Watson's Case (5 page)

“Superb observation, Cecily. If we used grades here, you'd be at the top of the class. Quite a talent for observation, yes indeed.”

Cecily beamed.

“Arthur, devote more time to your notes next time. Rollin, I enjoyed your observation. You could have included more details, but good work.”

Rollie smiled at the star drawn on his paper. While Sherlock Academy did not give grades for work, the expectations were high. Most students, like Rollie, naturally wanted to do well in their studies, so the threat of grades was never necessary. And there was always Headmaster Yardsly there to remind students to stay on task, like he had done with Rollie earlier.

“Good, good, everyone,” Mr. Notch praised as he found his way back to the front. “Today's assignment is to observe our Academy's fencing team currently practicing on the roof. Ms. Yardsly has granted you special permission to observe the team as long as you stay out of the way. We have forty-five minutes left of class time. Grab your notebooks and go quietly—oh, don't forget a pencil—and go observe. Remember Holmes' order of observation: hands, sleeves, knees, shoes. No need to check back in with me until tomorrow's class. Go, students, go, go, go.” He shooed them out.

Everyone headed up to the roof where they sat on the picnic benches. The fencing team, the most elite club in the school, was comprised of third- and fourth-year girls and boys. They practiced several times a week and competed with other schools several times a year. Since it was a prestigious position, most fencers tended to be snobby. But Wesley Livingston was captain of the fencing team, and he had always been nice to Rollie.

Rollie and Cecily sat next to each other and each picked out one fencer to observe. Cecily chose Hazel Smilie, the oldest and tallest girl at school. Rollie chose Wesley. They watched in fascination as the players took their stances foils in hand.

Ms. Yardsly, who coached the team, drilled, “Fencing is about technique, rhythm, and balance. Observe.” She stood even taller than usual, struck a pose with her foil, and paused rigidly, being a perfect display of a professional fencer. “Style and discipline, students, style and discipline!” She lowered her foil and called, “Salute each other! En garde!”

The players widened their stances and bent their elbows close to their torsos.

“Ready? Fence!”

The foils flashed as the students parried one another's thrusts. The air rang out with the sound of steel tinging and clanging against steel. “I hope I make the fencing team someday,” Cecily whispered out of the side of her mouth.

“I bet you will.”

“Halt!” Ms. Yardsly ordered. “Hazel, lean out more. Your torso should be slightly ahead of your waist. There, good. Play!”

Rollie watched Wesley. His movement was fluid and graceful. He seemed to hold the foil more naturally in his hand than his opponent did. Within a few seconds of the duel, Wesley already had control of its tempo. He pressed his attack that kept his opponent on the defensive. Desperate, the student flashed his blade wildly and lunged. Wesley smoothly parried the blow and sent a quick strike straight to his attacker's chest.

Using Holmes' order of observation, Rollie jotted down notes as he watched. Hands: Wesley held the foil in his left hand; his right hand was white with a powdery substance, probably chalk from a classroom. Sleeves: a memo about an upcoming ash analysis quiz was penciled on the right cuff. Knees: grass stains on his trousers told of rugby practice earlier. Shoes: he wore black Converse sneakers like Mr. Chad's. Rollie wondered how Wesley had gotten his pair from the States.

The fencers finished their rounds and followed their coach in cooldown stretches.

“Did you get enough notes?” Cecily asked.

“I think so.” Rollie glanced at Cecily's crammed notes and compared them to his. “You wrote a ton!”

“I love observing. I'll add these notes to my personal files. I'm on my third composition book of personal profiles.”

“Personal profiles?”

Cecily smiled cleverly. “I've been keeping descriptions of classmates, staff, and friends to have on file for cases. I log descriptions of appearances, habits, quotes, the usual.”

Rollie gaped at her. “Do you have notes on me?”

“Of course.” Cecily shook her head of auburn curls. “But I won't tell you—they're
private
profiles. Don't worry, nothing incriminating—besides your habit of stuffing trash in your pockets instead of throwing it away.”

Rollie dug his hands in his trouser pockets and pulled out handfuls of deteriorating tissues from the morning, crinkled candy wrappers from Miss Gram's class, used paper napkins from lunch, and Herr Zilch's note. Hastily, he stuffed the note back in his pocket. “I didn't think anyone noticed.”

“I don't think you even noticed.” Cecily giggled.

Sheepishly, Rollie tossed the trash into a nearby bin. “Want to head to Mr. Chad's class?”

Cecily bounded to her feet and skipped across the roof, Rollie behind her. They arrived early to Disguise class. Mr. Chad sat behind his desk already, so they entered.

“Hey, kids.” His blue eyes twinkled as he glanced up from a tackle box of false noses he was organizing. “How is . . . AH-CHOO!” He gave a mighty sneeze.

“Are you catching a cold, Mr. Chad?” Rollie asked.

Mr. Chad shook his head as he blew his nose into a handkerchief. “All this cinnamon-pumpkin-spice-whatever-it-is smell is making me sneeze. I'm all about autumn decorations, but the scents drive me nuts.”

“Miss Gram has spread the scent everywhere,” Rollie said, rolling his eyes.

“She's lovely!” Cecily cooed, her green eyes glistening.

Mr. Chad looked from one to the other, and chuckled. “She's already gotten to you, huh? Yeah, she's a peach.”

“Will she decorate for every holiday here?” Cecily wanted to know. “For Christmas?”

“I wouldn't put it past her. Gwen seems to be concerned only with appearances. I'm not complaining about the change at all. Still . . .” Mr. Chad trailed off and shook his head.

“Rosemary Wood has started an etiquette club, and I was invited to join,” Cecily said. “In the club we call her
Lady
Gram.”

Mr. Chad snorted. “Call her what you like; I'm sure she'll love it. I'll stick to calling her Gwen.”

The door banged open and students began to file in.

Mr. Chad shot to his feet. “In the name of all that's Sherlockian, take your seats, sleuths!” Mr. Chad always disguised his manner to be formal and bossy when other students were around. He never wanted to let on to others that Rollie and Cecily were his favorite sleuths.

Rollie glanced back at the door to see his classmates filing in. Rollie eyed them as they took their seats, wondering if Zilch's mole could be disguised among them. As Rollie sat down at his desk, he wondered if Zilch's mole was in the very room with them. It was an unpleasant thought.

The Seco
nd Creepy Thing

The week progressed without incident until Thursday when Mr. Notch sent the class to secretly observe anyone they wanted. Rollie wandered downstairs and found Headmaster and Miss Gram mulling together in the entry hall.

“Are you sure, Gwen?” Headmaster Yardsly asked the little teacher. Their height difference was comical, he a lean six-foot-something, and she a petite five-foot-something.

“Absolutely, Sullivan,” she confirmed in her airy voice. “I found another hole in the baseboard outside my classroom. Now this one here in the staircase. That's the second hole in a week. Tsk-tsk, I think you have rats.”

“RATS! That's revolting. We don't have rats. Maybe mice, but not rats.”

“You know the old adage,
the rats come out to play when all the cats are away
.”

“MICE! Mice come out to play. I'll have to set traps. Report if you find more.”

“Of course. Oh, which reminds me of one more thing,” said Miss Gram. “Someone is also taking down my autumn decorations. I hung wreathes on these doors—” she waved her hand down the hallway— “and now they're gone.”

Yardsly shrugged. “VERY odd. Perhaps it was my sister. She hasn't been too keen on all the decorations.”

Miss Gram chuckled, her laughter sounding like wind chimes. She danced up the stairs, leaving Yardsly to ponder in the hallway.

Rollie crouched behind a stack of still-packed boxes to observe his headmaster.

“Rats? Mice?” Yardsly mumbled to himself. He stooped to study a hole in the base of the staircase. He mumbled a little too loudly, “NO! Not rats or mice. A different rodent!”

At that moment, Rollie wanted to emerge and ask which rodent Yardsly suspected. But Rollie remembered Mr. Notch's strict warning: “Let me underscore:
never
ever
reveal yourself to people you are spying on. They will never trust you the same way and they will always be looking over their shoulders for you.”

Rollie waited until Yardsly strode away to his office. Seeing no one around, Rollie crawled out from his hiding spot and studied the hole. He could almost fit a few fingers through it. Peering in, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary except for some water pipes. He puzzled over this and the fact that Yardsly seemed to have an explanation for it.

Miss Gram had mentioned a hole near her classroom. Maybe that hole could shed more light on the mystery. Rollie found the second floor empty. All the other students were still in class. He spotted a hole beside Miss Gram's closed classroom door, and knelt down to examine it. The hole was roughly the same size as the other one; he could just fit two fingers through it. Only wall beams on the other side.

What made such a hole? The sides of the hole were fairly even and smooth. Plaster powder and chunks from the wall dirtied the green carpet along the baseboard. Rollie had a hard time imagining an animal digging out a hole in the wall like that. Maybe he was asking the wrong question.

Who
carved such a large hole and
why?

Rollie got to his feet, brushed plaster crumbs off his palms, and headed to Disguise class. He pondered these holes during Mr. Chad's demonstration of how to impersonate a senior citizen. Mr. Chad was dressed as an old lady with a parasol, a disguise Sherlock Holmes had donned once to solve a case. Mr. Chad hunched over and shuffled his feet slowly.

Why would someone knock holes in the walls? To find something hidden?

“Listen, younglings, mind your manners and respect your elders,” Mr. Chad rasped in a high-pitched voice. “You never know when they might be your peers in disguise. Or worse, your enemies.”

What could be hidden in the walls?

“Besides old folks, watch out for other kids,” Mr. Chad continued in his normal voice as he straightened and cracked his back. “Sometimes street rats are really spies for someone powerful. Remember Holmes had a group of street orphans he hired to get underground information. Does anyone know what he called them? Mr. Arthur?”

The young boy with wide eyes promptly recited, “The Baka Stweet Iwegulas!”

“Bingo!” Mr. Chad touched knuckles with Arthur. “The Baker Street Irregulars. They delivered messages for Holmes and reported news he needed for cases. They were less noticeable and intimidating than officers, so they often found out more information. Alrighty, let's review our lesson today. Holmes could see through disguises because he focused on the . . .”

“Face!” the students chimed together.

“And not on the . . .”

“Trimmings!”

“Which would be a person's hair, hat, and anything else that might be worn on the head or face.”

After class, Rollie went up to his room and grabbed his textbooks, determined to catch up on his IS work and stay in Headmaster Yardsly's good graces. He went to the Rearranging Library where he found Wesley and his two friends Todd and Jimmy sitting cross-legged on the carpet, books in laps.

“Is there room for one more?” he asked them.

Wesley looked up with a grin. “Sure! Move over, fellas.”

The three boys had scooted aside to make room for him in their circle on the floor. He sat cross-legged between Wesley and Todd.

“We're working on math,” Todd grumbled.

“And we've still got science left,” Jimmy moaned. “We'll be here all night!”

Wesley laughed. “We'd rather play rugby than study.”

Rollie laughed back. “Yeah, I'm a little behind, too.”

The boys worked quietly, scribbling math problems on paper, erasing decimals, working the figures. A loud whooshing noise startled them. The library was rearranging. The shelves dropped, rose, slid and jumbled up all the books.

“This crazy library!” Todd exclaimed as he shook his fist at the shelves. “I'm a fourth year and I still haven't figured it out.”

“Me neither,” Jimmy muttered. “I thought there was supposed to be a pattern, but I don't see it.”

“Professor Enches had me working on it,” Wesley commented. “But I haven't solved it.”

“Professor Enches?” Rollie's interest perked up.

“He thought I'd be good at figuring out the library,” Wesley said. “Have you figured it out?”

Rollie bit his lip. He was not supposed to betray the library's secret that the rearranging shelves were just a facade for hidden shelves behind the bookcases. “I haven't figured out the pattern,” he answered truthfully.

“Same here. I hope I can figure it out before Enches returns.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rollie in surprise.

“He'll be back after his sabbatical,” Wesley said matter-of-factly.

“How long is he going to be gone?” Todd wondered.

“
Long
, I hope,” Jimmy mumbled. “He's so
boring
.”

“Be nice—he's a professor, after all,” Wesley said solemnly.

As the boys returned to their math, Rollie watched Wesley with a little pity. His friend had no idea what had really happened to the professor, that Enches had been caught, arrested, and then had taken his own life through poison. He wished he could be honest with Wesley, but he had promised Headmaster Yardsly he would not say a word about the past. Rollie questioned Yardsly's decision to withhold information about Herr Zilch from the students, but he had to honor his word. Still he wondered how true of a friend he was when he could not be completely honest. He squeezed his lips together and dropped his eyes back to math.

“There you are, Roly-Poly,” a voice announced from the library doorway.

Rollie froze, his face heating. He did not look up from his worksheet.

“Did you hear me?” Rupert trudged toward them.

In and out, in and out
, Rollie reminded himself to breathe.

“Who are you talking to?” Wesley asked, confused.

“Roly-Poly,” said Rupert, nodding at Rollie. “I can call you that, right?”

“No. You can't.” Rollie's jaw clenched. “Leave me alone.”

Rupert glanced at the older boys and drew himself up a bit. “Don't tell me what to do, Roly-Poly.”

“Stop calling me that!” exploded Rollie.

Wesley frowned and stood up. “Not cool, Rupert. I think you better leave us alone to study.”

Rupert met Wesley's eyes and for a moment his smug face flinched. “I was leaving anyway. I've got an important assignment to do.” He slunk out of the library.

Rollie relaxed a little. “That's not my nickname—”

“Never mind,” Wesley sat down again. “If it is or not, that's no one's business till you make it public.”

“Rupert's a weasel,” Todd, a lean redhead, added.

“More like an opossum,” Jimmy, a stocky dimple-faced boy, joked.

“We're not fans of his,” Wesley concluded. “But you, well, you're like one of the team.”

“Thanks.” Rollie smiled. “I don't care for Rupert either, but he's my roommate.”

All three boys groaned in unison.

Todd and Jimmy called it quits a half hour before supper. They gathered their books and promised to save their friends a seat on the roof. Wesley and Rollie decided to persevere in their studies until supper.

“Where did you get your shoes?” Rollie broke the silence.

Wesley glanced at his black Converse sneakers. “My father got them for me from New York. They're just like Mr. Chad's.”

“I noticed. They're really great.”

“I could ask my father to pick you up a pair on his next trip to the States.”

“Really?” Rollie shook his head. “They're probably too expensive. Don't worry about it.”

“No worries.” Wesley socked Rollie's shoulder playfully. “How old are you?”

“I'll be twelve on November first.”

“That's soon. I'm fourteen.”

“You're young for a fourth year. Aren't they usually fifteen?”

“I skipped a year. Last year, Professor Enches recommended I skip ahead. Headmaster only considers students with teacher recommendations, but he also agreed I could handle upper classes.”

Rollie's eyes widened. “That's impressive. You must be a big Sherlockian.”

Wesley shrugged modestly. “I really love investigating. I have to work hard though.”

“Do you think you'll be a great detective someday?”

Wesley furrowed his deep brow. “I hope so, but sometimes I wonder if I have what it takes to make a name for myself in the criminal justice world. I wonder if I'm clever enough, or brave enough. Holmes' identity was based on his genius and expertise. I only hope I can have such an identity as a detective.”

Rollie nodded. “I feel the same way. I mean, I want to be like Holmes, but then so does everyone else here.”

“You've already made somewhat of an identity for yourself. You solved a case last month. Headmaster doesn't just give those deerstalker hats away, you know.”

Rollie smiled. He felt honored Yardsly recognized his work, and trusted him with another case, but the weight of responsibility quickly grew heavy, especially when it came to his friendships. Even if Yardsly had not sworn him to secrecy about the mole case, Rollie still wouldn't have told Wesley in an effort to protect him from Zilch. “It's hard work keeping secrets and following clues.”

“I know!” Wesley eyed Rollie. “It's hard to have real friends when you're keeping secrets. I try to be as honest as I can with my friends.”

Rollie swallowed. “Thanks for sticking up for me against Rupert.”

“You're my friend.” Wesley smiled. “I take that seriously.”