The 100-Year-Old Secret (3 page)

Xena knew better than to interrupt him when he was thinking, but she was getting more and more anxious. If this had all been a mistake, the waitress would have come back by now. What was going on? Who wanted them locked up in here? And how would they get out?

“Got it!” Xander's voice broke in on her thoughts. “The Baker Street Irregulars!”

Xena shook her head in bewilderment.

“In my Sherlock Holmes book,” he added.

“I never read it, remember?” Xena said. “So what did it say?”

“Well, there were these kids. Sherlock Holmes hired them to be like a detective squad for him. Sherlock lived on Baker Street, so he
called them the Baker Street Irregulars. This could be a clue.”

“A clue to what?” she asked as her brother tapped on the box some more. She was just about to tell him to quit it when she realized that Xander's finger-thumping sounded odd. “Hey,” she said. “Do that again.”

“Do what?”

“This.” She reached over and thumped the box with her own fingers and their eyes met. “It's not cardboard like the rest. It sounds sturdier, like wood.” She kicked it, and then said, “Ow!” It hadn't budged.

“It's full of something heavy.” Xander gave it a shove. “
Really
heavy. Or it's attached to the floor.”

Xena ran her fingertips over the edges, feeling for tape that she could peel off to open the box, and stopped on a corner. “What's this?” she asked.

Xander elbowed her aside. “It's a hinge!” He felt farther down the edge. “And here's another one!” He worked his fingers into the edge opposite the hinges and pulled. For an agonizing second nothing happened. Then the front of the box popped open. They stood back and stared at it.

“Well, that could explain the fake dust,” Xena said. “Somebody must do something with this box that knocks the dust off it and they don't
want it to stand out for some reason. The fake dust makes it blend in with the others.”

They stepped closer and peered inside. They couldn't see much from that angle. Somebody would clearly have to crawl into it. “Go on,” Xander said, gesturing at the opening.

“No,
you
go,” Xena said, although she really would have liked to explore it. “You're smaller. I'd hardly fit.”

Xander took a breath and crawled in. Almost instantly he bumped his head. “Ow!”

“Way to go, cowboy,” Xena said. “Try not to knock yourself out in there.”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered. He looked around. “There's nothing in here,” he said. “Just the back of the box.” He stopped. His eyes were adjusting to the semidarkness and now he could see that what he had bumped his head on wasn't the end of the box, but a wall. And it wasn't a plain surface. On it were four knobs, with lines radiating out from their centers. The holes on the top of the box that had looked like random damage were actually cleverly placed to allow light to fall on the knobs.

“Whoa,” he said softly.

“What?”

Xander didn't answer. He reached out a hand.

The knobs looked exactly like the dials on a combination lock. The first three had numbers, and the fourth had letters of the alphabet instead. He rotated one, and it twirled jerkily.

“Xander, what
is
it?”

“It's knobs, like on a safe,” he said. “Wait a sec. I think I might be able to come up with the combination.”

He concentrated. Baker Street Irregulars. Sherlock Holmes had lived on Baker Street, at the most famous address in London, someone had once said. He relaxed, knowing that if he opened his mind, the exact address would come to him. Three numbers and a letter. Three numbers and a . . .

Yes, there it was. Flashing in front of his eyelids: 221B Baker Street.

It was just like the knobs. Three numbered knobs, and then a lettered one. Xander set the first two dials on 2. The third dial was already on 1, and as he twirled the fourth one, he felt a deep certainty. The dial stuck a little on its way to B. Then it lined up with a satisfying click.

Xander hesitated, nervous about what he'd find on the other side of the door. But there was no turning back now.

He pushed on the wall—and the small slab
of cement moved. He blinked in the bright light that hit his face, blinding him momentarily.

“What's that light?” Xena's voice was eager. “It's a door!” Xander's voice was hoarse with excitement. “A door, Xena! We can get out of here!”

Xena was so relieved that her knees suddenly felt weak. “Oh, hooray! Where does it go? Back to the pub?”

But Xander couldn't answer, because he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

X
ena couldn't stand it anymore. She dropped to her knees and squeezed herself into the box. She poked her head through the opening just as Xander disappeared in front of her.

A burst of laughter greeted her. Startled, she looked up.

She didn't know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't three pairs of legs, one in jeans, one in a man's long pants, and the third in pantyhose and small flat shoes. “Who—” she started to say when a hand reached down and helped her crawl out. She stood up next to her brother, and they both stared around the room.

It seemed like an ordinary living room, with comfortable-looking chairs and couches, a few lamps, and a bookshelf. A colorful rug covered the floor, and weak afternoon sunlight was coming in through two broad windows.

Now that Xena and her brother were upright
they could see the people to whom the legs belonged. There was an elderly lady with a sweet-looking, wrinkled face, wearing a flowered dress. Xena thought she looked familiar but couldn't place her. Next to her stood a skinny, pale boy about Xena's own age with bright red hair. She also saw a short, balding man—the man who had helped her to her feet. His broad smile looked as though it was going to split his round face in two. And behind them stood a small crowd of maybe a dozen people, all smiling and clustered as if they knew one another well.

“Wait a minute! I know you!” Xander exclaimed to the round-faced man. “You dropped that paper into my sister's hand at the hotel!”

The man's smile grew even wider as he bowed to them. “Leroy Brown, at your service,” he said.

“At our
service
?” Xena folded her arms across her chest and gave him a steely stare. “Who are you people? Why did you lock us in that room? And what do you want from us?”

“Yeah!” Xander said, but Xena could tell he was more excited than angry.

The redheaded boy rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. “Aunt Mary, can't we get on with
this? I'm going to be late for football practice.”

“Are you kidding me?” Xena was astonished. “You're part of a crime here—
two
crimes. They're called kidnapping and forced imprisonment.”

“Oh, darling!” The elderly lady's face was pained. “We didn't kidnap you! It was a harmless lark. It was a kind of—” She waved her hands as though unable to think of the word.

“A test,” Mr. Brown said. “And you passed with flying colors. You discovered which box was different, and you also figured out how to open it.”

“A
test
?” Xander asked.

“Yes,” said the redheaded boy. “They wanted to see if you were
worthy
.” He left the group to sit in a chair by the fireplace. “Let me know when this is over,” he grumbled.

“Worthy of what?” Xander asked.

“Oh, I should have prepared for this better,” the lady said, looking at the others for help. “I don't really know where to—”

The boy broke in from the chair. “Aunt Mary,” he said with another sigh. “Shall I do it? It will go much faster.”

“Thank you, Andrew.” The woman looked at him gratefully.

“The game you were playing this morning,” the boy—Andrew—said, “the one where you sat on the steps of the hotel and guessed at the occupation of the people passing by?”

Xena nodded but Xander interrupted him. “How do you know what game we were playing?” he asked.

“Oh, never mind about that,” Andrew said. “We have our ways.”

“The doorman,” Xander whispered to Xena. “He was close enough to hear us. But why would he tell these people about the Game?”

This was getting complicated.

“The doorman at your hotel is one of us,” Mr. Brown said. “His great-grandmother was a detective as well.”

“Now that we've got
that
cleared up,” Andrew went on, “the
Game
,” he said with such reverence that Xena and Xander could almost hear the capital
G
. “Didn't it seem familiar to you?”

“Of course,” Xena snapped. “Our father plays it with us all the time. And he learned it from his father.”

“Who learned it from his father, who learned it from
his
father, who learned it from
his
father,” the boy finished. “Your great-great-great-grandfather,” he added.

Xander mentally added up all the “fathers” and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But so what?”

“It was your great-great-great-grandfather's favorite game,” he said. “Surely you've read about it.”

“You forget,” the old lady said. “Their parents never told them! Your great-great-great-grand-father,” she continued with something new and serious in her voice, “was a very dear friend of my great-great-grandfather, whose name was John Watson.”

So what? Xena thought, but Xander seemed suddenly thrilled.

The lady went on. “And your great-great-great-grandfather's name was—”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Xander turned a shining face toward Xena. “We're related to Sherlock Holmes! How awesome is that!”

“What?” Xena couldn't believe it. The most famous detective that ever lived was their how-many-greats grandfather? How could that be? Why wouldn't they have known it before?

“But how did you know that when we didn't?” Xander asked.

“Don't you remember me?” The old lady smiled, and suddenly Xander realized why she looked familiar.

“You came to visit us, didn't you?” he asked. The lady nodded, looking pleased. “When I was about three, right?”

Now Xena recognized her too. “Our father called you Aunt Mary,” she said. “Are you our aunt?”

“Oh, heavens, no.” The woman shook her head and wisps of gray hair fell out of the bun at the back of her neck. She tucked them in and went on. “I'm just an old friend of the family. Our families have been friends ever since my great-great-grandfather, Dr. John Watson, helped Sherlock Holmes solve cases. I'm Mary Watson.”

“She's
my
aunt,” Andrew said. Everyone ignored him.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!” Xander said. “Amazing!”

Xena broke into a wide grin. “This is so cool,” she said.

“I'm happy you remember me,” Aunt Mary said. “We've invited you here because your dear father, although a lovely man and
quite
talented, has never taken an interest in Sherlock's great work. I understand that as a boy he was teased for claiming the great detective as his ancestor. Perhaps that's why he never told you. But we've been keeping an eye on you in the United States.

We knew that you two were different, and we were thrilled to find out that you were coming to London!”

She looked inquiringly at Mr. Brown, who had been fiddling with a cabinet in the corner of the room. He stepped forward, holding a large leather-bound book in his hands. It looked old, and it smelled musty. Mr. Brown's face creased with a smile as he extended it to them.

If there was anything Xena couldn't resist, it was an old book. She held her breath as she reached for the worn volume. Stamped into the cover were the words
SH Cases: Unresolved
. She raised questioning eyes to the man.

“Oh, come
on,
” Andrew said. “It contains the unsolved cases of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

“Unsolved cases?” Xena repeated.

“Well, yes,” Mr. Brown said softly. “Even your illustrious ancestor, the greatest detective who ever lived, couldn't solve
every
case that came his way. The scientific and technological limitations of the day, you understand.”

“And sometimes he was called away on more pressing business,” Aunt Mary added. “If his government needed him, he had to leave a case before finding the answer.”

“But why are you giving this to us?” Xander asked, peering at the cover of the book, still clutched in Xena's hands. “Do you want us to solve the mysteries?”

“Ha!” Andrew snorted.

Aunt Mary shot him a stern glance. Then her face softened again as she turned to Xander. “No, dear,” she said. “We would never ask you to do that. And I'm sure the trails have gone cold after all this time. It's just that it belongs to your family by rights, so we think you should have it . . . whether or not you set your minds and talents to solving any cases.”

“Thank you!” Xena and Xander chorused. Xander had to hold himself back from jumping with excitement, and Xena felt as flushed as if she had just run a race.

Somehow they knew that this book was going to change their lives.

M
aybe we can solve some of the cases in the casebook,” Xander said. Aunt Mary beamed at him and Xena.

“All our resources,” said Mr. Brown, “are at your disposal. One of our members is a chemist, and he can help with analysis, and—”

“There's time for all that later,” Aunt Mary said. “Now let's celebrate the newest members of the SPFD!”

“I think we'd better go,” Xena said reluctantly. “Our mother is expecting us.”

“Oh, we've already gotten word to her,” Mr. Brown said.

“We've planned a small celebration, dears,” said Aunt Mary. “All of us in the Society for the Preservation of Famous Detectives would like to welcome you to our little group.”