Sherlock Academy

by F. C. Shaw

  Who would take it?

  The answer did not come easily to him. He tried another question.

  Who knew he had it?

  That second answer jolted him with a sinking feeling: practically everyone knew he had it. Yesterday morning at breakfast every teacher had commented on it, lots of students had seen it, and his roommate had enjoyed it. Too many suspects.

  Why had someone stolen it?

  That answer did not lend new insight: obviously to open the secret library. Rollie’s first hunch had been right: the secret library was important.

  By now the school day had started as more students emerged from their rooms and made their way up to the roof for breakfast. Some gave Rollie confused looks as he pushed past them in the opposite direction downstairs. He reached Headmaster Yardsly’s office on the first floor. Taking a deep breath, he lightly rapped on the door.

  “ENTER!”

  Rollie opened the door and stepped in. His eyes widened as they took in the office. A fireplace and bearskin rug stole the focus of the room. Two sunken armchairs squatted before it. A mantel clock tick-tocked quietly. Several holes initialing V.R. riddled the mantel; Rollie knew revolver bullets had carved those holes a long time ago. A penknife stabbed notes to the mantel. Bookshelves crammed with books flanked either side of the fireplace, which reminded Rollie of Holmes’ disorderly method of recording his cases. To the right, in front of a street-side window, loomed a large messy desk. Rollie’s eyes roamed around the room to the right corner nearest the door. A homemade chemistry lab hoarded that corner, complete with beakers, test tubes, and a microscope. To his left hung heavy draperies, which Rollie knew concealed a private sitting area. A few items decorated the walls: a violin and bow, an unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher, and a little cupboard with a keyhole. Lastly, Rollie recognized a framed black silhouette of a man with a hawk-shaped nose and prominent forehead on the headmaster’s desk.

  As Rollie stepped into the cozy room, he felt as if he stepped into another world, a fictional world. He had only read about this room, its décor and items, yet he knew it as well as his own bedroom.

  “Those are the bullet holes that Holmes made when he practiced shooting his revolver,” Rollie said excitedly, pointing to the mantel. “And that’s his lab where he studied evidence. Is that really his violin?”

  Headmaster Yardsly smiled as he stood behind his desk, his lean frame outlined against the window. “It is. Have you not been here before?”

  Rollie shook his head. “I would have visited sooner if I knew your office was Holmes’ actual flat. The 221b.”

  “Well then, WELCOME!” the headmaster boomed as usual. “Why are you visiting me this morning?” He sat back down as Rollie approached the desk.

  With great effort, Rollie dragged his eyes from his surroundings and focused on his headmaster. “Something of mine was stolen, sir.”

  Yardsly’s eyebrows shot up. “From your room?”

  “Yes, sir, last night. When I woke up this morning, it was gone. I can’t find it anywhere. I know I had it under my bed last night—”

  “HOLD ON!” Yardsly raised his long hand. Back to a normal pitch, he inquired, “What exactly was stolen?”

  “My marmalade jar, sir.” Rollie watched the headmaster’s reaction closely.

  Yardsly’s keen eyes narrowed slightly as he studied his student. The mantel clock tick-tocked, being the only noise in the room for a good five seconds. “Where did you get the jar?”

  “My Auntie Ei gave it to me.”

  At the mention of that name, Yardsly’s eyes widened slightly. “Why did your aunt give you a—”

  “My great-aunt.”

  “Why did your GREAT-AUNT give you a jar of marmalade?”

  “She said it would be a good snack to enjoy in the library,” Rollie replied, emphasizing the last word.

  “Did she? Have you used—I mean, enjoyed it in the library yet?”

  “I tried to yesterday, sir, but there was someone always in there. But I know why she suggested the library.”

  Another uneasy five seconds ticked by with the headmaster and the student regarding one another. Finally Yardsly told him, “Step closer, Rollin. No, closer. That’s good. Listen carefully: students are not permitted to have marmalade jars in the library. Neither are teachers. Of course stealing is wrong and normally I would address the student body about it. That usually forces the culprit to light. However, a stolen marmalade jar is a dangerous thing. So until I can investigate this, it’s best to keep it a secret. Understand?”

  Rollie nodded, understanding perfectly what Headmaster Yardsly meant.

  “You’re a good boy, Rollin, and a fine student, so I hear. You did the right thing coming to me. Now get to breakfast before you miss it.”

  Rollie turned to go, but stopped and asked, “Does my stolen jar have anything to do with that burglary?”

  Headmaster Yardsly rubbed his square chin in thought. “Possibly. You’re a fine sleuth.”

  Smiling, Rollie slipped out the office and raced upstairs to breakfast. He had barely gobbled down his hash browns when the bell rang. Taking one last swig of tea, he hurried off to class. He had a hard time focusing in class because his mind tingled with questions, faces, and guesses.

  In Ms. Yardsly’s Decoding Course Level One, Rollie jotted down a list of everyone he knew for sure had seen his marmalade jar yesterday. To be safe, he wrote it all in code. He had learned his lesson about leaving things out in the open, even things as trivial-seeming as marmalade jars. At the bottom of the list he added unknown thief.

  During recess, Rollie searched his room one more time just to be sure the jar really was gone. He found no trace of it.

  Rollie was glad Miss Hertz did not make them work in pairs today to analyze prints like she usually did in her Identification of Fingerprint, Footprint, and Ash class. Instead she had them silently read a monograph written by Sherlock Holmes titled The Tracing of Footsteps. This gave Rollie more time to mull over his case. He decided that during lunch he would search his room for any “teeny but mighty evidence”, referred to by Miss Hertz as prints and dust.

  As Professor Enches droned on and on about the proper decorum between a private eye and a member of Scotland Yard in his Spy Etiquette and Interrogation class, Rollie came up with a plan to politely interrogate a few classmates who had sat with him the other morning and had seen his jar.

  Rollie ate lunch in his room. Munching on his sandwich, Rollie used his magnifying glass to inspect the room. He inspected the door, the doorframe, and the floor. Either he was not as good of a detective as he had hoped, or the burglar was very careful, for he found nothing helpful.

  While Mr. Notch acted out a scenario for the students to observe in his Observation class, Rollie thought about doing a little observation of his own. He realized whoever had stolen his jar would want to use it soon. Last time, the burglar had broken into the library during the night. Rollie made plans to hide out in the library that night in hopes of catching the burglar. The idea fluttered in his middle.

  Normally Rollie anticipated his last class of the day with Mr. Chad, but today he could not concentrate one the Art of Disguise lesson. He pondered the idea of wearing a disguise of some sort, but he did not really have anything . . .

  “Listen, sleuths, you don’t need to own a costume shop to disguise yourself. Your own wardrobe holds a lot of disguises. You just have to know how to apply them. Holmes fooled everyone with his disguises because he didn’t just wear the part, he became the part. He used common clothes and items. So think twice before you throw away that hideous sweater with an embroidered yak that your great-aunt Bertha gave you for Christmas.”

  In the end, Rollie decided to wear all black. After class, Rollie met Cecily on his way upstairs.

  “I need to talk to you,” Rollie told her. “Did you take my marmalade jar?”


  Cecily stopped on the stairs and glared at him. “Excuse me? Why are you asking me that?”

  “Don’t get mad. I’m asking everyone if they’ve seen it or know who—”

  “No, you’re suspecting me of stealing your jar!” she nearly shrieked. “I’m a suspect to you!”

  “Shh!” Rollie glanced nervously around to be sure no one was near enough to hear her. “You’re not a suspect—”

  “If I wasn’t a suspect, then you wouldn’t be asking me that! And furthermore, I can’t believe after all we’ve been through together you could even think that I would take your jar. Holmes never suspected Watson.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rollie said more out of habit than sincerity. “That jar is more important than we thought.”

  “How? What else do you know about it?”

  Digging his hands into his pockets, Rollie wondered what to say. He wanted to tell her all about the mystery of the secret library, but he knew Headmaster Yardsly would not want him to. Yet Cecily was his friend and his sleuthing partner. On the other hand, he remembered how Holmes had always kept things from Watson. Rollie thought if he had kept more things secret, he would still have his marmalade jar. He sighed and made his choice on how to answer her.

  “I don’t know anything new about it.”

  Cecily eyed him. Rollie could tell she knew he was lying, and he saw the hurt in her eyes. Without another word, she took off upstairs.

  Rollie knew he had made the wrong choice.

  The Betrayal

  “I got you something,” Eliot beamed as Rollie entered their room after dinner.

  “You did? That’s nice of you.”

  Eliot held something behind his back. “Guess.”

  “Is it something for school?”

  “No. Well . . . kind of. Actually, no.”

  “Okay. . . . Is it something for fun?”

  “Um . . . you could use it for fun, but not really, so no.”

  “Your clues are confusing.” Rollie crossed his arms.

  “Give up? Because once you give up I win. That’s the rule.”

  “Sure, I give up.”

  Eliot held out a sealed jar of orange marmalade. “Here. I noticed you were sad about losing your other one. Plus I really need marmalade on my toast.”

  Rollie was about to ask why Eliot did not buy himself a jar, but he knew he should say something different. “Thank you, Eliot. That’s really kind of you.”

  “What are friends for?” Eliot shrugged.

  Smiling, Rollie agreed. “Yeah, you’re a nice friend.”

  Eliot’s face lit up. “I’m glad you’ve noticed.”

  * * * *

  Rollie turned the doorknob. He paused, gripping the knob in his sweaty palm before opening the door.

  Squeak, the door warned quietly.

  He stepped into the room and glanced around quickly. The library was cold and dark. Rollie was glad that his black shirt had long sleeves. A pale glow from the street lamp outside illuminated one corner of the library as the light seeped through the one good window. The other window that had been broken was still covered with a board. Rollie stood in the center of the library, pondering his hiding place.

  The library did not lend him any good hiding places. There was a decent hiding spot between the armchairs and end table, but that was too near the window. Rollie figured the burglar would enter through a window like before. The only other hiding places were in between the bookcases where Rollie could easily fit. The bookcases were the burglar’s targets, but Rollie had no other choice. He crouched between the bookcases closest to the door to be near his escape in case he was discovered. From here he could see the windows and the bookcase that opened with his marmalade jar. That bookcase would be the burglar’s first stop. Snug in his hiding place, Rollie tried to calm his breathing.

  Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

  As much as he tried, he could not slow his racing heartbeat or the insistent flutter in his stomach. He patted his moist palms on his black pants, then wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged them. The last he checked, Eliot’s clock read twelve-ten. Rollie guessed it had to be around twelve-twenty now. He hoped the burglar would not be too late . . . if he was coming at all . . .

  As the minutes crawled by, Rollie’s thoughts trickled into each other, and lead him through a mind maze. He could not allow himself to fall asleep, so he let his mind wander. Often he retraced his thoughts to exercise his deductive reasoning skills because Holmes argued that the ability to reason backwards was invaluable to solving a case. When Rollie retraced his thoughts, he laughed at the way they linked together.

  They linked like a chain . . . just like the chain securing a black box to a lamppost down the road from his house. Last winter, he and Cecily had discovered it, and had thought it was the strangest mystery to their neighborhood in a long time. When they asked Mr. Wilson about it, he told them the lamppost had broken, and the contents of that box temporarily kept the lamp operating. Rollie and Cecily had been quite disappointed. It had appeared to be very intriguing, but turned out to be very boring.

  In the same way, someone had appeared to be one thing, but had turned out to be a thief who stole Rollie’s jar. It had to be someone here at school who noticed his marmalade jar, which meant it was someone appearing to be someone different. A chill prickled up Rollie’s spine.

  He glanced over at the boarded up window. The first burglar had broken the window to get into the library, which meant the burglar was not someone in the school. So the thief who broke in and the thief who stole his jar were not the same person. Maybe they were working together. Or maybe the two thieves were the same person, and he or she had broken the window to make it seem like the work of an outsider.

  As much as he wanted to see who the burglar was, he was hesitant to know the truth. He shook his head clear of thoughts. Being a detective meant finding the truth . . . at all costs . . .

  Squeak.

  Rollie’s ears perked up, his heartbeat escalated, and his breathing quickened. He squinted through the gloom at the windows—nothing there. His eyes darted towards the door—it was open!

  So far Rollie’s assumptions held true that the burglar was someone in the school. Rollie did not recognize the person’s face, for it was hidden in shadow beneath a cap. But he did recognize the adult’s clothing— his heart nearly stopped. The flutter hardened into a pit in his stomach.

  Along with the cap, the intruder wore a dreary coat with an upturned collar. From the glow of the street lamp, Rollie could see a red cravat around his neck.

  “By the way, the fun thing about a disguise like that one is that you can be any type of worker and loafer.”

  As his face heated, Rollie remembered the words of his beloved teacher. As much as he wished it to be untrue, the truth fleshed out before him: the burglar was Mr. Chad in his loafer disguise.

  Rollie watched him cross the room to the bookcase numbered three. The thief clutched a marmalade jar with a little tag, and Rollie knew it was his. The loafer fit the marmalade jar in the bookcase’s hole, turned the jar, and opened the bookcase. A beam from a flashlight flicked on. With this light, Rollie could see the contents of the secret bookcases. Shelves and shelves of Sherlock Holmes books lined the interior. The thief grabbed one book and thumbed through it. Unsatisfied, he slid it back into place and grabbed another one. After a few looks through a few books, the burglar found the one he wanted.

  When the thief shined his light on the book, Rollie recognized it and almost gasped aloud.

  It was his Holmes book. There was no mistaking the distinctive green cover and worn pages.

  The burglar tucked the book under his arm.

  Click, he pushed the bookcase closed and headed for the door.

  He stopped.

  He turned.

  He stared in Rollie’
s direction.

  Rollie froze.

  The burglar turned back to the door and slunk out of the library.

  Rollie could not move. He huddled in his hiding place. He wanted to let his thoughts wander, but they would not; they focused on one thing:

  Mr. Chad the burglar.

  He felt stunned at the truth he had just witnessed. Why did it have to be Mr. Chad, his favorite teacher? How could it be Mr. Chad, such a fun and likeable person? How could he steal Rollie’s jar? And why had he taken Rollie’s Sherlock Holmes book?

  There was no way he could know about the telegram Rollie was hiding in his book . . . could he?

  Rollie hated that his book—a hiding place for his secret, and a gift from Auntie Ei—was now in the hands of an enemy.

  Rollie clenched his hands into fists.

  Auntie Ei had given him the marmalade jar. What did Auntie Ei really know? As much as Rollie wanted to funnel blame on his great-aunt, he knew in his heart he had to face the real culprit: his teacher.

  With a shaky breath, Rollie stumbled to his feet and quitted the library. He wearily climbed the three flights of stairs back to his floor. With each heavy step, his mind tossed between two choices: turn in Mr. Chad, or ignore the situation and wait for someone else to catch him. Surely Scotland Yard or Headmaster Yardsly would solve the mystery if Rollie could. Rollie did not think he had the strength to report Mr. Chad. Tears stung his eyes as he thought about no more classes with Mr. Chad. Headmaster Yardsly would hire another teacher for the class who would not be as fun—he just knew it.

  It was not only the fun that made Mr. Chad his favorite teacher. Mr. Chad had recognized Rollie’s detecting skills and had complimented him, saying he had noticed what a fine detective Rollie would make. Had that been a lie too? Rollie had never felt betrayed before.

  It hurt.

  He crept into bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and closed his eyes. At first he could not fall asleep. Besides worrying over what to do about Mr. Chad, he worried about his Holmes book and the telegram hidden inside it. He had to get his book back as soon as possible . . .