The 100-Year-Old Secret (6 page)

Xena groaned and flopped onto the couch. “Not him, Mom! He's
such
a jerk!”

“Xena! How can you say that?” Mom asked. “You barely know the boy. I think Aunt Mary is being very nice, finding people your age for you to get to know.” She gathered up her books and went back to her room through the connecting door. “Dinner soon,” she said as the door closed behind her. “We're going out for curry tonight.”

Xena loved Indian food, but who could
think about dinner now? Just yesterday she and Xander had been sitting around with nothing to do, and today they were on their way to cracking one of Sherlock Holmes's unsolved cases!

While Xander took the cell phone out of its shrink-wrap and read the manual, Xena's heart began to thump in anticipation. Tomorrow they'd do some
real
detecting!

F
or the last time, stop crowding me,” Andrew said, shoving Xander away.

“Why don't you leave my brother alone?” Xena told him. “He can't help it if the three of us are squished in the backseat.”

“If I'd had my way, we wouldn't be,” Andrew replied.

Me too, Xena thought. It was going to be tough trying to solve the mystery without Andrew butting in.

“I don't know why my aunt insisted I come along,” Andrew complained. “I told her that I had better things to do than to go to Taynesbury.”

“Like what?” Xander asked, leaning close to the other boy on purpose.

“Hey, hey!” Mrs. Holmes turned around in the front passenger seat. “No more arguing, please. Can't we have a nice conversation? We've got only about a thirty-minute drive.”

Mom's right, Xena thought. We can be nice for a half hour. “Do you like detective books?” she asked Andrew.

He rolled his eyes. “Can't figure that out on your own, can you?” he asked. “Are you
sure
you're the descendant of the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“I know!” Mr. Holmes said from the driver's seat. “Let's play a memory game or a word game or—”

Andrew yawned. “No, thank you.”

Xena thought about suggesting a license-plate game, but then decided against it. “So what's the deal with that phone?” she asked Xander.

“It has voice-recognition technology on it,” he said. “No keypad. You speak the numbers into it.”

“One point against it right there,” his mom said. “What if you don't want someone near you to know what number you're calling?”

While her mother and Xander discussed the pros and cons of the new phone, Xena looked out the window. At least it's not raining, she thought, trying to stay positive. It wasn't exactly a bright, warm day, but soft sunlight fell on the hills. Almost as soon as they were out of the confusing
snarl of streets and circuses—roads circling a monument—they were in the country. Or the suburbs, actually, but still, it was nice to be out of the noise and hurry of London. The road was narrow, and at times it was bordered by such high, thick hedges that it seemed as if they were driving through a tunnel.

“The next left,” Mrs. Holmes said, checking the map and glancing up at the street sign. “Then right, then we should be in front of the mansion.”

As they turned the final corner, Henry the Eighth's mansion appeared before them, and Xena's jaw dropped at the sight. The house was not only huge but graceful and noble-looking, sitting atop a lush green lawn. It was bigger than any house she had ever seen before, with two tall towers soaring above each side of the house. It was made of reddish brown stone, with windows that reached at least ten feet high. The windows were framed by the same white stone that made up the front steps.

“Nothing like this in the States, is there?” Andrew asked.

“Well, we do have the White House—” Xena started, but then she shrugged. “No,” she said. “Nothing like this. Can we take a tour, Mom?”

Xena quickly lost count of how many rooms there were. Some had ceilings elaborately painted with fat little angels holding back painted curtains to show scenes of gods and goddesses. In other rooms, enormous fireplaces were topped by stone mantels covered with carvings of people hunting in the woods. They explored the grand staircase, the stained-glass windows in the private chapel, the portraits of grim-faced men and women lining the lofty corridors. The guide threw open a door. “This is where the future King Henry the Eighth played when he was a boy,” she said.

“Imagine trying to play in here,” Xander whispered to Xena. The room was huge and cold, with tapestries on the wall and hard-looking furniture.

“He probably had toys and things,” Xena whispered back, but she couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy for the little boy who'd tried to amuse himself in this formal hall, even though he'd lived and died centuries ago.

The tour ended in the same room where it had started.

“Let's go through the gardens now,” Mrs. Holmes said. “They look lovely.”

Xander grimaced. How could he and Xena get away to do some investigating?

“Now, don't make that face, Xander—” their mother began.

“Why don't we go into the village, and you can meet us there after the tour?” Andrew broke in. Xena looked at him in surprise. Did he actually want to spend time with them?

“I've been here on a school trip,” Andrew explained. “There's a bus to the village at the gate.”

“Great idea,” Mr. Holmes said.

“Why don't you guys take the new phone, Xena,” their mother said, handing it to her. “Call your dad's cell when you're ready to be picked up.”

“Or we'll call you,” their father said. “Or—”

“Dear, the garden tour's leaving,” their mother said.

Mr. Holmes fished in his pockets and gave Xena a handful of bills. “Here, get yourselves something to eat.”

On the bus Xena whispered to Xander, “While we're eating, make an excuse to leave the table and go find a phone book so we can check if any Bathesons still live in town.”

“Got it,” Xander whispered back.

The village was as quaint as their mother had said it would be—if “quaint” meant “really
small and with not much to do.” There was a narrow road with shops, some little houses, and lots of gardens. That was it.

They stopped in a tea shop where Xander ordered scones and clotted cream. Any food with
clotted
in its name didn't sound too appetizing, but that didn't stop him from eating the biscuits spread with soft cream until he thought he would burst. Andrew ordered something called bangers and mash, and even though she didn't know what it was, Xena ordered it too. I hope it's nothing weird, she thought, but fortunately it turned out to be sausage with buttery mashed potatoes.

Then Xander slipped away from the table while Andrew ordered another Coke. “No Bathesons in the phone book,” he whispered to Xena when he returned. “And the waitress has never heard of them.”

“What did you say?” Andrew asked.

Xena and Xander looked at each other. Maybe Andrew could help. Of course, he'd probably be obnoxious about it, but they might learn something anyway.

“We're working on a mystery,” Xander said. Andrew snorted. “Well, we are,” Xander went on. “It's about a missing painting—”

Andrew stood up, pushing his chair back noisily. They looked at him in surprise.

“What makes you think
you
can solve a mystery?” he hissed at them. “Just because your ancestor was the great Sherlock Holmes—” his voice dripped with sarcasm “—and mine was only Dr. Watson. Watson was as smart as Holmes. He was just too modest to write about himself. And all the movies about them make him out to be an idiot. Well, I'm sick of it.” He smacked his hand on the table. “I'm going to that Internet café across the street. Come get me when it's time to go home.” He strode out the door.

Xena and Xander looked after him in stunned silence.

“Wow,” said Xena.

“Wow,” agreed Xander. “Well, at least now we know why he doesn't like us. He's jealous that his relative isn't as well known as ours.”

Xena took a deep breath. “We have to shake it off,” she said. “Who knows when we'll be back here again? Let's find the Batheson house.”

They paid for their meal and went outside. The wind had picked up a little, and it was chilly.

Xander pointed to a little stone church across the street. “I read somewhere that churches keep records about people. Maybe someone over
there knows about the Bathesons,” he suggested.

They crossed over to check it out. A note on the church's door said “Back at 3:00.” It was 2:45, and with any luck their parents wouldn't call too soon.

Xander picked up a pamphlet. “Anything useful?” Xena asked.

“Nope,” Xander said. “It's all about how old the church is and about the fine architecture of the nave, whatever that is, and about how some famous poet wrote a poem there. Nothing about people who lived here.”

“Well, we might as well look around while we're waiting,” Xena said.

The two took a stroll through the grounds and stumbled upon a small graveyard just off the back of the church. Many of the tombstones had flowers—some fresh and some plastic—leaning up against them. Moss had grown up over the markers, making a few impossible to read, and others were even less tended, sagging at odd angles as if the people buried there had been forgotten.

Xena hugged her sweater closer to her and read an inscription. “Emma Marsh. Died when she was just two years old. Sad.” She glanced at the next headstone. “Winston Thompson. Beloved husband and father . . .”

Xena moved on to another marker and stopped.

“Xander!” she called. “Come back!”

Xander, who had been wandering across the churchyard, turned. When he saw Xena's expression, he broke into a trot.

“Look at this!” she said, pointing at the third headstone. “Another clue!”

W
hat is it?” Xander asked.

“Read it,” she said.

He bent down. “Cyril Batheson. And he died only two years ago!”

“You know what this means?” Xena asked, almost whispering.

Slowly, Xander nodded. “It means that there are still Bathesons in Taynesbury. Or at least there was one, up until two years ago.”

“Come on!” Xena said. “People usually bury family members near one another. Maybe there are more Bathesons here.”

And there were, but they were all from long, long ago. Finally, just when they were about to give up, Xander spotted something. It was a headstone so small and overgrown with moss that they had already walked by it once. Xander squatted and scraped at the moss with his thumbnail.

“Sophie, daughter of Nigel Bath—” He almost stopped breathing.

Xena stooped next to him. “Keep scraping!” she said. But the rest of the stone had crumbled away under the moss.

“So maybe he
did
have a daughter!” Xena said. “She must have been the model!”

Xander nodded. “I wonder why she was never mentioned?” he asked. “Now we
have
to find some living Bathesons!”

At that moment the cell phone rang. As it tweedled out “Yankee Doodle,” a woman placing a bouquet of flowers on a grave glanced at them curiously. Xena blushed and pressed the Talk button.

“Hi, Dad,” Xena said. She crossed her fingers that their parents weren't on their way to pick them up.

“You kids doing okay?” Dad asked.

“Sure,” Xena said.

“Can you three stand being on your own another hour or so? They're about to start a concert of Elizabethan music here.”

Xena glanced over at Xander and gave him a thumbs-up sign. “Okay,” she said. “We're touring an old church now.”

“Excellent! We'll give you a call when we're
on our way over and arrange a place to meet.”

“Okay,” Xena said and hung up.

“Xander,” she said. “We have an hour. What do we do now?”

“Wait a sec.” Xander ran into the church. He came out a few minutes later with a piece of paper, which he waved at his sister.

“Directions to the Batheson house!” he called triumphantly. “I told the guy sweeping the floor that we were their distant cousins, and he told me that there's a lady here who was a Batheson before she got married. Her name is Mrs. Emerson now.”

“How come the waitress had never heard of her?” Xena tried to grab the paper from him.

“Nuhuh,” he said, clutching it close. “I can get us there. Maybe that waitress isn't from around here. The guy said it's a short walk to the house. Let's go see if she knows something!”

“Okay,” Xena said. “Just flash those dimples, and she'll answer whatever you ask.”

Xander gave Xena a huge jack-o'-lantern smile and his dimples appeared. “I wonder if the painting is hidden at the house,” he said as he trotted to keep up with his sister's long strides. “Maybe there's a studio. Hey, maybe he painted a picture over it and some innocent-looking painting has the purple-hat girl underneath.”

“If he did, I wonder if the SPFD's lab could detect it,” Xena said.

Xander said, “I don't think it's that hard. They X-ray it or something. But unless we really need the lab I want to keep the society out of it. I don't want that rotten Andrew knowing what we're doing.”

They walked on a narrow lane with tall hedges on both sides. A Border collie ran out of a house and barked at them. Its tail was wagging, but there was an unmistakable warning in its eyes. Xena shivered.

“What?” Xander asked.

“Nothing,” she answered. “Just cold.”

Xander stopped and consulted his scrap of paper. He glanced at the gate in front of them. “Something's wrong,” he muttered.

Xena snatched at the paper again and this time she was successful. “Number 76, Lilac Lane,” she read aloud. “The Willows. What does that mean, ‘The Willows'?”

“The guy said that's the name of the house.”