Moriartys final threat, p.1
Moriarty's Final Threat, page 1
part #4 of Sherlock Academy Series
Other Books by F.C. Shaw
The Magical Flight of Dodie Rue
The Sherlock Academy Series
Sherlock Academy
Watson’s Case
The Holmes Brigade
Moriarty’s Final Threat
Moriarty’s Final Threat
Future House Publishing
Text © 2019 F.C. Shaw
Interior illustrations © 2019 Future House Publishing
Cover illustration © 2019 Future House Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of Future House Publishing at rights@futurehousepublishing.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-944452-98-8 (paperback)
Cover illustration by Tyler Stott
Interior Illustrations by Tyler Stott
Developmental editing by Helena Steinacker
Substantive editing by Erin Nightingale and Abbie Robinson
Copy editing by Abbie Robinson
Interior design by Sarah Jensen
To Amelia and Alistair,
Who’ve made our story complete
I love you both
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Contents
Chapter One — The First Brigade Mission
Chapter Two — The Underground
Chapter Three — The Second Brigade Mission
Chapter Four — Back to School
Chapter Five — A Strange House Guest
Chapter Six — A Tale of Two Sisters
Chapter Seven — The First Lead
Chapter Eight — From One Brigader to Another
Chapter Nine — A Clue in the Cupboard
Chapter Ten — Going Undercover
Chapter Eleven — The Shoes That Spoke
Chapter Twelve — A Bit of Shopping
Chapter Thirteen — All in the Family
Chapter Fourteen — Zilch’s Confession
Chapter Fifteen — The Rumors Are True
Chapter Sixteen — Who’s Who?
Chapter Seventeen — The Other Side of the Story
Chapter Eighteen — Extra Points
Chapter Nineteen — Haunted
Chapter Twenty — The Man in the Black Fedora
Chapter Twenty-One — The Safest Place
Chapter Twenty-Two — Euston’s Research
Chapter Twenty-Three — Back in July
Chapter Twenty-Four — The First Clue
Chapter Twenty-Five — The Next Clue
Chapter Twenty-Six — The Last Clue
Chapter Twenty-Seven — The Bargain
Chapter Twenty-Eight — Counting Down
Chapter Twenty-Nine — Mr. H the Great
Chapter Thirty — Moriarty’s Last Word
Chapter Thirty-One — The Final Problem Part One
Chapter Thirty-Two — The Final Problem Part Two
Epilogue — A Fresh Beginning
Chapter One — The First Brigade Mission
The envelope had been delivered by a familiar face on Saturday morning.
Rollie Wilson had been surprised to find his roommate Rupert Crisp at his door. Rupert had handed the envelope to Rollie, given a half-smile, and left. After Rollie read the letter, he understood Rupert’s cryptic behavior.
Now it was Monday morning and the twelve-year-old detective finished his last bite of hash browns before glancing around the empty breakfast table. His father had returned to work at Regent’s College, his mother had taken Auntie Ei to her bridge club, and his brothers and sisters had resumed school. Christmas vacation was not over yet for Rollie—Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths had an extra week off. Even though he was not back to school yet, Rollie still had detective work to do. He was thrilled to have been accepted into the Holmes Brigade and was anxious to find his kidnapped friend Wesley Livingston.
As he reread the note from Euston Hood, acting advisor for the Holmes Brigade, he fingered the leather wristband he wore. In the last week, Rollie had come to understand Sherlock Holmes’s frustration with idleness. Holmes had hated having nothing to investigate, nothing to challenge his brain, no way to utilize his deductive reasoning skills. Rollie felt the same way. But finally his sleuthing brain had something to investigate.
A bus pass had been stapled to the letter. The pass was very specific: Bus 139 Primrose Hill to York Street only. Monday 9 January 1932, 8:00 a.m.
The envelope had also included a playing card: the Ace of clubs. The design on the back of the card excited Rollie. It was a forest-green silhouette of Sherlock Holmes against a black background. Rollie wished he had an entire deck of Holmes playing cards and wondered if Mycroft’s Mercantile, the detective supply store, sold any.
Once he had memorized the instructions, he was ready to destroy the letter as directed. He sniffed the paper, then touched it with his tongue. Mmm!
He crumpled up the paper and stuffed it in his mouth. It instantly dissolved into strawberry syrup. Smiling, Rollie washed it down with a swig of tea and hurried to the entry hall where the grandfather clock showed ten to eight.
The winter morning was gray, promising more snow, so he dressed warmly in black trousers and a gray wool sweater. He stuffed his small magnifying glass, pocket notepad, and pencil stub in his back pockets and slipped the bus pass and Ace of clubs in his front coat pocket.
He remembered the letter’s postscript: Don’t forget your key. The only key that had come to mind was the old skeleton key Rollie had received in August, representing Ms. Yardsly and her Decoding Course. He kept all those class items in his hollow Shakespeare book. So he had rummaged through the pen of invisible ink, the pipe of invisible ink solution, the empty glass vial (once full of ashes), the red ball cap, and the antique Holmes newspaper concealing the Academy’s secret passage map until he found the key and slipped it into his front pocket.
Following Euston’s instructions, he had not breathed a word of his mission to anyone. Sunday night, he had told his mother he would be out on Monday and she had only told him to be home in time for dinner. Besides Rollie and Auntie Ei, the Wilson family knew nothing of Wesley’s kidnapping. Auntie Ei had decided it would be best for them not to know about it. She feared if Rollie’s parents knew, they would keep him out of the investigation for his own safety.
Rollie pulled on his black wool coat. His mother had re-stitched the sleeve that Herr Zilch had torn off last week. He wrapped his orange and black striped scarf around his neck, laced up his boots, and tugged on his mittens. Lastly, he pulled a red knit cap over his sandy blond hair.
“The game’s afoot,” he murmured to himself.
The sky had been clear of snow for over a week, so everything was thawing. But more snow, a little unusual for January in London, was predicted to fall soon. Rollie’s breath came out in white puffs as he glanced down the street in the direction of his best friend Cecily Brighton’s house. He wondered if they would cross paths on their mission, assuming she had received instructions from Euston just as he had. Seeing no one around her house, he turned and trudged down the street.
He stopped at the large, vacant house next door to his. Its double doors were padlocked and a new sign was posted outside that read Crime Scene: Under Scotland Yard Surveillance. NO TRESPASSING!
Rollie felt a knot in his stomach. Herr Zilch’s home had become a crime scene after he and his MUS agents had kidnapped Wesley Livingston. Exactly three and a half days had passed since the kidnapping—Rollie was keeping count. He had heard no word about it from anyone, not even Auntie Ei, who was a well of secrets and information.
As he reached the end of the block, a red double-decker bus numbered 139 turned the corner and screeched to a halt at the bus stop. Rollie threw a glance over his shoulder and hopped on board. After showing his pass to the driver he chose a seat near the back door on the first floor. The bus shuddered and rumbled for two blocks before halting at another stop. An old lady and a girl got on together, both bundled in scarves up to their eyes. The bus took off and made no more stops as it passed Regent’s Park and headed south down Baker Street.
Rollie gazed through the steamy window at the traffic, the tall buildings, and the flocks of pedestrians and shoppers. If he had not been feel
But he still had not forgiven himself for being tricked by Zilch’s trap and for putting his friend in danger. Wesley had volunteered to be his back-up at the meeting with Zilch, and Wesley had been aware of the risks. Yet it had been Rollie’s plan to summon Zilch; it was his plan that had put himself and his friends in danger. He had hoped to capture Zilch and bring down MUS once and for all, but things had gone wrong, horribly wrong. Rollie knew he should have been smarter, more cautious.
What made it all worse was the last thing Wesley had said to him: “Holmes has always been my hero, but you know what? I think you might be my new Holmes. I’m glad you’ve got my back, Rollie Wilson.” The words haunted him.
Rollie swallowed a lump in his throat as the bus crossed Marylebone Road and slowed to a stop. He saw that it he was at York Street, so he quickly hopped off. The elderly woman and young girl got off, too. As the bus puttered away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Rollie realized he had no further instructions. What was the next clue?
The street was lined with little shops, businesses, and pubs. On the corner was a newspaper stand. Next to it was a red telephone booth. Inside the booth, the phone was ringing—
Rollie dodged into the booth and picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” he said.
Click. Silence.
Rollie hung up. His brown eyes swept the booth, and he spotted a matchbook taped to the windowpane beside the phone. He opened it. Only matches. He read the name on the cover: Park Plaza Hotel, 108 Baker Street. He hurried ahead. Thanks to Mr. Chad’s occasional outings, Rollie knew the neighborhood fairly well. He soon found the Park Plaza Hotel and entered through its glass double doors. He stepped up to the front desk.
“May I help you?” the female receptionist asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
Rollie had a hunch. “I’m supposed to pick something up here.” He handed her the matchbook.
The receptionist’s face softened. She slid the Monday edition of the Daily Telegraph newspaper across the counter to him. “There are some interesting items on the last page.” She turned away to answer the telephone.
Rollie dropped down into a stiff armchair next to the front window and leafed through the newspaper to the back page. His eyes landed on a crossword puzzle with a few yellow highlighted squares. He sighed impatiently. He was not in the mood to sit quietly and complete a crossword puzzle, but he knew his next clue must be highlighted there for him. He fished out his pencil stub and got to work, finding the puzzle easier than he had anticipated. Once he completed the puzzle, he read the highlighted clue. Seven down said nearest, fourteen across said tube, and twenty-six down said wc. Nearest tube wc.
A bit cryptic, but he knew what it meant. He jumped to his feet, leaving the newspaper behind, and raced out of the hotel. The nearest underground tube station was the terminal just north on Baker Street. The closer he got to the station, the more crowded the traffic grew, both on the pavement and the street.
He squeezed past a swarm of tourists and bounded downstairs to the station. The air grew thick and warm. He found the restrooms marked WC for Water Closet on the doors and bolted into the men’s restroom. It was surprisingly empty. He poked around for the next clue. Nothing out of the ordinary . . .
. . . Except for a service door labeled Maintenance with the Academy’s deerstalker hat logo! It was locked. When Rollie scrutinized the lock, he noticed it was shaped for a skeleton key.
He fished out his key and, with a shaky hand of excitement, fit it into the lock. When he turned the key and opened the door, he found a small closet crammed with brooms, mops, pails, and cleaners. Pushing these aside, he inspected the back wall of the closet. It was made out of brick. Something near the bottom caught his eye.
A forest green silhouette of Sherlock Holmes against a black background.
He took out the Ace of clubs and held it up to the silhouette. A perfect match. He ripped off his mitten and touched the silhouette on the wall. It was a smooth, cold tile.
Creeeeak!
The brick wall swung lazily open, revealing a narrow tunnel lit by a dim, overhead light bulb. The tunnel looked very much like the secret passage at the Academy that Rollie had discovered and explored in October. Rollie locked the closet door behind him and slunk into the tunnel. The brick wall swung closed. He ventured through the narrow, mossy tunnel.
Once or twice he heard footsteps behind him, but reckoned they were from commuters in the tube on the other side of the tunnel walls. Periodically, he also heard the metro train rumbling past. The tunnel was cold and musty, turning this way and that.
Rollie did not know how far to go or where this tunnel would lead him; he just kept going. He passed the occasional metal door along the way. He wondered if this tunnel connected to the secret passage back at school, or maybe even to Mycroft’s Mercantile.
When he reached a fork, he stopped and scanned the walls. The tunnel to his right was marked with a bubblegum-pink Holmes silhouette; the tunnel on his left was marked with a green silhouette. He dodged into the left tunnel.
Now Rollie noticed no sounds except his own footsteps and anxious breathing. He was in a quieter area, perhaps beneath a neighborhood. The farther Rollie went, the more excited he grew. He was sure the tunnel was taking him to the Holmes Brigade Headquarters.
Rollie rounded a bend and came to a dead end at a peculiar, forest-green metal door. Instead of a doorknob, there were four small combination locks, like those found on a safe. He studied the combination locks and noticed each one marked with different initials. He heard voices approaching down the tunnel behind him. At first he stiffened.
“Please tell me you did not know about this secret passage.”
“I promise, Eliot, this is all new to me, too.”
Rollie relaxed.
Cecily A. Brighton and Eliot S. Tildon rounded the bend.
“Rollie!” Cecily squealed. Even in the dim light, her green eyes sparkled.
“How did you get here before us?” Eliot wanted to know. He ruffled his shaggy raven hair. “Is there a spider in my hair? This tunnel gives me the creeps.”
“Hallo, chums,” Rupert Crisp greeted as he appeared behind the other two.
“We’re all here—the Holmes Brigade!” Rollie exclaimed with a smile. “And I deduce this is the door to Brigade Headquarters. I think there’s a lock for each of us. This one’s yours, Rupert.” He pointed to the lock labeled BSI. “You’re the Baker Street Irregular.”
“I don’t know any combinations,” the plump boy shrugged.
“Neither do I,” admitted Rollie.
“Wait a minute!” Cecily piped up. “I know what the combinations are!” She pulled up her sleeve to reveal her leather wristband. She snapped it off and read the inside. “One right, twenty-three left, twenty right! I spotted this the other day.”
The three boys snapped off their Brigade wristbands and found their combinations.
“Good job, Watson!” Rollie smiled at Cecily. “But we still don’t know whose is whose, except for Rupert.”
Rupert spun the BSI lock according to his combination. There was a soft click. He stepped away from the door.
“Crikey! I guess we could use the old fashion trial and error method,” Eliot suggested. He tried the top lock with MI; his combination did not produce a click. He tried the next MO—nothing. “Guess this one with MD must be me.” It worked. “What does MD stand for?”
Cecily’s combination worked on the MO lock. Rollie was the last to enter his combination on the MI lock. Eleven right, one left, nineteen right. This time the heavy door yawned open.
In anticipation, all four sleuths crowded together to look through the open doorway. A solemn-looking man in black stood in a small, dim room. He sported a scar on his cheek and was younger than his weathered face appeared.
“Well done, Brigaders. Welcome to the Baker Street Underground.”
Chapter Two — The Underground
“Mr. Hood!” all four sleuths chimed at once.
Euston Hood stood in a small room with a row of four lockers on one side. He beckoned them inside. When he closed the door behind them, four soft clicks assured them the door was locked. Before he could say a word, the four new Brigaders shot off their questions:
