by F. C. Shaw
“Yes, Rollin E. Wilson?”
“Why do you stack the books vertically instead of lining them up side by side?”
“You’ll soon know the reason. Children, you must decide right now if you want to commit to Sherlock Academy. You will show me your answer with one of two actions. If you wish to attend, simply place your favorite book on the end table. If you do not wish to attend, simply hug your book to yourself.”
The children looked around at each other, unsure what to decide. What a small gesture for so grand a decision!
A round little boy about Rollie’s age asked, “Can I ask my parents first? I don’t know what they want me to do.”
“No, this is your choice.”
“I don’t think I’ll like this school,” the little girl with golden ringlets muttered as she hugged her book and stepped back against the door.
“Very well. No hard feelings. You made the right decision for yourself,” Ms. Yardsly stated very matter-of-factly. “Quickly, children, quickly.”
One dark-haired boy whose pants were a bit short stepped forward and slapped his book on the end table. “This is all very mysterious. I like it.”
Rollie agreed. He really wanted to join in a mystery, but he knew so little about it. He wished he had more information . . . but then it would not be a mystery. He felt a flutter in his middle, a good flutter. Nope, if he wanted to be a detective, he must not second-guess his instincts.
Rollin, trust your instincts, he heard Auntie Ei’s encouraging words in his head.
He placed his beloved Sherlock Holmes volume on top of the other boy’s book. He sneaked a glance at the other title: The Hound of the Baskervilles.
Cecily came up behind him and stacked her book, The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, on top of his. Another girl with little spectacles set down her book, A Study in Scarlet. So far they were the only four. The other six children stood by the door, books pressed close to their chests. Rollie wondered what their titles were. He stepped nearer and read a few of their spines: Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland, The Swiss Family Robinson . . . He strained to read the last two. Peter Pan again, and . . . Aesop’s Fables. No Sherlock Holmes. Hmm . . .
“Children, you may return to your adults right down the hall,” Ms. Yardsly instructed. “Except you four. Stay a moment.” She waited until the six had vacated the room, then she scooped up the favorite books on the end table, and headed toward a wall of bookshelves. Randomly, she put each book on top of a different stack. Then she spun back around to the children. “Could you find your books again?”
Rollie glanced at Cecily. The other boy and girl regarded each other. They all shrugged. That seemed too easy. They could see their books on the different shelves. They all nodded.
“Rollin E. Wilson.”
“Yes, Ms. Yardsly?”
“You asked the reason we stack our books instead of lining them up beside each other.” Ms. Yardsly pulled up her sleeve to read her wristwatch. “Three, two, one.” She gave a curt nod.
Instantly, an extraordinary thing happened. Rollie jumped as he looked at the bookcase in front of him. With a whooshing and thumping sound much like wind banging shutters, the bookshelves slid aside or dropped or rose. One shelf divider slid to the right, pushing a stack of books with it. The shelf the stack rested on suddenly gave way like a trap door, plopping the stack of books down to the shelf below it. Another shelf divider slid that stack to the left to make way for the shelf below to rise and propel a new stack of books up through the trap door. The new stack of books rested on the shelf where the first stack of books had previously been.
This was just one example of the dizzying motion. The entire library rearranged as every single shelf on every bookcase relocated every single stack of books. So quickly did the library change, the children practically gasped for breath. As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
Ms. Yardsly turned to the four astounded children and asked, “Now could you find your book?”
They stared at her, then at the bookshelves that were anything but recognizable.
“You are welcome to figure out the pattern of the shelves and find your book while attending the Academy,” Ms. Yardsly told them. As she turned to leave, she added, “The library is on its own timer. It rearranges every twelve hours.”
“So there is a distinct pattern to how they move?” Cecily asked, fascinated.
“Why on earth would you want a library like that?” the dark-haired boy wondered aloud. “You’d never be able to find anything!”
“Yes, you would, if you knew the pattern,” Cecily argued.
“It’s a great strategy,” Rollie added. “It’s one way to make sure you stay committed. You wouldn’t drop out unless you didn’t really care about your book.”
“Is that true?” the girl wearing spectacles asked.
Ms. Yardsly ignored their questions. She led them down the hallway to the room where the adults waited. Rollie barely caught a glimpse of Headmaster Yardsly and Auntie Ei re-entering the room, and wondered where they had gone together. Inside they found only Auntie Ei, a petite dark-haired woman, and Headmaster Sullivan P. Yardsly in the room. The headmaster stepped behind his podium as Auntie Ei took her seat on the couch. When the children and Ms. Yardsly entered, Yardsly shot his hands up in the air.
“Hooray for our new students!” he beamed. “I’m so excited to enroll you. I believe you are very gifted children. I look forward to training you into fine detectives. What did you think of the Rearranging Library? Cecily A. Brighton?”
“I think it’s brilliant!” Cecily exclaimed.
“It’s very mysterious,” the dark-haired boy muttered.
Headmaster Yardsly pointed a slender, delicate finger at him. “That’s the word I sought, Eliot S. Tildon. Anyone else? What did you think, Tabbitha A. Smith?”
“I suppose it’s interesting, but I definitely want my book back.”
“Rollin E. Wilson?”
“It’s very clever. I mean to solve the pattern.”
“That’s the spirit! Students, these are for you.”
Headmaster Yardsly reached behind his podium and brought out a stack of four broad boxes. He presented each student with one.
“Welcome to Sherlock Academy, sleuths!”
Shakespeare’s Secret
The cab bounced along the road. Auntie Ei sat stiff and proper, occasionally glancing out a little side window. Rollie sat snugly between her and Cecily. Since the hansom was intended for two passengers, the three of them sat cozily close together. Both Rollie and Cecily balanced broad rectangular boxes wrapped with brown paper and string on their laps. Little tags with instructions dangled from the string: New Student Admissions Package. Do not open until safely home.
“I wonder if this is anything like the admissions package I got in the mail a few weeks ago,” Cecily wondered aloud.
“You got an admissions package from them already?” Rollie asked.
“No, not from them. It’s from the all-girls boarding school Mum is thinking of sending me to. Let’s hope she changes her mind and lets me go to this school. This one is much more exciting.”
“What was in that admissions package?”
“Forms and forms and more forms. All boring. Just paperwork that had too much print. I’ll bet this one just has forms and papers for our parents.” Cecily rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue.
Rollie shrugged. He hoped that this admissions package would be more interesting than a bunch of paperwork, but there was no way to tell. Maybe Cecily was right.
Auntie Ei glanced at them, then back at the window. “Hardly, my dear boy. Hardly.”
Rollie studied her and thought he spied a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. “Do you know what’s in here, Auntie?”
“Rollin, how would I possibly know what is in that box?”
Rollie did not answer her. The deliberate looks she gave and odd things she said made Rollie wonder if Auntie Ei knew more than she appeared to.
“Auntie, do you think Mum and Dad will let me go to this school?”
“They’ll have to. You need to get your book back.”
“They might not think that’s a good enough reason.” Rollie had a sudden thought and had to stifle a gasp. He remembered he had left the Holmes telegram inside his book. He did not tell Auntie Ei this, as he was sure she would scold him for being careless with such a prized item. He hoped the Rearranging Library would keep it safe.
“It is most certainly a good enough reason, which reminds me, Rollin. You will have to cancel your violin lessons with Mrs. Trindle once you start at the Academy. However, I strongly urge you to practice your violin when you return home for weekends.”
“Should I take it with me?” asked Rollie.
“No need. You will be too busy with your detective lessons.”
The driver pulled up the reins and hopped down from the cab. He opened the doors. “‘Ere we are, miss. Number 18 Primrose Lane.” He tipped his bowler hat and helped Cecily out of the hansom.
“Bye, Rollie! I’ll see you tomorrow. It was nice to see you again, Lady Wilson.” Cecily waved and skipped down her front walkway.
“She is a clever girl,” said Auntie Ei. “Though I don’t approve of her wearing trousers. Thank goodness her mother made her wear a dress to orientation—that is only proper.”
With a flick of the reins, the driver guided the horse two houses down, and stopped. “Number 22 Primrose Lane.” He escorted Auntie Ei out. “Good afternoon, Lady Wilson. Lad.”
Auntie Ei marched up the hedge-lined walkway and through the front double doors. Rollie scampered after her, clutching his box under his arm. They entered just as the grandfather clock in the parlor struck noon. Rollie thought it was later than that, for he felt like he had been gone all day.
They had barely taken their coats off when Mr. Wilson barged through the front door. During the summer, he finished teaching his courses by late noon and made it a point to be home for lunch. He hung his briefcase and fedora on the hall tree and dabbed his brow with his handkerchief.
“Fact: it’s a bit warm today. I hope Cook has some fresh lemonade. Oh, Auntie Ei, Rollie, how was your morning at, uh, what’s the name of it again?”
“Sherlock Academy.” Auntie Ei stated, annoyed at her nephew’s forgetfulness.
“Dad, they have this library that—”
“Rest easy, son. Let’s get some lunch, then you can tell Mum and me all about it.” Mr. Wilson led them through the house to the back porch, where lunch waited.
“Rollie! Auntie Ei! You’re back just in time,” Mrs. Wilson exclaimed, kissing Rollie’s forehead. “Lunch is ready.”
The family, minus Edward and Stewart who ate their lunch at the shop, scooted around the small table laden with cold meat sandwiches and lemonade. Lucille and Daphne tried to start the conversation by recounting their mother-daughter tea that morning, but Auntie Ei would not allow it.
“For goodness’ sake, you two, stop giggling over your ridiculous tea,” the old woman snapped. “The conversation today will be about Rollin and his new school. Rollin, do you have the admissions package?”
Lucille and Daphne bent their heads together and continued to titter, not being the least bit offended by Auntie Ei’s insult.
Unused to being the center of attention, Rollie hesitantly reached down beside his chair and hoisted up the box. “Should I open it?” He gave the box a gentle shake and heard a few objects clunk around inside.
Auntie Ei nodded. “You are safely home, are you not? Open it!”
Rollie slipped off the string, then peeled off the paper—slowly at first, then more feverishly, the way he opened presents. A box, as he had expected. A long envelope addressed to his parents rested atop the lid. He handed it to his father.
Mr. Wilson pushed his spectacles farther up his nose and ripped open the envelope. He slipped out a folded piece of paper and flapped it open. He cleared his throat, but read it silently. His brow furrowed deeper with every line he read.
“What does it say, Peter?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “Read it aloud.”
“It’s all very . . .” he stammered, searching for the right word.
“Mysterious?” Rollie ventured.
“Yes, exactly, son. Mysterious.”
Rollie beamed. He had hoped for just that when he opened the package.
Mr. Wilson cleared his throat again and read:
“To the Parents of Rollin E. Wilson,
It gives us great pleasure to admit your talented son to our esteemed Academy. We have no doubt he will thrive here and be an asset to our institution, as well as to all of England someday.
Rollin E. Wilson has been specially selected from students all over the United Kingdom to participate in our program that will enhance and utilize his fine abilities in detection.
Classes begin 1 August—we take short summer holidays! Rollin has the option of boarding at our school or commuting during the week. An anonymous benefactor will be paying for his tuition.
Enclosed you will find Rollin’s class schedule. He must know his class schedule by the first day of school.
With all due respect and gratitude,
Headmaster Sullivan P. Yardsly
Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths”
Mr. Wilson took off his spectacles and chewed on one of the ends. “There you have it. The fact still remains that this is all very . . . mysterious.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Mrs. Wilson spoke up. “Would Rollie attend this school in place of or in addition to his regular schooling?”
“In place of,” Auntie Ei said. “Headmaster Yardsly explained that they carry on regular instruction in mathematics and science and such, but they also instruct them in detective skills.”
“It’s like an apprenticeship for an occupation,” Mr. Wilson added. “Rollie, would you like to attend this school?”
“Yes, Dad, I really want to.”
“Eloise?” Mr. Wilson turned to his wife.
“Can it be trusted as a school of quality education?” Mrs. Wilson asked doubtfully.
“Absolutely!” Auntie Ei exclaimed in a tone of offense.
Rollie held his breath, itching to hear his parents’ consent, itching to open the box on his lap. He observed his parents communicating with their eyes, as they often did before declaring a decision aloud.
“Very well, son, open the box,” his father shrugged again.
Rollie gripped the edges and slowly pulled up the lid. He stared a moment at the large, very thick, hardback, leather-bound book lying in the box. “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare,” he said in a deadpan tone, almost too low to be heard. If he had not been so mystified, he might have groaned aloud in disappointment. He loved books, but he had plenty of those. The family library housed all of Shakespeare’s works already; He didn’t need his own personal copy. He had hoped to find a class schedule or spy gadgets in the box. Wait—he shook the book again and heard several somethings shift around.
“Rollin, do not judge a book by its cover,” Auntie Ei told him sternly. “Open it.”
He opened the cover. A deep hole had been carved through the pages of the book. In that hole lay five random items. One by one, Rollie showed them to his family and set them on the table:
One large skeleton key with 0900A engraved on its stem.
One smoking pipe (resembling what Holmes would have smoked) with 1130F inscribed on the side.
One ballpoint pen with 1300H typed on the cap.
One small vial of what appeared to be dust labeled with 1030D.
One red ball cap embroidered with 1400G on the brim.
“All of that was in the book?�
�� Mrs. Wilson asked, surprised.
“It’s a hollow book, Mum. See?” Rollie held up the book to show her the cavity carved into it. He noticed the inside cover marked Personal Property of Rollin E. Wilson. “It’s a great way to keep your stuff secret because everybody thinks it’s a book.”
“Unless you show it to your whole family,” whispered Daphne to Lucille. Rollie still heard her and made a personal note not to put anything important in it.
“Fact: that’s an ingenious method for keeping your property private,” Mr. Wilson stated, a twinkle of excitement in his brown eyes. He reached over and picked up the smoking pipe, analyzing it closely. “This is a model—a nice replica of a pipe, but a model. I daresay I hope they don’t teach you to smoke a pipe at this new school.”
“I’ll never smoke!” Rollie exclaimed. “Remember that time Edward snuck a cigar and tried it out? You made him smoke the whole box to teach him a lesson. He got so sick!”
Rollie’s parents laughed, and Auntie Ei cracked a tight smile.
“He looked so green!” Mrs. Wilson chuckled. “The punishment fit the crime.”
“Rollin, read us your class schedule,” Auntie Ei cut in.
Rollie searched the inside of the book again. “There is no class schedule.”
“But the letter said the class schedule was enclosed,” Auntie Ei insisted.
“Nothing in here but those objects.” Rollie tipped the book upside-down, hoping an explanation would fall from it.
“It certainly is mysterious.” Mrs. Wilson poured Lucille more lemonade. “Perhaps a little too mysterious for comfort.”
Auntie Ei shook her head. “That’s the way it must be. It does little good to merely teach students how to solve mysteries. They must apply their skills to realistic situations. I guarantee that this class schedule is just the beginning. It’s good for him. Hopefully he’ll be a full-fledged detective someday.” She opened the Daily Telegraph newspaper and perused it. “God knows we need more intelligent detectives these days with Herr Zilch still at large.”
Rollie glanced at the headline of the newspaper: “Murder in Piccadilly Circus Linked to London’s Notorious Villain Herr Zilch.” This piece of news did not surprise him, for the newspapers were always reporting crimes involving the mysterious criminal Herr Zilch. Rollie knew very little about him beyond the newspapers’ reports, but Auntie Ei seemed to have a vested interest in him.
