Sherlock Academy (Sherlock Academy Series, Band 1) - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

F.C. Shaw grew up with stories. First she had them told to her, and read to her. Then she read them for herself and discovered the magic therein. She is on a mission to help others discover the magic unlocked by reading a book, so has set forth to write her own stories. When she is not dreaming up and writing new stories, she tours the country sharing her books with kids. With a Master's Degree and Teaching Credential, she has taught everything from Kindergarten to college. She lives with her husband and two sons in California.

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The letter arrived by courier during breakfast.
“Go on, Rollie, read it aloud to us.” Mrs. Wilson, his mother, nudged his shoulder.
Rollie stared at the letter in his hand, his brown eyes wide with excitement.
“Who would send him mail?” Edward, an older brother, snorted.
“I don’t even get mail and I have a girlfriend,” Stewart, Edward’s twin, added.
“Maybe that’s it!” Edward exclaimed, grinning his lopsided smile. “Got a secret girlfriend, Rollie? I’ll bet it’s Cecily Brighton!”
“I wish I’d get a letter,” Lucille, a younger sister, pouted.
“Me too!” Daphne, her twin, chimed.
“Find a boyfriend and you’ll get mail,” Edward quipped.
Stewart slapped a high-five with his twin. The two teens snickered and elbowed each other.
“Stop it, boys. Let Rollie read it aloud,” Mrs. Wilson scolded as she brushed Rollie’s sandy-blond hair with her fingers.
Rollie cleared a dry throat unnecessarily. In a high voice common to boys of eleven years, Rollie read the letter aloud. When he was finished, the entire Wilson family started talking at once with high-handed opinions, as was their custom.
“Whoever heard of the Sherlock Academy?”
“Why Tuesday?”
“It’s the first of the month.”
“I want a letter!”
“Me too!”
“Get a boyfriend.”
Amidst all the banter around the breakfast table, Rollie sat silently regarding his hash browns, the only food he ever ate for breakfast. His middle fluttered with butterflies. He felt that flutter when he was excited, like on his birthday, on Christmas day, on the first day of school, and when solving a mystery. Most children his age became very hyper when they felt this flutter in their middles. Perhaps they nagged their parents to no end, or galloped around the house squealing, or did something really naughty like peek at their presents. But in the Wilson household, there was never a need for Rollie to behave this way. Everyone else was louder or more hyper, which, oddly enough, calmed him. Such was the case at the breakfast table laden with pancakes, eggs, and hash browns.
Rollie folded the letter and tucked it in his brown trouser pocket. As he tuned out everyone’s comments, he noticed the usual absence of one family member’s opinion. He threw a sideways glance at his great-aunt Eileen, who sat primly sipping her tea and holding her tongue. She was thin and of average height, though she always appeared taller because of her upright posture and her tendency to look down her nose at people. She kept her gray hair in a bun atop her head, which also added to her height. Her gray eyes never missed a thing, and the wrinkles on her pale face made her look wise, which she was.
He picked up his fork and poked his hash browns. He scooped up a bit, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. Nope, no use eating at a time like this. Whenever he felt that flutter, his appetite vanished until the excitement resolved. Maybe it was good he got that flutter only three times a year, otherwise he might be even skinnier than he already was.
Rap-rap-rap!
Mr. Wilson rapped his knuckles on the table to get everyone’s attention. “Enough, enough! I will lay out the facts and there will be no more talk of this until Tuesday.”
Mr. Wilson taught mathematics at the local Regent’s College and loved facts as much as he hated speculation. He embodied the role of a professor in his tweed suit, perched spectacles, and straight-combed hair. “Fact: this letter is addressed to Rollie, so it follows that it’s no one else’s business.” He turned a warning eye at Lucille and Daphne who were uncommonly nosey for seven-year-olds. “Fact: the orientation will answer all our questions. Fact: the orientation is not until Tuesday, so there is nothing we can do until Tuesday. Conclusion: this conversation is summed.”
Mr. Wilson stood from the table and marched out of the dining room, his morning paper tucked under his arm.
Mrs. Wilson also stood, and smoothed her blue print dress. “Edward, Stewart, don’t be late today or you just might get fired. Girls, you have dance lessons at nine. Auntie Ei, if you have any errands, I can drive—”
“No thank you, Eloise.” Auntie Ei rose briskly to her feet and swept away quickly despite her eighty-odd years.
“Rollie, your violin lesson is cancelled today. Mrs. Trindle is feeling under the weather.” She smoothed his sandy-blond hair and shooed him on his way.
Rollie smiled as the family dispersed. He cared less for violin lessons now than when he first begged his mother for them. He had wanted to play the violin for the sole purpose of mimicking Sherlock Holmes, and enjoyed it to some extent. But he disliked Mrs. Trindle because she smelled stale and flicked the underside of his wrists to “improve the posture,” so she said. No violin lesson meant no other plans for the whole day, which spelled freedom until suppertime.
Rollie raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, pulling himself up by the polished banister. At the end of the hall on the second floor, he mounted twelve more stairs leading to the top of the house. He flew into his watchtower-like bedroom. Being the middle child with no twin did have its advantages: his own bedroom. Though it was the smallest bedroom in the large house, he did not complain, for the house was a gift from Auntie Ei.
Auntie Ei was a lady of property. Long ago, she had passed down the Wilson manor to Rollie’s father as an early inheritance on the condition that she would live with them. This meant a crotchety addition to the family and a small room for Rollie. No one understood the reason she chose to live with the family since she was annoyed by all of them—all of them except Rollie. She had a keen interest in him, and a degree of affection for him. When he was old enough to read she had given him his first Sherlock Holmes book, which had planted the thrill of being a detective in Rollie. Despite her partiality toward him she had not been able to secure him a proper bedroom in the house.
But Rollie loved his little room. It had one window overlooking Mr. Crenshaw’s garden next door—a great view for spying. Best of all, he was allowed to keep his room any way he wanted.
On the wall nearest the window, he had covered the surface with cork to tack up clues and notes from the cases he solved. On his desk below the window, a telescope peeked through, kept company by a magnifying glass, a spyglass, and binoculars. The rest of his room was filled with boyish delights like a BB rifle, a model airplane, a pennant of his favorite rugby team, and books and books and books.
Rollie plopped down on the navy carpet next to his bookcase. He did not organize his books alphabetically by author or title or even topic like the family’s private library downstairs. Instead he organized them by personal rating. Stuck to each shelf, a little label explained his rating system.
The top shelf’s label read in his best handwriting Excellent Books, My Favorites. The shelf below said Good Books I Like. Below that, Okay Books That Were Sort of Good. The last shelf read Books I Didn’t Really Like. The reason he bothered to keep the books on this last shelf was for appearances only—he hated empty bookshelves. The books on all the shelves constantly shuffled around as he read new ones and added them, or re-read others and revised his rating.
Running his finger...