by F. C. Shaw
“I know where we can get more though,” Rollie said, his brown eyes widening with excitement. “Mycroft’s Mercantile! Let’s ask my dad to take us.”
They found Mr. Wilson with Uncle Ky in the parlor. The two men sat hunched over the card table and snapped puzzle pieces into place. The landscape puzzle of the Lake District was nearly complete.
“Dad! Can you take us to that detective shop? Please? We really need to buy something. It’s important to our case.”
“Hmm?”
“Dad! Please?”
Mr. Wilson dragged his eyes away from the puzzle to look at his son. “Right now? Why not tomorrow?”
“No, Dad, we need to go now! We really need something.”
“Fact: Sleuth work comes first.” Mr. Wilson sighed and looked helplessly at Uncle Ky. “Very well, get your coats.” He stood and ushered them to the front door. “Eloise! I’m taking the children into town for a bit!” he hollered as he opened the front door. “Did you hear that fact, lovey?”
“I heard you, Peter!” Mrs. Wilson’s voice rang from the back of the sprawling house. “Be a love and pick me up some sewing needles!”
“Let’s go, sleuths.” Mr. Wilson ushered everyone outside. “Mr. Hood, I’m taking the children into town for an hour or two. Is that alright with you?”
“Yes, sir. Safe travels.” Euston tipped his cap.
Mr. Wilson led the group to the right side of the house where the family’s navy automobile was parked. He and the boys cleared off fresh snow from the windshield. Rollie joined his father in the front while his three friends piled into the back seat. With a sleepy putter, the car headed toward the city.
“Where is this shop, son?”
Rollie bit his lip. “It’s right around the corner from school. I’m not sure where exactly.”
“Where’s that business card Mr. Chad gave you?” Cecily asked from the back seat.
Rollie dug around in his coat pockets. He pulled out a wad of tissue, paper scraps, a rubber band, and a stray button.
Mr. Wilson chuckled. “Fact: You are definitely my son. Mum cleans out my coat pockets every evening when I get home from the college.”
Rollie smiled sheepishly as he found the business card. “Here it is. The address is 34 Siddons Lane. Do you know that street, Dad?”
“Fact: It’s a little side lane near Baker Street. What’s so important that you need to have right now?”
“We need a solution to invisible ink,” answered Rollie.
The rest of the ride into town the group chit-chatted about rugby and Uncle Ky and Euston Hood. Everyone was surprised to learn from Wesley that Euston was only twenty-five. They all agreed that while he looked young, he acted much older.
They passed an icy Regent’s Park and a nearly frozen boat lake. Soon they drove down Baker Street, bypassing Sherlock Academy. They took an immediate right onto Siddons Lane and headed down the correct side to find number 34. The lane was very tight, crammed with an assortment of small businesses. They almost passed Mycroft’s Mercantile, for it was a small shop sandwiched between an Irish pub and a Chinese dry cleaner. A small display window boasted a sign with the shop’s name. Mr. Wilson thought it very lucky to find a parking spot right in front of the shop. After killing the engine, he led his posse to the shop’s green door. The door hit a little bell as it opened.
The shop was very narrow, more like a closet than a proper store. Shelves crammed with everything from toothpaste to fishing tackle lined the walls. Wicker baskets hung low from the ceiling. Nothing resembled a detective gadget or anything to do with sleuthing.
“Welcome to Mycroft’s Mercantile,” a woman’s voice called from somewhere in the crammed shop.
They had some difficulty finding the woman amidst all the merchandise. Eventually they located her in the back of the shop behind an equally full counter. The children nearly breathed a sigh of relief upon finding her, for they had begun to worry they might be lost in the labyrinth of merchandise.
The woman turned out to be younger than she sounded. She looked to be only about eighteen. She was plump and plain with blue eyes exaggerated by purple eye shadow. Her mouth of crooked teeth chewed gum. She wore a green apron with Jane embroidered at the top.
“Whotcha lookin’ for?” She chomped on her gum, looking at each customer in turn.
“We’re looking for . . .” Mr. Wilson turned to his son. “What exactly do you need, Rollie?”
Rollie hesitated and swept his eyes around the store. Behind the counter were reams of ribbons and spools of thread in every color. To the right of the counter were stacks of used books and baskets of golf balls and matchbooks. To the left were shelves of toiletries. He glanced down into the glass cabinet under the counter. A variety of pastel-colored perfume bottles sparkled. The countertop boasted a few jars of homemade jam and a few glass canisters of red-and-white-striped peppermint sticks. He started to doubt they were in the right shop.
“This is Mycroft’s Mercantile, right?” he asked Jane.
She nodded with a slight roll of her eyes. “Do you need somethin’ or not?”
“I’m not sure you have what we need,” Rollie mumbled. “We need a special solution for invisible ink.”
Jane stopped chewing her gum mid-chomp. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? You’re not gonna find whotcha need in this part of the shop.” She came out from behind the counter and squeezed past them. She maneuvered around a coat rack of berets, a pedestal of teapots, and a stack of boxes labeled nails. She stopped at a bare wall with a handwritten sign that said Please ask for assistance. A small button, much like a doorbell, was beside the sign.
“My dad can help you,” Jane told them with a toss of her head. “Which school are you from?”
“We go to Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths,” Eliot blurted. “It’s right around the corner.”
“I know the school. The Academy is our biggest client—so is the Marple Institute.” Jane pushed the button. “You’ll find whotcha need down below.”
With a groaning creak of wood, the floorboards beside the bare wall suddenly gave way to a narrow staircase. A runner rug unrolled itself down the stairs, carpeting each step. A soft glow of light shown up from below.
With wide eyes, Mr. Wilson said, “You children go find what you need. I’ll look around for Mum’s sewing needles.”
Rollie led his friends single-file downstairs. The temperature dropped a bit and the air grew damp and musty. The basement was just as small and crammed as the upstairs shop, but instead of random household items, interesting gadgets filled the shelves and counters.
Eliot immediately found a bookshelf lined with all kinds of books on codes, ciphers, and decryptions. Cecily checked out a shelf of different-sized notebooks and journals. Rollie and Wesley headed to the counter, bypassing racks of costumes, stacks of investigation kits, and collections of chemistry supplies.
A brown basset hound sprawled next to the counter. He lifted his head and turned his sleepy eyes to them. He wagged his tail and struggled out a lonely bay.
“Toby, move out of the way,” a portly man mumbled.
The man was perched on a stool behind the counter displaying spyglasses and magnifying glasses of different sizes and prices. The middle-aged man wore a yellow cardigan with leather elbow patches. His teeth clamped down on a slender pipe. His head was round, his face was full, his neck was thick, and his shoulders were broad. He had a jolly belly. With his chubby fingers, he sorted through a carton of small pocketknives. As the two boys approached him, his lazy eyes looked up.
“May I help you, lads?” he asked in a deep voice.
Wesley spoke up first. “Yes, sir. We need to purchase a solution for invisible ink.”
“And what would two lads like yourself need with an item like that?” He studied them closely and puffed on his pipe.
“We’re s
tudents from Sherlock Academy,” Rollie told him. “We’re on a case.”
“Ah, that makes more sense. And how do I know you’re going to use this solution for a case and not for your own mischief?” he questioned.
Rollie showed him the business card. “Our teacher Mr. Chad gave us your contact information in case we needed anything.”
“That seems plausible. Perhaps I should ring Mr. Chad to confirm your story.”
“I’m afraid you can’t, sir,” Rollie groaned. “The Academy’s phone lines have been down.”
The man scratched his chubby cheek, and smiled. “Right you are, lad. May I have your names just in case I need to check up on you?”
“I’m Wesley Livingston.”
“I’m Rollie Wilson.”
“Wilson did you say? You wouldn’t happen to be a relation of Lady Eileen Wilson, would you?”
“She’s my great-aunt.”
“That makes all the difference in the world, Rollie Wilson. Welcome to Mycroft’s Mercantile. I am Mr. Holmes.”
The Other Mr. Holmes
“Did you say your name is Mr. Holmes?” Wesley gasped.
“You’re related to Sherlock Holmes?” asked Rollie.
“I’m Bartholomew Holmes.” He chortled at their enthusiasm. “My father Winston was Sherlock and Mycroft’s second cousin. That would make me their third cousin. Since neither of them ever married or had children, the Holmes name has almost died off. My daughter and I are the last, I believe.”
“Why did you name the store after Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft?” Wesley wanted to know.
“His name is a little more discreet. There are certain parties that are better off not knowing about this little shop of detective tools—or rather we’re better off with them not knowing. Sherlock has received enough honor with the Academy. I thought it only right that his brother get some public mention. He was just as brilliant, if not more so, than Sherlock.”
“But he was lazy,” Rollie said flatly. “He didn’t have the ambition Sherlock had.”
Mr. Holmes gave a lopsided grin. “Right you are, but he did help Sherlock in some dire situations. You’ll remember Mycroft gave Sherlock money and watched over the Baker Street rooms after Sherlock faked his death and hid abroad.”
Wesley nodded. “Mycroft was the only person who knew Sherlock had survived his fight with Moriarty.”
“And he guarded that knowledge well—he was a good secret keeper.” Mr. Holmes winked. “Now Mr. Chad told me a group of students might be dropping by for supplies. He mentioned Rollie Wilson would be leading the group. You need invisible ink solution, did you say?” He turned to a row of little apothecary drawers behind him. “There are many different types of inks and many different types of solutions for them.” He opened a few small drawers.
“We’re not sure what kind of ink it is,” said Rollie. “It smells funny.”
“Like vinegar,” added Wesley.
Mr. Holmes nodded knowingly. “There is a vinegar-based ink used commonly.” He held up a tiny bottle of bright fuchsia liquid. “Extract of red cabbage is the solution for it.”
“We need a lot of it,” Rollie said, frowning at the little bottle that was no bigger than his thumb. “We need enough to wipe walls with.”
Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Mr. Holmes asked, “An invisible message is written on the walls? That’s highly unusual. I know what you need.” He opened another drawer and brought out a tin canister with a label that read Magic Red Cabbage Solution for Invisible Ink. He set it on the counter. “This solution is in powdered form. Mix a tablespoon for every cup of water. I would say for one wall you’ll need about two cups. Tell me, who would write on the walls with invisible ink? Did a toddler spy scribble on the walls?” The middle-aged man chuckled.
“Our school’s enemy left a list,” Wesley explained vaguely.
“Herr Zilch,” Mr. Bartholomew Holmes said plainly. “I am very aware of him and his vendetta against the Academy. You lads are brave to work on a case involving MUS. I support anyone willing to stop Zilch. Here’s your solution free of charge. Consider it my donation to the cause against MUS.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes!” the two boys chimed.
“Anything for a Wilson. You must be very proud to be related to Lady Wilson.”
Rollie grimaced. He used to feel proud, but not anymore. He felt confused and uneasy. Most of all, he felt angry. Instead of voicing all this, he replied, “Sometimes I forget who she is to other people. She’s always just been my great-aunt.”
“She’s done a whole lot of good in the name of Sherlock Holmes. I hope someday you will do as much,” Mr. Holmes admonished. “Tell me, has anyone approached you about joining the Holmes Brigade? You’re perfect candidates if you’re already working against MUS.”
“We’re dying to know more about it!” said Wesley.
“Our bodyguard, Euston Hood, is a member, but he says he can’t tell us a lot,” added Rollie.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Hood is a very secretive soul. What has he told you?”
“He says the Brigade was set up to stop MUS. He says there are always only four members, and he wears a leather wristband with a symbol.”
“That is true.” Mr. Holmes nodded solemnly. “The symbol represents the Sign of the Four. In this case, the Four are the Brigade members with unique abilities. Every Holmes Brigade is directed by an advisor—a former Brigade member. I know Mr. Hood wants to be an advisor to a new Brigade. Not just anyone can join. You have to be invited to join, and you should consider it seriously before accepting, for it’s quite a dangerous position to be a member of the Holmes Brigade. You become a prime target of Herr Zilch.”
“We’re already targets,” muttered Wesley.
“That is why I wondered if you were already members. Perhaps you will be invited soon.” Mr. Holmes puffed on his pipe.
“How do you know about the Holmes Brigade, sir?” Rollie had to ask.
“Hmm, I was waiting for that question. I am the official Brigade archivist. That is all you need to know at this point.”
At that moment, Eliot and Cecily joined the boys at the counter. Eliot grappled with several heavy books while Cecily laid a thick journal on the counter.
“I wish I had known about this shop before Christmas,” said Cecily. “I would have put some items on my wish list. How much is this journal, sir?”
“Five pounds and fifty-p.”
“Oh dear, that’s more than I have with me today.” Cecily’s face fell with disappointment. She was about to put the journal back when Mr. Holmes took it from her and slipped it into a paper bag.
“I’ll just put it on your tab. Mr. Chad set up a tab for you. He figured you would need supplies now and then.”
“In that case,” Eliot butted in, dropping the four heavy books on the counter, “I’ll take these. I really could have used them to crack that code last night. I’ll have to get other book jackets to cover these.”
His friends read the titles on the spines: Code Collections, A Complete Guide to Common Code Algorithms, Decoding Made Easy, and What’s Your Cypher?
Rollie smiled at Cecily. “Don’t you have enough notebooks?”
Cecily smiled back. “You can never have too many. Besides, this one reminds me of Zilch’s journal—it’s the same size and paper quality. I’m feeling inspired to keep a diary of my secret life as a detective.”
“Rollie!” Mr. Wilson called from upstairs. “Are you about finished?”
“Coming, Dad! Thank you again, Mr. Holmes.” Rollie shook the man’s large, beefy hand. “I’m sure we’ll be back.”
“I’m sure you will. Next time, you can come directly here from the school.” Mr. Holmes jerked his thumb at a closed red door by the counter. “Through that door is a direct tunnel to the Academy.”
“The secret passage leads here?” R
ollie gasped excitedly.
Mr. Holmes smiled. “That secret passage, as you call it, leads many places. Ask your great-aunt more about it.”
On the car ride home, Rollie and Wesley explained to Mr. Wilson, Cecily, and Eliot Mr. Holmes’s relation to their favorite detective. Cecily was excited to know that the shop owner was a Mr. Holmes, while Eliot remained skeptical as to Mr. Holmes’ identity. He did not recall ever reading about any of Sherlock’s relations besides Mycroft.
Back at the Wilson manor, Rollie and his friends gathered in his room to spell out their plan.
“We’ll need a bowl and paintbrush,” Wesley said. “And a measuring cup and tablespoon.”
“We’ve got all that in the kitchen,” Rollie replied.
Cecily giggled with anticipation. “So what are we waiting for?”
“Euston!” Rollie and Wesley groaned together.
“Is Eliot up for distracting him again?” Cecily turned to the boy who stood with arms crossed defiantly.
“Not Eliot.” Wesley shook his head. “We’ll need him. I’ve got an idea. Let’s use Uncle Ky to distract him.”
They filed downstairs to find Uncle Ky. They found him humming as usual and back to work on the puzzle in the parlor. They quickly laid out Wesley’s plan to him.
“Let me see,” Uncle Ky said with a glimmer of intrigue beneath his bushy eyebrows. “You need me to engage in a conversation with this Hood character, eh? That is a tall order, or have you not noticed how quiet the man is?”
“I know he is,” Rollie told his great-uncle. “You don’t need to make him talk. You just have to make him stay and listen to you talk. Tell him about all your careers.”
“I can do that. Leave it to me, detectives.” Uncle Ky gave them a thumbs-up. “Where is he?”
“We’ll get him,” Rollie said as he and his friends hurried into their winter coats.
It took them awhile to locate Euston, for he was constantly roving around the property checking on things. They finally found him walking up the street from the corner. They convinced Euston that Uncle Ky needed to speak with him immediately and watched him enter the Wilson house.
