by F. C. Shaw
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.”
Taxied Away
Dinner with the Wilsons was more chaotic than breakfast because everyone wanted to share about the day. Usually Mr. Wilson told a funny anecdote about one of his students. Stewart rambled on about his girlfriend, Alice, whose father he and Edward worked for. Meanwhile, Edward jealously badgered his brother about having a girlfriend, and stated that he wanted to find a new job. Lucille and Daphne giggled about dance lessons. Auntie Ei never said a word. Mrs. Wilson refereed the dinner table, nudged Rollie to eat more, laughed at Mr. Wilson’s story, and shushed the twins when she thought their turns were up. As for Rollie, he usually sat quietly taking in everything, but not eating much, being a picky eater.
But tonight was different. It was Monday night, which meant Tuesday came at dawn. For the first time in a while, the family conversation focused on Rollie and the Sherlock Academy orientation.
“Tomorrow’s the day, son,” Mr. Wilson stated plainly in between bites of his roast beef. “Fact: it’s supposed to be a beautiful day. And it’s supposed to be Tuesday all day.” He winked.
Rollie appreciated his father’s silly sense of humor.
“What time are you leaving, son?”
“Eight o’clock—”
“Eight o’clock!” Edward exclaimed. “Wait a minute. Just because that’s the same time I have to leave for work doesn’t mean I’m taking Roly-Poly with me. I have—”
“Edward, calm down,” Mrs. Wilson cut in, buttering her roll. “We didn’t ask that of you, did we?”
“I’m just throwing it out there before you get any ideas,” Edward said, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Stewart swallowed his bite of carrots. “Good job, Ed. Way to think ahead.”
Mrs. Wilson dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “We haven’t decided who is going with Rollie.”
“Is someone supposed to go with him?” Mr. Wilson glanced over his spectacles at her.
“Well, you didn’t think he’d go alone to who-knows-where?”
“Roly-Poly’s never been anywhere alone, have you?” Edward teased.
“I have too!” Rollie suddenly felt defensive. “I go to school alone every day.”
Stewart chuckled. “Good comeback, Rollie.”
Mr. Wilson took off his spectacles and gnawed on one of the ends thoughtfully. “I can’t go. I’ve got Mathematics 102.”
“I will accompany him.” Auntie Ei stood from the table decidedly, and loomed over them. “Be ready at the door at eight o’clock sharp, Rollin.” With that, she vacated the dining room.
A few moments of unusual silence followed as the family gaped after the old woman.
Mrs. Wilson blinked. “Bless her.”
Mr. Wilson grunted. “Fact: she’s unpredictable.”
Edward and Stewart slapped high-fives, relieved they did not have to take Rollie.
Lucille and Daphne giggled.
And Rollie frowned as he felt that usual flutter in his middle again.
****
As expected, Rollie’s sleepless night was wrought with anxiety. Along with reducing his appetite, that flutter in his middle never preceded a decent night’s sleep. However difficult falling asleep was, somehow Rollie always woke up in the morning, which meant he had at some point indeed fallen asleep.
Such was the case Tuesday morning when he found himself waking up to his red alarm clock ringing. He clicked it off and jumped out of bed. He yanked open all the drawers in his dresser in a sudden panic, for he had no idea what to wear to the orientation. On a day–to-day basis he put little thought into what he wore, mainly because his wardrobe was far from exciting—all hand-me-downs from Edward and Stewart.
Rollie pulled out a pair of navy trousers sporting grass stains on the knees; he stuffed them back in the drawer. He shook out a gray wrinkled shirt and noticed a button missing. He kept pulling out clothes and for the first time noticed how hard he was on his wardrobe, for it was riddled with rips, stains, snags, and frays. And all his pockets were stuffed with odds and ends like paper clips, candy wrappers, pebbles, and pencil shavings, to name a few. He felt a little embarrassed until he remembered that Sherlock Holmes rarely took notice of his wardrobe, for he was much too consumed with clues to worry about clothes. Rollie decided he was the same way. Still, it wouldn’t do to go to the orientation with disheveled clothes. Mr. Wilson was fond of telling Rollie that “a careless appearance reflects a careless mind.” Maybe his father was right. What if Rollie was dismissed from the orientation because his clothes were wrinkled?
His mother poked her head into the room. “Good morning, my Rollie, are you excited?”
“What should I wear, Mum?”
Clearly panic showed in his eyes and a quiver vibrated in his voice because Mrs. Wilson flitted into the room. “Don’t worry. I know just the thing.” She rummaged through his closet and pulled out his best blue blazer. “Wear the blue slacks and a collared shirt. Oh, and a tie. You should look your best, I think.” She dug a hand into the outer pockets of the blazer and found a fistful of trash. She gave him an amused look before leaving the bedroom.
Within ten minutes Rollie was completely dressed and groomed. He grabbed The Return of Sherlock Holmes and headed downstairs. Standing beside the front door, Auntie Ei leaned on her umbrella for support. She took great care in her appearance, and was dressed nicely in a lilac floral dress, matching hat, and white gloves. She smelled of lavender.
“Good morning, Auntie.”
“Good morning, Rollin. Do you have your favorite book?”
Rollie held it up. “Think it’s okay to bring a Sherlock Holmes volume?”
“Absolutely. Why not?”
“Don’t you think a lot of the other kids will bring Sherlock Holmes?”
“Whoever said there would be other children?”
“Cecily is coming.”
“Is she bringing Sherlock Holmes too?”
Rollie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, there you have it. Straighten your tie. Don’t forget your manners.”
“Yes, Auntie.”
Ding-Dong!
Rollie jumped. His heart skipped and his middle flipped into double fluttering. Both the parlor grandfather clock and the front doorbell chimed at the same time.
Auntie Ei opened the door to a short, squat man in a bowler hat and long, black coat.
“Morning, ma’am. I’m ‘ere for a Rollin E. Wilson,” he greeted, reading the name from an index card.
“We’re ready. Rollin!” Auntie Ei called as she stepped onto the porch.
“Lady Wilson, let me ‘elp yo
u into the cab.” Rollie blushed a bit when he remembered too late that he should have offered to help Aunt Ei. The driver escorted Auntie Ei by the arm to a black horse-drawn cab, much like the ones popular in London in the late 1800s. It balanced on two wheels and was hitched to a single chestnut horse.
Auntie Ei seemed not the least surprised, but Rollie gaped at it.
“You don’t have an automobile?” he asked.
“No, lad, this is our taxi service.” The driver opened for them two little doors that swung aside like window shutters, and helped Auntie Ei into the cab. “This ‘ere’s called a hansom and it’s the Academy’s official transportation. It’s just like one of the hansoms—”
“Sherlock Holmes may have ridden in!” exclaimed Rollie.
“Rollin, it is very rude to interrupt. Get in,” Auntie Ei ordered.
A little embarrassed, Rollie leaped into the hansom and sat on the edge of the cushion. He peered out the little round window in the back. The driver climbed up to his perch above in the back, flicked the reins, and got the cab moving down the street.
“Auntie, have you ever been in one of these?”
“To answer would be to reveal how old I am. A lady never reveals her age, nor should little boys raise the question.” She paused, a tight smile playing on her wrinkled face. “Perhaps I have been in one before.”
Rollie expected to stop a few doors down to pick up Cecily, but the cab passed by her house. He spotted a similar hansom and driver stopped at Cecily’s door.
Within twenty minutes, they drove south into London. They turned down several busy streets. Cars honked at the antique cab, but this did not seem to bother the driver or the horse. At first Rollie knew where they were, for he visited London with his mother almost every Saturday to check the post and do a bit of shopping. As the hansom turned onto smaller streets, Rollie lost his bearings, for they drove through a part of London he had never visited. He wondered if the driver was deliberately taking them on a confusing route.
Rollie assumed correctly, for as they turned out of a small alley he suddenly knew where they were. He recognized Regent’s Park and spotted Regent’s College where his father taught. He wondered if maybe he had passed by Sherlock Academy without knowing it every time he visited Regent’s College. He vowed to be more observant like Cecily in the future.
Soon the driver pulled on the reins to stop the cab, and hopped off his high perch to open the doors facing the horse’s rear.
“May I help you down, Aunt Ei?” Rollie asked quickly, remembering his manners.
A brief, small smile played across her face as she accepted his offer and let him help her out of the cab, but she seemed relieved to take the arm of the driver who escorted her down the sidewalk. Rollie stopped and stared up at the tall, red-brick building with rows of windows and one door. A flat roof with a chain-link fence crowned the four-story building.
“Rollie!”
Rollie whirled around to find Cecily hopping out of her horse-drawn hansom. She was alone. She smoothed down her dress and rushed up to him, excitement in her green eyes.
“Have you ever been in one of those cabs?” she asked him.
“No, but I really felt like—”
“Sherlock Holmes! I know! Rollie, look where we are!”
Rollie looked up again at the drab building. Posted above the mailbox, next to the front door, was the building’s address:
221 Baker Street.
Just Like Old Times
“Is this really 221 Baker Street?” Rollie asked as he and Cecily caught up with Auntie Ei.
“Of course it is, Rollin, you can see for yourself on the wall.” Auntie Ei ushered him toward the front double doors.
“So this is really where Sherlock Holmes lived?”
“At one point in his life,” a woman’s voice from inside answered as they bustled into the building.
They stood in a hall with a flight of stairs ascending before them, both carpeted in green. An antique gas lamp hung from the ceiling, lending dull light on the dark-paneled walls and doors. A woman wearing a light pink tie, a brown skirt, and a matching blazer stood at the foot of the staircase. Her mousey-brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her posture was rigid. She drummed her fingers on the dark wood banister.
“You will recall that Holmes’s original residence was burned by his nemesis Moriarty when Holmes fled London in 1893. It was then rebuilt, and Holmes took up residency here when he returned from his hiatus after defeating Moriarty. Welcome. Orientation is about to commence. Follow me.” She turned to her left and led them down the hallway to a door at the end. She opened the door and marched into a small room that looked like it had once been someone’s flat. Cozy couches, armchairs, and end tables furnished the room. “Please find a seat.”
The room boasted other boys and girls and a few adults sitting on couches and armchairs. All the children looked to be around Rollie’s age of eleven years old. There were four other boys and four other girls, making an even ten with himself and Cecily. Auntie Ei herded Rollie and Cecily over to a couch.
A man entered the room and took his place behind a podium—a formal gesture compared to the informal seating arrangements. He wore a brown suit and light pink tie to match the militant woman who guarded the door. He was very tall and thin, and topped with a receding hairline. Subtle bags drooped beneath his keen eyes, yet he did not appear tired. His sharp facial features—hawk-like nose, square chin, and prominent forehead—were strikingly similar to those of the great detective Holmes.
“Welcome to the Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths. I am Headmaster Sullivan P. Yardsly. I am very happy to see you all here. Let’s not waste any time and get right down to business. What is the business at hand, you ask? Well . . .” He presented a white poster from behind the podium. On the poster were listed down one side: WHO, WHAT, WHERE, WHEN, WHY, and HOW.
Rollie elbowed Cecily, and she smiled back.
“WHO!” Headmaster Yardsly boomed, causing everyone to jump, especially a plump boy chewing gum. Back at a normal pitch, Yardsly continued, “We are searching for students with heightened skills in deductive reasoning with the potential to be great detectives. This brings me to our next question:
“WHAT!” Again Headmaster Yardsly made everyone jump. A little girl with golden ringlets clapped her hands over her ears. “As you know, this school is named the Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths in honor of the finest sleuth who ever worked in London. We seek to train future detectives to follow in the footsteps of our dear Holmes.” Here he paused to take a sip of water that he procured from behind the podium.
“WHERE!” Yardsly still caught them off guard. “You are currently sitting in an old flat in an exact replica of the most famous building ever located on Baker Street, or in London, in my opinion. Yes, this is the address where Sherlock Holmes and his dear comrade Doctor John Watson resided.
“WHEN! Classes are Monday through Friday, nine to four. We provide housing for students here, which you might find convenient. We include basic academia to keep up with standard education, but our main focus is teaching skills to create future detectives.” He paused and everyone braced for his next shout.
“WHY! With the rate of crime increasing and the state of Europe growing more uncertain, we should invest in future crime-fighters. A number of our graduates join Scotland Yard, the Metropolitan Police, or open private investigation agencies.” He took another sip.
“HOW! Students will live and study here. They will complete a four-year basic training. What is that basic training called, you ask? We call it The Sign of the Four.” He chuckled over his reference to Holmes’s case.
Rollie and Cecily chuckled at the inside Sherlockian joke.
Headmaster Yardsly continued, “After completing the four-year training, students have several options they can choose from. They can return to normal schooling like secondary
school or college, or enroll in Scotland Yard’s Apprentice Detective Program. I hope that answers all your questions.” He took another sip of his water and blinked at the children around the room.
Everyone sat very still and stared at the headmaster, except for a grandfatherly man who wrapped his arm around a skinny bug-eyed boy.
“Good. If there are no questions, I would like to ask all the potential students to please follow Ms. Katherine E. Yardsly—my colleague and sister. Please bring your favorite book with you.”
Rollie and Cecily bounced up from the couch. Auntie Ei yanked on Rollie’s sleeve.
“Rollin, trust your instincts,” she whispered, and gave him a curt nod.
Rollie caught up with Cecily at the door and followed the rest of the children down the hallway. Had they all received letters like he had? Would all of them be accepted into the school? A further question nagged him: how did this school even know about him, know about his love for detecting and for the great Holmes? He hoped more answers would come from Ms. Katherine E. Yardsly.
“Here we are,” Ms. Yardsly announced more loudly than necessary. She opened a door off the hallway and led the children inside.
They found themselves in what had once been a small flat, but now it appeared to serve as a library. The walls displayed bookcases touching all the way to the ceiling, and a few ladders rested against them to give access to the tippy-top shelves. One brown leather armchair and adjoining end table with a green banker’s lamp stood as the only other furniture, for there was no more room with so many bookcases. The unusual thing about this library was a minor detail: the books on the shelves lay on their sides, stacked atop each other, as opposed to standing on end side by side like other libraries’ books.
“Take a good look around, children,” Ms. Yardsly commanded loudly. She planted herself in the center of the room and spread her arms wide. “Any comments?” She looked from one child to the other.
Rollie raised his hand, unsure how to address her.
