
might turn out to be a wild goose chase.”
“Care to give it a try?” the art teacher asked Xander. Xander stepped forward. But although his arm could fit into the opening, it wasn't long enough to reach very far. He looked at his sister.
“Xena?”
She nodded. Xander and the headmaster stood back.
Xena rolled her sleeve up to her shoulder and flexed her fingers a few times. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached inside.
CHAPTER 20
At first—nothing. Xena stretched her fingers and nearly dislocated her shoulder twisting deeper into the hole.
“Anything?” Xander's voice was hoarse with tension.
“Not yet,” she said, but just then her fingers grazed the cold, hard edge of something. “Got it!” she said.
“Got what?” Xander asked.
“Something hard,” she said. “And I think I can hook a finger around this wire.” Everyone watched in silence as she wriggled and strained. Then slowly, gently, she pulled.
With surprising ease, the thing moved. She pulled again. Whatever it was slid along the wall, nearer and nearer.
“Careful!” The art teacher was nearly dancing up and down in excitement. “Don't damage it! Here, let me take out another board.” This time the headmaster didn't object as Mr. Nolan popped off a second piece of the paneling with the knife.
Xena reached in again, and as the others leaned forward, holding their breath, her arm moved, and then her hand emerged. It grasped a gold-colored frame, and in the frame was . . .
Girl in a Purple Hat.
Time seemed to stand still as they gazed at it. Even Fraser was speechless.
No wonder the paper had said that the copies hadn't done justice to the original. The expression on the face had looked bratty in the newspaper and even in the copies that the artist had been making. Here, the face was sulky, to be sure, but Batheson had painted his subject with such humor and affection that you could tell that in just a moment he could tease her—or him—into smiling. The colors in the background were softer than in the copies they'd seen, which made the brilliant green of the model's eyes stand out even more.
“It's like he's looking right at you,” Xander whispered.
“Or glaring at you,” Xena replied. “Robert must have been really mad. Not only because his dad made him pose like that, but because he knew people would see him wearing a dress.”
Xander nodded. “Tell me about it.”
The next hour was full of confusion. The headmaster called their parents and then called a news organization. Teachers and students crowded the little room and spilled out into the hall, all of them asking questions and exclaiming over the painting, which Mr. Nolan was holding as though it were made of glass.
Their taxi ride home was much quicker than the bus trip out. Still, it was enough time for the story of their discovery to spread. When they walked in the door of their flat, they heard the news of the amazing Batheson find at the Worthington School for Boys coming from the TV.
The next day was almost as unbelievable as the find itself. Right after breakfast, the phone rang. It was Andrew.
“Good job,” he said to Xena. “Congratulations. You two are all right.” Xena knew that coming from Andrew this was high praise, and she felt herself blushing.
“Thanks,” she said.
There was a pause and then Andrew said gruffly, “Sorry about the way I treated you at the beginning. Aunt Mary reminded me that Watson was Holmes's best friend and he'd be unhappy if we didn't get along. Pax?”
“Huh?” Xena asked, and Andrew burst out into the first real laugh she had heard from him.
“It means ‘peace’ in Latin,” he explained. “It's kind of old-fashioned, but it's a way to ask if we can stop quarreling.” He sounded embarrassed and went on before she could answer. “And I'm supposed to ask you and your parents to a special meeting of the Society for the Preservation of Famous Detectives this evening. But not in the usual place. This time it will be at the Victoria and Albert.”
“The coolest museum in London!” she exclaimed. “That's where the Batheson exhibit is.”
“Got it in one,” Andrew replied, and then he said good-bye.
After a quick supper, the whole family went down to the Tube station. They got out of the train at the South Kensington stop and climbed up onto the sidewalk. The huge red-and-white museum loomed over them.
“This is a cool building,” Xander said as they walked up the staircase. A uniformed guard opened the door with a flourish. Andrew was waiting just inside.
“Where are we going?” Xena asked him.
“This way,” Andrew answered.
“Big help,” Xena said, but they followed him down the wide corridor of medieval art, through the garden, and straight ahead to a room with stained-glass windows and bright tiles.
“In here!” trilled a familiar voice.
“Aunt Mary?” Xander asked.
“In the flesh!”
Andrew pushed open a door, and there were the members of the SPFD. All of them wore huge smiles.
“Isn't this lovely?” Aunt Mary said. “All of Batheson's paintings are together here for one more day, before they go on tour . . . including the lost painting that you two found!”
“Wow!” Their mom sounded impressed. “The painting you found just makes the show!”
Abner at the Fair hung on the wall to Aunt Mary's left, and Cedric Flying a Kite was to her right. Xena and Xander couldn't see the other paintings through the crowd.
Aunt Mary opened her arms. “I knew you were detectives at heart,” she said and sniffled as she hugged them.
“I've always thought they showed great aptitude,” their father said. He was beaming.
“We're extremely proud,” their mother added.
“You two have exceeded our expectations,” said Mr. Brown, and from all around them came murmurs of “Congratulations!” and “Well done!” Then everyone sang “For they are jolly good fellows!” while Xena and Xander stood awk-wardly in the center of the room, not knowing where to look or what to do with their hands.
That problem was taken care of as soon as the song was over. A beaming man with messy brown hair came in carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper.
“I'm Mr. Fontaine,” he said. “Louis Fontaine, the curator of the Victoria and Albert Museum, and I have a small gift to express the appreciation of this museum and this country. You have restored a masterpiece to us that we thought was lost.”
Xander grinned as he remembered Xena shoving him under the bed in Fraser's room.
“We are forever grateful,” Mr. Fontaine went on, “and we hope you will accept this gift with our sincere thanks.”
Xander took the package. “Thank you,” he said. “Should we open it now?”
“Please,” said Mr. Fontaine, and stood back as they untied the string and then unwound the layers of brown paper.
What on earth? All they could do was blink.
“You've given us—” Xander started, but he couldn't finish. Girl in a Purple Hat was for them?
Then Xena laughed. “Look at her eyes,” she said, and with a rush of relief and a little disappointment, Xander saw that they were brown, not the startling green of the original.
“Oh, this is one of the copies that the artist was making!” he exclaimed.
Mr. Fontaine nodded. “It will look good hanging in your sitting room, don't you think?”
“It will look awesome,” Xena said. Xander nodded in agreement. Behind them, the room erupted in cheers.
Xena grinned at Xander and he grinned back. He knew what she was thinking. And he was thinking the same thing.
They were proud that they had found the missing painting and made so many people happy—but that wasn't the best part of the adventure.
The best part was that they hadn't failed their ancestor, the greatest detective who had ever lived. Sherlock Holmes, they both knew, would have been proud.
; TRACY BARRETT
What did you want to be when you grew up?
A poet, which is odd, since poetry is just about the only kind of writing that I don't do now! Later, I wanted to be an archaeologist, but then I discovered that archaeologists do most of their work in a trench coat in a hot part of the world in the middle of the summer, and that job lost a lot of its appeal.
What was your worst subject in school?
Does P.E. count as a subject? Because if it does, that was it.
What was your best subject in school?
Math was easy and fun for me until my senior year in high school when suddenly it was as though someone switched off a light and I couldn't get it anymore. I always did well in foreign languages. I liked English a lot but it wasn't one of my best subjects.
What was your first job?
I volunteered in a local hospital. If you were to ask me about my strangest job, though, it would have to be working as a benthic ecologist. That was the technical name, but my job was really being a “worm picker.” I was helping with an experiment where scientists were trying to find out the effect of water pollution on the tiny critters that live in the mud. I would look through a microscope at a little dish full of sand and other things and pick out nematodes (which look like worms) and other things with tweezers.
Where do you write your books?
In my home office. I also have a day job as a college professor, but I never write there, and I never bring college work home with me. I've trained myself so well to write only at home and do my day-job work only at the office that the few times I've tried to write at the university, I haven't been able to!
Where do you find inspiration for your writing?
Inspiration is all around. It's sometimes hard to turn it off! Writers and non-writers all hear the same jokes, overhear the same strange conversations in the supermarket, read the same news stories, but the one who says, “Hmm, that would make a good story!” is the writer.
The 100-Year-Old Secret Page 9
