by F. C. Shaw
After recess, they all headed to their next class.
His attention did not improve when he moved on to Identification of Fingerprint, Footprint, and Ash class, and he did not catch much of what Miss Hertz taught, until she dumped a small pile of ashes on his desk. She went around the room dumping ashes on each desk, then instructed her students to use their five senses in determining what kind of ashes they got: chimney, campfire, tobacco, or stove. Rollie examined the ashes under his magnifying glass, and found tiny bits of charred wood. He also caught a faint woodsy smell from them, and deduced he had campfire ashes. One student, Arthur who was the smallest boy in his class, had an allergic reaction to his ash, and could not stop sneezing. By the end of class, Arthur was teary-eyed and sniffling, and everyone had to wash up before the next class.
“GOOD MORNING!”
As always, the students jumped in their seats.
Clad in a brown suit and orange tie, Headmaster Sullivan P. Yardsly crossed the threshold, a glass of water in one hand, and a book in the other. He was very tall and lean with distinctive facial features and receding hairline. Rollie thought he resembled Holmes.
Ever since Rollie had exposed Professor Enches as Herr Zilch’s comrade, the headmaster had been teaching Enches’ Spy Etiquette and Interrogation class. While he did an admirable job as Sherlock Academy’s headmaster, he was not as good a teacher. However, the headmaster was too well liked for the students to say anything unkind about his teaching style.
“Page 56, topic of the day: when questioning a suspect, avoid yes-or-no questions.”
Rollie raised his hand.
“ROLLIN!”
“Headmaster, sir, we read page 56 yesterday.”
Yardsly raised his straggly eyebrows up his forehead. With his keen eyes, he squinted at the page, and twitched his hawk-like nose. “Ah, you are right, lad. Sharp as a tack! PAGE 59! Topic of the day: identifying non-verbal cues in a suspect. Follow along with me.”
He took a sip of water before reading. “While the detective may not get straight answers from the suspect, he may glean something useful from the suspect’s body language. For example, if a suspect glances up and tilts his head to the right, he most likely is being deceitful. If the suspect looks down, he most likely is trying to recall information. Clenched fists can signify dishonesty, while open hands usually signify . . . hmm . . .” Yardsly trailed off and read the rest of the paragraph silently, moving only his lips.
Just as his headmaster’s voice trailed off, so did Rollie’s thoughts to the newspaper from Auntie Ei. While he was thrilled to receive it, he was curious why Auntie Ei had mailed it and not waited to give it to him when she returned. He could not wait to read more—
“ETIQUETTE!”
Everyone’s attention snapped back to the headmaster.
“Well, sleuths, that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? Etiquette. A proper sleuth always displays the utmost etiquette, especially while interrogating a suspect. Is that easy, you ask? Not always, I say. Why, I remember one suspect I questioned. An old woman who was absolutely cantankerous. It took all my will power not to—” A sip of water. “Anyways, like I said . . . what was I saying? Oh, YES! It took all my will power not to beat her with her own cane.”
The children stifled giggles.
“Enough about that.” Yardsly snapped the book shut. “I have some sad and happy news. SAD! This is the last class I am teaching. I have enjoyed filling in, but my duties as your headmaster keep me from devoting my best to teaching. HAPPY! Starting Monday morning, you will have a new teacher. She is a paragon of good etiquette, and I have no doubt she will make a fine instructor upon the subject.”
The hour passed, bringing the anticipated relief of lunch recess. As the students herded upstairs to the recess area on the roof, Rollie stopped Cecily on the fourth floor of boys’ dormitories.
“Let me show you my newspaper real quick.” Rollie hurried into his room, but stopped short when he saw Rupert tacking more doodles above his bed. Without a word, he rejoined Cecily in the hall.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Rupert’s in the room. I don’t want him to know about my newspaper. I don’t trust him.”
“I’ve observed that he never attends classes,” said Cecily quietly. “And Tibby told me she saw him leave the Academy by himself yesterday afternoon.”
Rollie glanced behind his shoulder. His middle fluttered when he noticed Rupert leering at him.
Surveillance
As always, Rollie anticipated his last class of the day: Art of Disguise Level One taught by Chadwick A. Permiter, affectionately called Mr. Chad by his students. Not only was he the youngest teacher at Sherlock Academy, he was the only American. With his handsome appearance and witty humor, he was easily Rollie’s favorite.
“Fri-day! Fri-day! Fri-day!” Mr. Chad chanted as his pupils sat down. “What happens on Fridays in this class? Miss Tibby?”
“Disguise centers!”
“Bingo! What else? Mr. Andrew?”
“Appointments!”
“Bingo! What else? Mr. Eliot?”
Eliot opened his mouth, but hesitated. “You should be more specific.”
“Can anyone help the Tildster out?”
The children looked around at each other, wracking their brains for something they forgot.
Cecily piped up. “You’re wearing your sneakers! You wear them only on Fridays.”
With surprising agility, Mr. Chad planted one foot atop his desk to model his black Converse sneakers. “I’m proud to be an American. We make cool and comfy shoes. Sadly, these shoes haven’t made it here yet. But I think Herbie Z. Frecklebottom has a pair.”
Laughter erupted over the imaginary student he referenced frequently.
“You’re so mean! Someday he’s gonna get back at you for laughing at his unfortunate name. Until that day . . .” Mr. Chad whipped out a kazoo from his pocket and buzzed a marching tune.
In response, the students scurried around to push in their chairs and join their previously assigned groups in corners of the room.
Mr. Chad had organized hands-on centers for the students to experiment with different disguises. He set up four centers, one in each corner of the classroom. Each center contained different disguise materials like false noses, clothes, props, and dialect cards instructing how to speak English phrases with foreign accents. Each group rotated to a new center every fifteen minutes. During these centers, Mr. Chad would summon one student at a time to his desk where he would conduct little meetings he called “appointments.” He gave exhortation, or affirmation, and got to know his pupils better.
Rollie was always the last appointment due to his last name being Wilson. He did not mind since Mr. Chad gave him a few extra minutes of face time.
“Study hard, pay attention, brush your teeth, and good job on your presentation yesterday.” He listed the points off his fingers and rested his elbows on the desk. “There. I got the teacher-stuff outta the way. So what’s up, Rollie? How’s your week been?”
Rollie shrugged. “Pretty good. Rupert’s bugging me.”
Mr. Chad scanned the room. “Hey, he’s absent again.”
“He’s absent a lot.”
Mr. Chad shook his head. “He has his reasons. Go easy on him.”
This was not the response Rollie had expected. The teachers always stressed the importance of being present, and completing work. “What are you doing this weekend, Mr. Chad?”
“Top secret mission,” Mr. Chad whispered with a grin. “I’m picking up the new teacher from Victoria train station tomorrow.”
“Have you met her before?”
“Nope. I was hoping for another American—no luck. I guess me and Herbie Frecklebottom will have to fend for ourselves.”
“I didn’t know Herbie was American,” Rollie said dryly.
“He’s shy about it, but he’s as American as Uncle Sam. Hey, have a good weekend, kiddo.” He gave Rollie a high-five.
Friday afternoon was chilly and gray. Heavy clouds above threatened the city with rain. Outside, the sidewalk bustled as eighty students dispersed for the weekend. Most commuted home and some stayed behind at school with the faculty. The sidewalk outside was crowded with students and their suitcases of dirty laundry.
Outside, Baker Street was lined with hansoms—horse-drawn cabs popular during Holmes’ era in the 1800s—waiting to carry students home. Rollie and Cecily stood together in the brisk autumn breeze waiting to be summoned by a driver. They pulled their coats around themselves to ward off the chill.
“I’ve been so cold this week!” Cecily declared. She nuzzled her chin down into her green scarf. “I’ve got to pack warmer clothes for next week.”
Rollie nodded and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his black wool coat.
“Rollie Wilson!” a voice rang out.
Rollie searched the crowd of children. He spotted a boy waving at him from a hansom.
“Hallo!” Rollie waved back.
“Happy weekend, mate!” the boy called, flashing a smile of perfect teeth. He had brown hair trimmed smartly and rich brown eyes betraying an intensity that commanded attention. While young, his strong jaw-line and deep brow hinted at his growing masculinity. “Rugby drills Monday?
“Sure thing! Bye!”
“Is that Wesley Livingston?” Cecily narrowed her eyes in thought.
“It sure is. He’s a fourth year,” Rollie replied with a tinge of reverence. “He’s captain of the rugby and the fencing team. I think we’re becoming friends.”
“That’s nice,” Cecily commented without much enthusiasm.
Fencing and rugby were the sports held in the highest regard at Sherlock Academy. Holmes had been an excellent fencer, and Watson had been a stellar rugby player in his younger years. Any student associated with either, or in more rare cases both, was greatly admired. Naturally, Wesley Livingston was somewhat of a celebrity among his peers, including Rollie. During the week, Wesley organized rugby drills to keep the players fit for games played on Wednesdays in Regent’s Park. He kindly included Rollie even though he wasn’t on the team.
“Brighton and Wilson!” a cab driver hollered.
The two friends hurried to an open hansom and climbed inside as their driver hopped up to his perch. He flicked the reins and soon enough the horse-drawn cab was maneuvering through the busy streets of London. Automobiles honked their warnings and red double-decker buses roared by. Soon they were rid of the congested capital and entering the quiet suburban neighborhood of Primrose Lane. A fine shower pelted against the cab windows.
“Number 19, miss,” the driver announced as he opened the cab door and tipped his bowler hat.
“Let me know if we need to spy on anyone this weekend,” Cecily said as she climbed out. “I’m not doing anything.” Waving, she dashed up the front walk to her house.
A few houses down, the hansom halted and the driver opened the door for Rollie.
“Number 22, lad. Good evenin’.”
Rollie glanced up at the Wilson manor and smiled. He scampered through the front door and dropped his suitcase in the entry hall. He stood still to take in the scents of home. Warmth from the parlor fireplace hugged him; a savory aroma from the kitchen teased him; and silence, save for the ticking grandfather clock nearby, baffled him. Usually he came home to a noisy household.
He seized the opportunity of quiet to study Auntie Ei’s gift uninterrupted—
“Happy weekend, son!” The front door barged open behind him.
“Hi, Dad.” Rollie laid the newspaper on the hall table and wrapped his arms around his father’s middle.
“Fact: you still have your coat and scarf on. Fact: your suitcase is still here in the hall. Conclusion: you must have just gotten home.” Mr. Wilson shrugged out of his own overcoat and scarf. He shook raindrops off and hung them on the hall tree. “How was your week?” he asked, helping Rollie out of his coat.
“Exciting, as usual,” Rollie beamed. He hung up his coat and orange-and-black striped scarf alongside his father’s.
“Tell me about it.”
“Right now? Shouldn’t I wait till supper?”
“Fact: supper is not the best time to share since everyone talks at once. Fact: I want to hear all about your week without any interruptions. Follow me.”
Mr. Wilson led Rollie through the parlor to his personal office. He collapsed into a large leather chair and plopped his briefcase onto a cluttered desk. He pulled out a grip of papers. “Go ahead while I grade these math exams.” Being a math professor at the local Regents College kept him busy, even at home.
Rollie climbed into a small cushioned armchair set in a corner of the cramped room. “Well, this week we learned a little about the Dancing Men cipher in Ms. Yardsly’s class.”
“What’s that cipher?” Mr. Wilson asked as he used a red pen to mark the exams.
“It’s the cipher that Holmes cracked in the The Adventure of the Dancing Men. It looks like little stick figures in different poses. It’s one of the hardest codes and we have to memorize it this month.”
“You’ll get it. Go on.”
“Yesterday in Miss Hertz’s class we practiced collecting fingerprints off the doorknobs in the Academy. We rubbed this clear plastic paper on the print, and it copied right on. Mine was copying fine till Rupert came out of nowhere and bumped me.” Rollie added this last sentence with contempt.
“Your roommate?”
Rollie sighed. “I don’t like him very much.”
“That’s unusual. You don’t dislike people very often, and that’s a fact.”
“He’s really rude and is always breaking school rules.”
“No one’s unpleasant without a reason,” Mr. Wilson suggested, glancing at Rollie over his spectacles perched on his nose. “Maybe you need to get to know him better.”
“I don’t really want to,” Rollie grumbled.
At that moment, Mrs. Wilson burst into the office and grabbed Rollie in a tight hug. “My Rollie! When did you get home? Why did you not say hello?”
“How did you know I was home, Mum?”
“I tripped over your suitcase in the hall,” she answered, holding his chin in her hand and raising her eyebrows.
“Sorry, Mum. I meant to unpack it.”
“No need, since it’s all dirty laundry. Supper is on the table.”
Mr. Wilson’s facts about suppertime were valid, as were almost all his facts on life. The large family sat around the table, slurped their chicken noodle soup, and talked about their day. Of course nobody was fully heard, even with Mrs. Wilson serving as referee. During one exchange over a new fact his father had learned that day, Rollie’s eyes drifted over to the one empty chair at the table. Rollie was surprised to find how much he missed Auntie Ei lately. In her own way, insults aside, she had offered him a strange sort of moral support.
“The holiday rush is already here,” Edward, one of the oldest, said as he buttered a roll.
“I hate the holidays,” Stewart, his twin brother, complained. “That’s the busiest time for errand boys.”
“Fact: tomorrow is October the first. The holidays are fast approaching, the first being Halloween,” Mr. Wilson declared, loosening his bow tie.
The younger twin girls, Daphne and Lucille, clapped their hands and bounced in their seats. In unison they asked, “Can we have a Halloween party?”
Mrs. Wilson eyed her husband. “We did promise to host one this year, Peter.”
Mr. Wilson nodded curtly. “Then host it we shall, Eloise.”
Rollie opened his mouth to talk, but his younger sisters cut him off with cheering.
“Candy!”
“Costumes!”
>
“Don’t forget—” Rollie tried.
“Stew and I are in charge of porch decorations!” Edward decided.
“Good idea, Ed!” Stewart agreed, socking his teen brother in the shoulder.
“Don’t make it too scary,” Lucille said.
“No ghosts!” Daphne whimpered. Both girls still got spooked by Halloween.
“Quiet down,” Mrs. Wilson ordered. “Rollie wants to say something.”
All eyes honed in on Rollie.
“Don’t forget my birthday.”
“We never forget your birthday,” Mrs. Wilson replied, a little unsure. “We just get sidetracked because it’s the day after Halloween.”
Edward jumped in. “I already know what I’m getting you—a big bag of candy!”
Stewart laughed, snorting up his soup and choking.
“Edward, enough.” Mrs. Wilson stopped him with a firm glance. “What would you like to do for your birthday this year?”
Rollie shrugged. “Just a small party with a few friends from school.”
“That sounds manageable. Eat a few more bites.” Mrs. Wilson nudged the bowl closer to him.
“Are all your friends spies?” Edward grinned his lopsided smile.
“Fact: I’d like to meet your friends from school,” Mr. Wilson stated, “as long as they don’t uncover my secrets.” He winked at his youngest son.
“Ed, that new spy film is supposed to be really good,” Stewart exclaimed.
Just like that, the conversation shifted away from Rollie. As always, he did not mind. He liked being with his large, loud family, especially now that he was home only on the weekends. With a smile, he took another spoonful of soup and listened to the familiar banter.
Saturday used to be Rollie’s favorite day of the week back when he attended regular school. He loved having a free day to snoop around for mysteries with Cecily. Now Sunday was one of his favorites because he spent the day packing and anticipating another exciting week at Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths. On Sunday, his family was the quietest. His father read in the library. His mother indulged in one of her hobbies like sketching or quilting. His brothers spent the afternoon at their girlfriends’ houses—Stewart with Alice and Edward with his new girlfriend Beth. His sisters contented themselves with cutting out paper dolls. And Rollie anticipated Monday morning.
