The Initiation

by Ridley Pearson

  I opened the door to room 4, looked inside, and turned quickly to catch sight of Mistress Grace facing me. She’d been waiting to see me go inside.

  “I can buy you five minutes, no more,” she said.

  “Oh . . . thank you sooooooo much,” I said to her with tears in my eyes.

  In the room’s far bed lay a sleeping Sherlock Holmes.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE DUMPSTER QUESTION

  “BEFORE I CAME TO YOUR ROOM I CONSUMED seven raw jellyfish. Not easy to find, but there’s a health food store in Putnam that sells them frozen. Awful-tasting creatures. Do you know why I ate them?”

  “I thought you were asleep,” I said. “You have a bandage on your head.”

  He rolled over and looked at me. He was more pale and drawn than I’d ever seen him. His eyes had sunk farther into his head amid what were either two black eyes or one tired boy.

  “Don’t cry, dear. All’s well.”

  “Don’t call me that! It’s patronizing. You’re not my father!”

  “Jellyfish has been discovered to help in memory retention, ergo, the best defense for whatever it was on the Bible they used to put you into your stupor.”

  I would have told him to slow down, but I was joyous at being in his company and I thrilled to the challenge of keeping up.

  “You were attacked,” I speculated. “Drugged.”

  “Mind you, the jellyfish were a bit like bringing a glass of water to a three-alarm fire, but I dashed their efforts at least somewhat, if not significantly. They clubbed me on the head. Very likely administered the amnesic concoction shortly thereafter, and left me by the Dumpster behind the dining hall, which is important to us.”

  “Is it?” I wasn’t following all of what he said, not by any means. But I didn’t really care. I heard “us.” It rang in my head like the chapel bells. I liked this boy. I adored him.

  “So it’s bits and pieces, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said. “A slideshow that moves too fast. A raven mask made of papier–mâché. Boys, or men, wearing capes. Flames. Torches? I’m not sure. The smell of earth and incense.”

  “Why is the Dumpster important?” I asked, latching on to that for no particular reason.

  “Not the Dumpster, but the rear of the dining hall. It must have been close, you see? They couldn’t go lugging my body all over campus, now could they? I’m not as light as you, and besides, you were moved long after the entire school was asleep.”

  I enjoyed being called light. I appreciated that he’d noticed me in that way. “You’ve figured this out while recovering from being given a concussion and drugged? I couldn’t even think the first twelve hours I was awake.”

  “I’m quite something, aren’t I?”

  “Just shut up!” I said, laughing.

  “It’s not all done and dusted, but I do have a plan. That roar I heard just now? Crudgeon announcing the discovery of the missing Bible?”

  “Gee whiz,” I muttered. “Who are you?”

  “Did he say it was found in the ceiling of the computer lab by Proctor Sidling?”

  “James,” I announced. “He said James found it.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Not you, not me, James.”

  “It’s not the credit for the thing, Moria, that is troubling. The best things we do are often those for which we receive the least credit. Not to worry. It’s the implication of the thing that’s troublesome. It’s bigger, more widespread than I thought,” Sherlock said.

  “What is?”

  “We’ll get to that, perhaps. The thing of it is, Crudgeon is deliberately, overtly, enhancing your brother’s reputation here. He’s king-making.”

  “My brother’s a king?” I used my voice to let him know how ridiculous that sounded. “I think you need more rest.”

  “Your brother is being groomed, positioned to be well liked and trusted by his peers. He has the support of the highest administrator in the institution. What does that tell you?”

  “That you need a sedative. Should I call the nurse?”

  “Ha-ha!” Sherlock looked at me disapprovingly.

  “It tells me you’ve thought a lot about this. It tells me that Father is connected to Crudgeon, and possibly what happened to him . . . if it wasn’t an accident . . . and that James is now being groomed for something.”

  “You did well,” Sherlock said from his position on the hospital bed. “I’m glad for that.”

  I thanked him for the compliment, as they were rare. My throat tightened, and I’m afraid I scowled, if only just a little.

  “What is it, Moria? Please!”

  I spoke softly. “It’s what I just said. Father. I need your help, Lock.”

  “The cause of your father’s death,” he said.

  “How is it you’re always a step or two ahead?”

  “If I wasn’t, would you want my help?”

  I laughed.

  “Is James with you on this? We would need James, Moria. It’s his father, too.”

  “I think we can bring him around,” I said. “I believe that with all my heart or I wouldn’t ask you.”

  “Even with James onboard, I’m not sure how I can help,” Sherlock said.

  “Oh, but I do!” I said confidently. “You’ll be my private detective.”

  Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed. It was as if some internal light switched on, all pain or traces of headache vanished, replaced by a sense of purpose and a visceral excitement.

  “Splendid!” he said, sitting up smartly. “I very much like the sound of that, Moria.” Lock reached out his cold hand to me.

  We shook hands vigorously to consummate the deal.

  He looked at me eagerly. “Are you any good at papier–mâché, my dear girl?”

  “What?”

  “There’s work to do. First things first, we need to get me out of this dress they’ve put me in. It’s barely better than an apron, I’m afraid.”

  CHAPTER 43

  SPIES, TOGETHER

  “WHAT IF YOU’RE CAUGHT?” I ASKED SHERlock, moving a branch of a bush out of the way in order to see him.

  “I won’t be.”

  “How do you know this will work?” I was holding the papier–mâché mask Natalie had made at my request. Sherlock had described what was needed.

  “I don’t,” he said. “Not at all. But I’ve put my theory through innumerable tests and proofs and I must say this is the most logical explanation. I’m his roommate, don’t forget. You’re his sister. You tell me something is up, I believe you. We’re a team.

  “Crudgeon doesn’t think I know,” he continued, “because Crudgeon thinks I’m still quarantined in the infirmary. Safe and sound. Out of the way. You and Mistress Grace have helped continue that ruse. Why is it you think she’s helping us, anyway?”

  “She likes me,” I said. “I’m a Moriarty, too, and she’s something of a feminist and doesn’t think James should be getting all the attention. She’s sore about that. So she tells the nurse she’s reading to you and lets you escape knowing you’re trustworthy enough to return. It’s worked three times. Let’s just hope it can work once more.”

  “It’s lovely of her, I must say. Perhaps some flowers or candy is in order?”

  “Where do you come from?” I said, before thinking to stop myself. “Never mind that!”

  We occupied a space between honeysuckles in Mr. Hinchman’s side lawn, enveloped by a moonless night’s sky. Across the access road was the back of the dining hall and the infamous Dumpster near which Sherlock had been deposited. Our attention was trained not onto the dining hall, but the alumni building, one of the original Colonial houses on campus that dated back to the school’s origins in the late 1800s.

  “How did you know they’d come?” I asked.

  “Your clothes smelled of incense. One of the few memories I’ve been able to preserve from my . . . incapacitation. I detected a similar odor coming off the thug as he clomped me on my bean. Ergo: the chapel. If there’s to be an initiatio
n—your brother let that slip and tried to make it go away, but it was something your father had mentioned to him—then where better than in an ancient building brought over stone by stone by your ancestors? Hmm? You see? You have to know something about secret societies: they are steeped in ritual, often superstitious, and extremely protective.

  “And so here we are,” he said. “Here they are, arriving one by one at the start of curfew. Which reminds me: you must start writing down number plates from the vehicles.” He reached under his cape and handed me a pen. “Help straighten this for me, will you please?”

  We were risking a great deal breaking curfew, but we were risking it together. I adjusted his robe. Six cars had arrived over the past twelve minutes, each exactly two minutes apart. Men and women, always only one to a car. Each driver had entered the back of Alumni House.

  “So it’s in there? This meeting?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I’m waiting,” I said.

  “The key. Recall for the image, if you please.”

  “A skeleton key with a tree atop it.”

  “Definition of a key?”

  “What? I don’t know. A thing that opens a door.” I didn’t need a vocabulary lesson. I wanted to help my brother.

  “There are some fifteen definitions for the noun, one of which is the central building block at the top of an arch. I’m afraid we focused on other aspects of the thing. Some of them paid off, I will give you that. But the fact is, the tree is the key. That tree, there. The oldest tree on campus.”

  “It’s the key? What does that mean?”

  “It’s the top of the arch, Moria. It sits over a structure. These people aren’t in the Alumni House. But I know where to find them.”

  “You’ll be careful. Tell me you’ll be careful.”

  Sherlock said nothing.

  After a total of seven more vehicles—exactly twenty-four minutes—the perfectly timed arrivals stopped. Sherlock stood, took the papier–mâché mask in hand, and tucked it under his arm. A hyena, its teeth bared.

  He hurried across the road, his robe flowing behind, and climbed the steps. He disappeared inside.

  CHAPTER 44

  THE INITIATION

  SHERLOCK LOCATED THE TUNNEL HE WAS LOOKing for in the basement of the Alumni House. A cupboard held by a piano hinge was pulled away from the wall, revealing a torch-lit opening.

  He wore the mask and robe, allowing him to slip past a similar-looking sentry guarding the entrance.

  Walking down a stone corridor felt like a step back in time to the era of castles and dungeons. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool temperature of being below ground. The tunnel admitted him to an earthen room also lit by torchlight.

  He gaped at the tree root–entwined walls and ceiling, the dirt floor and the pageantry of the masked members. They roamed as if at a cocktail party, talking casually. Sherlock stood with his back to two thick roots, studying the costumed members. A fox. A warthog. A boar. Carnivores, all.

  Sherlock heard two claps. The attendees moved nearly in unison to stand around the perimeter of the room, facing in.

  The attendees began to hum. Sherlock quickly picked up the chant’s melody and added softly to the chorus. Three individuals—one in a red mask—stepped up to an altar table, their costuming more formal. The third man proved to be holding a large book in gloved hands. He placed it in front of the altar table on a stand. The Moriarty Bible. Sherlock gasped, then coughed gently to disguise his surprise.

  There was movement at the top of the stone stairs at the far end of the room. James descended, escorted by two others, a leopard head and some kind of fish.

  Sherlock couldn’t be sure, but his roommate looked hypnotized or under a spell. He wasn’t walking right. He stopped. The one in the red mask spoke.

  “James Keynes Moriarty. You have successfully completed the Clues of Confidence, demonstrating a willingness to complete the tasks put before you without questioning them; leadership; and curiosity and conviction. Through these qualities we seek a united society and it is to these qualities to which we turn when in need. Do you understand? You will answer, ‘aye’ or ‘nay.’”

  “Aye!”

  The humming continued.

  “James Keynes Moriarty. You come bearing the blood of our founders, the blood of our leaders for nearly two centuries. You therefore come to us as royalty. Through your training in the years to come here at Baskerville, as well as outside its walls, you will be made to undertake bold actions, to develop skills essential to your position, and to eventually lead men and women of all ages in the endeavors of this society. Do you understand and accept these conditions?”

  “Aye!”

  “James Keynes Moriarty. Should you fail to uphold the strict secrecy of this society, or to deviate from our path, you will be conditioned or rendered, according to the strictures of our charter, in a way to inhibit your memory or end your life, as the governing committee sees fit. Do you understand?”

  “Aye!”

  “And knowing this, do you willingly, of free mind, consent to this agreement as you have read it, and wish to continue with this initiation?”

  “Aye!”

  Sherlock’s heart would not stay in his chest. He felt for certain those around him must be able to hear it beating furiously to be free of his chest. End your life . . . Was this an agreement James’s father had consented to as well? Was that why he had wanted James to buy him more time? He had known that he was in violation of rules, the punishment for which could end his life.

  Sherlock wanted desperately to grab his friend and take him from this place, but it occurred to him that James was answering yes to all the questions. He wondered if the agreement James had read was contained somehow in the pages of the Bible.

  “You, here, who have gathered as witnesses of this moment, how say you? Are we to induct James Keynes Moriarty into the brotherhood of the Scowerers? All in favor, say aye!”

  “Aye!” came the chorus. The humming stopped.

  “All against?”

  Silence. Only the spitting of the torches.

  An eagle’s head was put atop James’s shoulders and he was led to a chair in the middle of the space. It was a glorious shoulder mask and looked to be ancient. He was made to sit as a costumed attendee stepped forward to a table holding an unrolled cloth bearing stainless steel medical tools, dishes, and bottles.

  The humming restarted.

  James was helped to raise his arm amid the same calming melody. He reached high overhead. He wore no shirt beneath the robe. One of his escorts stepped forward, took James’s arm, twisted it, and laid it across the table.

  The tattooing began. There were no electric machines, just the patient hand holding a needle that was repeatedly stabbed into James’s skin. James flinched, but did not cry or speak. The artist continued his or her work for at least twenty minutes.

  Sherlock felt proud he had helped to solve the string of clues; in many ways it should have been him in that chair, though he wasn’t much of a society man. He felt less pleased that he and Moria, as a team, had unearthed the Bible, realizing its presence was to play an important part of James’s initiation. That part of the ceremony was yet to come; but come it would.

  Again, Sherlock processed the facts. James’s father had wanted James to take his time solving the clues. He’d known that the clues would lead to this ceremony. Had the father wanted to stop James from taking part in the initiation altogether, or delay his son’s participation, or had it been something more personal that needed doing? Sherlock didn’t merely want the answer to that question, he needed it. He would seek it, regardless of the personal cost to himself, for the answer might also explain the death of a man beloved by his two children and reveal those responsible. There was work yet to do.

  The tattoo being applied high up under James’s arm was difficult to see at a distance. Given the time involved in its creation, it had to be extremely detailed for something
so small. The more he studied it, the more Sherlock realized it was no bigger than a key.

  CHAPTER 45

  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WOODS

  A MONTH LATER, SHERLOCK AND I WALKED IN the woods between the school and the old estate. The colorful leaves were so deep they danced at our shins and made crinkling noises as we trudged through. Chickadees and gray squirrels made noises above. Halloween had come and gone, taking any chance of a warm day with it.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “No more than I have.”

  “That it’s secret for a reason.”

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  “It’s selfish of you and terribly unfair,” I said.

  “No doubt.”

  “You’re scared for him. For James?”

  “I’m scared for us all,” he said. “We need to find out who killed your father, and why. And to do that, we need to come to understand this secret group.”

  “Way to make me feel better.”

  “My role is not to make you feel better, Moria. My role is as your private investigator. Your words, not mine.”

  “I was expecting a report.”

  “My report is this: we have your family’s Ralph on our side; also Mistress Grace.”

  “Will they know about the Scowerers?”

  “I only told you that much because I trusted you to never repeat it.”

  “We’re in the middle of the woods.”

  “Never! Regardless of how safe it may seem. I do believe we would be in some danger were we or anyone heard to utter that name outside of the council itself.”

  “OK. I’m sorry. Never again.” We walked another fifty yards. “You mean like what happened to Father. Real danger.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s spot on. That kind of danger, indeed.”

  “It doesn’t seem we have much, not so very much to go on.”

  “‘Very’ is a—”

  “Worthless word. Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “We do have a few things they don’t have.”