by F. C. Shaw
First he packed his suitcase with warmer clothes for the week. His mother had done the laundry and left his pile on his bed, but had accidentally mixed in a long pair of trousers belonging to Edward and a floral nightgown belonging to Daphne. With having to keep up on laundry for the household of eight it was no small wonder Mrs. Wilson was able to keep any of the clothes straight. After throwing the trousers and nightgown into their proper bedrooms, Rollie spent the afternoon in his small room at the top of the large house. He did not mind it since he shared it with no one, being the only sibling without a twin. He tidied the binoculars, telescope, and spyglass on his desk against the one window. He sorted through case notes tacked to the cork-covered wall. Most of them concerned Herr Zilch when he had been known as Rollie’s elderly neighbor Mr. Crenshaw.
Rollie glanced out his window overlooking the neighboring yard. The house still remained locked and vacant, and the garden still wild. A sign posted in front warned trespassers that the house was under Scotland Yard surveillance. Rollie wondered where Herr Zilch had escaped to and when he would reappear to threaten Sherlock Academy. Rollie felt an unsettling connection to the villain ever since Herr Zilch had attempted to steal the school’s records of him. He did not fully understand Herr Zilch’s interest in him, or how Zilch could feel so threatened by him. Absentmindedly, he reached into his pocket and clenched Zilch’s note.
Rollie flopped onto his bed and stared at the walls. A smile lifted when his brown eyes rested on the pennant of his favorite rugby team, the London Wasps. He knew he need not put Wesley Livingston on a pedestal, but he felt honored that a fourth-year student of such popularity would choose to be his friend. He relished befriending a real buddy like Wesley. When he was honest with himself, he admitted he rather liked the attention from this popular boy.
He sat up and fished out the newspaper from his packed suitcase. Plopping onto the floor, he re-read her note, lingering on one sentence that stood out to him: Peruse the pages closely and with care, for you may find the map useful.
He stared at the newspaper with its blaring headline: SHERLOCK HOLMES HELPS SOLVE MURDER CASE!
“That’s what I came over to take a look at,” Cecily voiced from his doorway. She joined him on the floor. “You forgot to call me this weekend.”
“Hmm?” Rollie was too engrossed in the newspaper.
The two of them thumbed through the pages and skimmed the articles. They noticed how much the formatting had changed since the late 1800s. There were no margins, and an average page boasted six columns of very fine type. Photographs were not widely used back in 1894. Instead black and white sketches illustrated points of interest.
Cecily giggled and pointed to a small advertisement for mustache wax that included several illustrations of handlebar and curled mustaches.
“Look at this ad for a nifty new invention called the paper clip,” laughed Rollie. “I always wondered when paper clips first came out.”
Cecily rolled her eyes with a smile. They had fun perusing the old newspaper, but did not find anything mysterious, and soon lost interest. They debated about how to spend their afternoon until Rollie glanced out his window again and got an idea.
“Let’s go investigate Zilch’s house,” he said, rubbing away the black newspaper ink from his fingers. When he noticed Cecily’s hesitation, he quickly added, “Just the grounds. I doubt we can get in anyways. It’s all locked up.”
Rollie and Cecily headed next door, stopping first on the front porch where a sign was posted with the following warning: NO TRESPASSING. Premises Under Scotland Yard Surveillance.
“What do you think that means?” Cecily asked, stopping by the sign. She buttoned up her coat against the brisk autumn breeze.
Rollie peered through a front window, and could barely see the parlor through the grime. “Maybe Scotland Yard comes out to check on the place every so often.”
“More often than that,” a gruff voice startled them. A bobby, dressed in his black uniform with brass buttons and dome-shaped hat, stood on the front walk. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his expression was stern. “I knows you can read.” He nodded at the sign. “So you knows ya shouldna be trespassing, eh?”
“So sorry, officer,” said Rollie as he scampered down the porch steps.
Cecily was right behind him. “We were just—”
“Just trespassin’, is wot you were doin’.” The bobby glared down at them. “I’ll letcha off this one time, right? But don’t let me catch ya here again.”
Rollie and Cecily ran back next door to the Wilson Manor. Once back inside, they erupted into a fit of nervous laughter.
“Sometimes it’s hard being an eleven-year-old detective,” quipped Rollie.
The Return of MUS
“I’m so excited to meet our new teacher!” Cecily squealed as she and Rollie bumped along in their hansom.
It was a misty, gray Monday morning. The temperature was even cooler than last week. The shifting weather heralded autumn’s arrival. The horse-drawn cab meandered through the heavy London traffic towards Baker Street.
“I sort of liked Headmaster as our teacher.” Rollie peered out the small window at the four-story red brick building they stopped beside.
As they stepped out, the driver unloaded their weekly luggage. The two friends hastily pushed open the front doors and stepped into the cozy warmth of the school. Their jaws immediately dropped in surprise and delight.
The first floor of the Academy gushed with autumnal decorations. Garlands of paper autumn leaves of red, orange, and yellow traipsed up the banister. On each step, an orange pumpkin or funny-shaped gourd squatted. A festive wreath hung on each dark paneled door down the hallway. The air hung heavy with the rich fragrance of cinnamon and pumpkin spice. In addition, towers of wooden crates marked Autumn Decorations and steamer trunks with luggage tags lined the green-carpeted hallway. A group of students gawked at the display.
“Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast!” announced a stern voice. Ms. Katherine E. Yardsly marched around the stacks of boxes. Today she looked even taller in her gray skirt suit and yellow tie.
“Ms. Yardsly, where did all these decorations come from?” Cecily asked.
“Headmaster Yardsly will explain. Go to the roof at once for breakfast!” She shot them her iciest glare and smoothed back her hair pulled tightly into a bun.
Rollie and Cecily joined the small crowd of peers and stampeded upstairs. On the roof, students sat at picnic tables and ate their steaming oatmeal. Since the weather had changed, the staff had stretched enormous awnings across the entire rooftop area. They had also lined the encircling chain-link fence with tarps. The result was a makeshift but dry indoor recess area.
Rollie and Cecily joined their roommates at a picnic table.
“Happy October!” Tibby greeted, pushing her little glasses up her nose.
“Actually,” Eliot interjected, “you should have used that greeting on Saturday. Today is already October third. A little late.”
Tibby rolled her eyes. “You can’t make rules for everything, Eliot.”
“It only makes sense!” Eliot argued.
“Got any opinions on the decorations?” Rollie asked with a grin.
“They really should decorate the upper floors,” Eliot answered. He blew on his oatmeal.
“Didn’t you notice all the boxes downstairs? I’ve deduced those are for the upper floors.” Rollie poked at his oatmeal. His mother was right: he needed to get over his picky eating habits. All he wanted for breakfast were hash browns.
“By the way, Rollie, it’s safe to say that you’re almost twelve now,” Eliot told him with an air of authority on the subject.
“Thanks. Is that because my birthday is less than a month away?”
“Exactly. You could have started on October first, but . . .” Eliot shrugged his shoulders.
“I�
��m nearly twelve, too,” Cecily said.
Eliot shook his head. “Hold it. You’re not twelve till January, right?”
Cecily shot a glare at Eliot. “I’m more than eleven and a half, but not a month away from being twelve. The correct way for people to announce their coming age who are four months away from their birthday is to use the word nearly. I am nearly twelve years old. That’s the new rule.” Cecily swallowed a scoop of oatmeal.
Tibby clapped. “Well done!”
Eliot sulked, but perked up when he sighted the headmaster leading the teachers across the rooftop. All eyes turned to the staff lined up side by side. Yardsly stood behind his little podium from which he always made announcements. Usually the faculty made an appearance on the roof only on Tuesdays. Their presence this morning made everyone pay special attention.
“HAPPY OCTOBER!” Yardsly boomed in his familiar way.
Rollie, Cecily, and Tibby all smirked at Eliot.
Headmaster Yardsly took a sip of water kept behind his podium, then continued at a normal pitch. “I trust you all observed the lovely fall decorations. They are compliments of our new faculty member who will be teaching Spy Etiquette and Interrogation, along with organizing our school symphony. It is my pleasure to introduce Miss Gwendolyn A. Gram!” He stepped aside and stretched out a welcoming hand to the new teacher.
First, the students applauded politely. Then they gasped with delight as Gwendolyn clip-clopped in her high-heels over to the podium. Her glossy blond hair was sculpted into perfect curls. Her petite frame was clothed in a swishy dress of a delicate gauzy fabric and rich purple hue. Even in heels, she stood shorter than the other adults, measuring about a head taller than the first years. Her blue eyes sparkled as she smiled.
“Thank you for the warm welcome!” she trilled in a melodious voice. “I am very honored and excited to join your Academy. I look forward to instructing you and getting to know each and every one of you. Fa-la-la!” She made a little curtsy and clip-clopped back into line with the other teachers.
“WELCOME!” the headmaster reiterated. “Sleuths, I trust you will all make Miss Gram feel at home. MAKE A GREAT DAY!”
As Headmaster Yardsly and the teachers headed back inside the building, conversations flew across the tables.
“She’s lovely,” Cecily sighed.
“She reminds me of someone,” Rollie began, thinking hard.
“She’s short for a grown-up,” Eliot noted.
“She’s got great style,” Tibby put in.
“I would just like to point out,” Eliot said, “that her initials spell GAG.”
Cecily thwacked Eliot’s shoulder. “Only you would notice that!”
“I find it ironical.”
Rollie chuckled. “It is funny.” He stood up. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Time for class.”
After stacking their teacups, bowls, and spoons on the dish rack, the students filed inside and downstairs to their various classes on the second floor. Rollie, Cecily, Eliot, and Tibby found their way to Decoding Course Level One. As usual, Ms. Yardsly stood at the black board and scribbled strange symbols with her stubby chalk. As the Bornholm grandfather clock downstairs struck nine, she spun around. All the students found their seats and took out their textbooks titled On Secret Writings: One Hundred Sixty Separate Ciphers written by Sherlock Holmes himself.
“Good morning.” Ms. Yardsly abruptly halted her greeting, stood rigid, and sniffed the air.
Everyone joined her. They smelled a delicious blend of pumpkin-spice. With her keen eyes, Ms. Yardsly spotted an orange candle glowing on her desk. She grabbed it and marched across the classroom and out the door. She returned empty-handed and stoic. Everybody eyed her as she resumed her station behind the desk.
“I don’t deny the aroma is festive, but there is no room for distraction during the business of cracking codes.” She spun on her heel and scribbled on the board. Behind her, the students bit their lips to keep from giggling.
“On the board is a review of last week’s Dancing Men code,” continued Ms. Yardsly. “Use your textbooks to decode the message. Go!”
The students worked feverishly. They glanced up at the board, off at their open textbooks, and back at their composition books. A few students held their heads in their hands, thoroughly perplexed. Others, like Rollie, persevered in deciphering it. This was by far the trickiest code he had learned, for many of the stick figures were almost identical with very small differences. Rollie squeezed his eyes close, trying to recall the code, but he had not taken much time to work on it lately.
“Times up! Pair and share.”
Rollie turned around to face Eliot behind him. While their first pair and share together had gotten Rollie in trouble, they had learned to work together.
“How did you do?” Rollie asked him.
“I was doing fine, and then I forgot that one little dancing man!” Eliot exclaimed.
“Which dancing man?”
“The one that really looks like he’s dancing.”
“They all look like they’re dancing! That’s why it’s called the Dancing Men code.”
Eliot stifled a laugh. “You’re right, chum. Okay, the very last one of that second line.”
Rollie glanced at the blackboard, then at his textbook. “I wasn’t sure either.”
“Wait! It’s L.”
“I thought this one was an L.” Rollie pointed to one of the stick figures.
“That’s N. Look at the arms. They’re on opposite sides.”
Rollie erased, added L, and sighed. “That makes more sense. This code is hard!”
“I like codes.” Eliot grinned. “They have rules to follow, and if you learn the rules, you can use the code.”
“Did we get the same message?”
The two boys held their notes side by side to compare them. In unison they whispered the message: “You must learn this code.”
“Yes! We did it,” Eliot breathed.
“I couldn’t have done it without my textbook,” admitted Rollie.
“Don’t worry. We have all month to learn it.”
Ms. Yardsly cut in with her commanding voice. “I need a volunteer to read the message for the class. Cecily A. Brighton!”
“Sorry, Ms. Yardsly, I didn’t finish the whole thing.”
Ms. Yardsly huffed impatiently. “Eliot S. Tildon!”
“You must learn this code.”
“Fine job, Eliot. Cracking the code will be your ongoing assignment for the month of October. The easiest place to start with any cipher is to find the most frequently repeated symbol. Remember, E is the most commonly-used letter in the alphabet, thus we may deduce that any frequent symbol is E.”
During morning recess, children grouped themselves on the roof to chatter about the new teacher, Miss Gram. The third years had just come from her class, so they excitedly shared their first observations of her. Everyone else anticipated class with her later in the day.
Disinterested in all the banter, Rollie loitered on the outskirts of the grassy patch that was just large enough for rugby drills. He watched the older boys lock in a rugby scrum. Their heads butted in the center of the huddle where the ball was trapped. Suddenly, the ball shot out the huddle and across the yard where it landed at Rollie’s feet. He stepped back to avoid a tackle.
“Time-out!” a voice yelled.
The boys broke the scrum and halted, panting heavily. Wesley Livingston jogged over to the ball and scooped it up. He smiled at Rollie.
“Want to join? We’re practicing scrums.” He cocked his head to one side, waiting for Rollie’s consent.
“Sure, thanks.” Rollie grinned and pushed up his long sleeves.
Wesley tossed the ball to him and headed back to the waiting players. “Make room for Rollie.”
Rollie set the ball on the grass and took his
position on Wesley’s right.
“Scrum!”
The boys locked together and fought to free the ball from the huddle. When Rollie had first played a month ago, he had been bashful about throwing his weight around. But now his confidence boosted since he was Wesley’s right-hand man. He dug his toes into the sod and exerted himself. When the outdoor bell chimed, Wesley halted the drill. The boys brushed themselves off, grabbed a quick drink of water, and headed to class.
“Not bad, Rollie,” Wesley complimented, slapping Rollie on the back. “See you at lunch.”
With a smile, Rollie hurried into Miss Hertz’s class. The first thing he noticed was a familiar pumpkin-spice aroma. As he took his seat, he watched Miss Hertz scrutinize another orange candle from behind her magnifying glass.
“A print!” she squeaked. “I’ve seen it before recently. I’m sure it’s Gwendolyn’s.”
An audible collection of sighs emitted in the room. Students betrayed dreamy expressions.
“How very kind of her to leave this for us,” Miss Hertz bubbled, her cheeks rosy. “Little does she know how much we appreciate fine fingerprints! Let’s discuss footprints. I call them tattle-tales. Dear Sherlock was a master of identifying types of shoes, heights of people, and sequence of events just by studying footprints. Let’s do an activity.”
Miss Hertz dove down and pushed a broad shallow crate, usually used for vegetables beds, across the floor. It was filled with rich, dark soil.
“Let’s see what we can learn from your footprints, shall we? Queue up, sleuths!”
The students jumped to their feet, shoved in their chairs, and scrambled to make a line. Eliot managed to be first. He gingerly placed his foot in the crate, and pressed his sole into the soil. He lifted his foot and squatted to study it. So did Miss Hertz.
