Xena refolded the paper and stared at it. “What's with this disappearing ink?” she asked.
“I thought that was something made up in spy movies,” Xander said.
“And what does this mean, milk for our snake?” Xena wondered aloud. “We don't even have a snake.”
“Snakes don't drink milk anyway,” Xander said. He screwed up his face, his eyes closed, and Xena could tell that he was putting his photographic memory to work. In another minute he spoke as though reading from an encyclopedia, which, in a way, he was.
“Most snakes are carnivores,” he recited, “or insectivores.” He paused, and Xena knew that he was mentally skimming the next few paragraphs. He opened his eyes. “Nope,” he said. “No milk.”
“And I don't think they drink out of saucers,” she said. “Do they?”
He scrunched up his face again. Then he opened his eyes and shrugged. “No mention of saucers. It's got to be some kind of code . . . or a password,” he said, his eyes growing even larger with excitement.
“Who was that guy?” she asked. “Did you get a good look at him?”
Xander shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I wasn't paying attention. Why would he want us to go see some dancing men? And what did he mean about our illustrious ancestor?”
“Well, illustrious means ‘famous,’ right? So maybe he thinks we're related to the famous detective Sherlock Holmes,” Xena said with a laugh.
“I wish,” Xander said. He loved reading mysteries, especially the ones about Sherlock Holmes because they shared the same last name. Plus they were great stories.
“The note sounded as if the person who wrote it knows us,” Xena added. “How did it start, again?”
“My dears. My very, very dears,” Xander recited.
“And what's a plooman's lunch?” Xena asked, pronouncing the first syllable of ploughman as if it rhymed with through.
“I think it's a pluffman's lunch,” he answered, rhyming the first syllable with rough.
“Actually, it's pronounced plowman,” said a voice behind them. Xena and her brother turned. It was the doorman, the friendly one who had given them the cookies.
“So what's a plowman's lunch?” Xena asked.
“Oh, it's a nice piece of bread and some cheese and pickle. Standard pub fare.” He smacked his lips. “They do a good one at The Dancing Men.”
“The Dancing Men?” Xander asked. “But that's—”
Xena dug her elbow into his ribs to keep him from saying anything about the letter. After all, there was nothing left to read, and the doorman would think that they were nutty Americans if they showed him a blank piece of paper. Xander poked her back with his own pointy elbow.
“The pub over there,” the doorman said, leaning forward and pointing down the street. “They'll fix you right up. It's about lunchtime now, isn't it?”
Xena and Xander looked at each other. “Well,” Xander said, “Mom did give us money for lunch. All she said was that we had to be at the hotel by the time she got back from her meeting with the real estate lady.”
“Mom thinks we're going to eat at McDonald's,” Xena objected. “And, anyway, a pub is a kind of a bar, isn't it? Can we even get in?”
They turned to the doorman, who nodded. “Oh, sure you can. Just don't order a drink, not even a shandy!” He laughed.
“Let's go, Xena!” Xander was hopping from one foot to the other.
Xena considered. What could be wrong with going? Their mother hadn't said anything specific about McDonald's, after all. “Okay,” she said. “Come on!” She was as curious about the note as Xander was.
“I thought we'd understand everyone in England because they speak the same language,” Xander said as they pushed open the door to the pub with the dancing stick figures on the sign above it. “But English English is confusing. They spell plow differently and they call cookies biscuits and they drink something called a shandy . . .”
The pub seemed like a cross between a bar and a restaurant. There were small wooden tables all over, and a lot of people stood or sat at the bar, eating lunch. The ones who weren't talking were watching soccer on the large TV. A rushed-looking waitress waved them to a table, and when she had a chance to come over to them, she seemed pleased that they knew already what they wanted.
“You'll like that,” she said. “It's my own kids' favorite.”
After she had taken a bite, Xena said, “Yum! And it costs even less than what Mom gave us for McDonald's.”
“I'll have a shandy,” Xander said when the waitress came back to check on them.
The waitress laughed. “I'll bring you one without the beer in it,” she said. A few minutes later she returned with two glasses of lemon soda, which she called “lemonade.”
“So a shandy is a mixture of lemon soda and beer?” Xena asked, wrinkling her nose. “Yuck.”
She took a sip of her soda. “So what do you think this society thing is?” she asked.
“The Society for the Preservation of Famous Detectives,” Xander said.
“I know that's their name,” said Xena. “But I mean, I wonder what they do. And why did they ask us to come here?”
“Maybe it's some publicity stunt,” he said. “The Society gives those mysterious notes to random people and when the ink disappears they get curious and come see what it's about.”
Xena looked around at the bustling room. “I don't think this place needs publicity,” she said.
Xander shrugged and finished his lemonade. “So what about the snake thing? Shouldn't we ask for the milk for our snake?”
“I don't know.” Xena was reluctant. “Don't you think that's some kind of a joke? I don't want the waitress to think we're crazy.”
“Oh, come on,” Xander urged her. “Let's take a chance. If she thinks we're nuts, we don't have to come back.”
They were finishing up when the waitress came by and asked if they wanted anything else. They hesitated and glanced at each other.
Xena took a deep breath. “Just some milk,” she said.
“A glass of milk, coming right up,” the waitress said, and she started to walk away.
“No,” Xander piped up. “Not a glass of milk. A saucer.”
The waitress froze.
“For our snake,” Xena said, and held her breath.
The waitress turned back to them, and the expression on her face was hard to read. Was it confused? Excited? Before Xena could decide, the waitress nodded and put down her order pad. “Follow me,” she said. “It's in the back here.” She started off at a brisk walk toward the rear of the pub.
Now it was Xena's turn to freeze. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. “Maybe we shouldn't—” she started, but Xander hopped up and darted after the waitress.
“Wait!” Xena called after him. He either didn't hear her or was ignoring her, so she pushed back her chair and flew after the two figures as they disappeared through a curtain at the back of the room. By the time she caught up with them they were at the end of a long bare corridor.
“In there,” the woman was saying as she pointed at a dark brown wooden door with a gleaming metal knob.
Before Xena could stop him, Xander opened it and stepped into a dimly lit room.
Xena leaped in after him and grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Following a stranger like that? Mom is going to kill—”
But before she had the chance to finish her sentence, the door slammed shut, the thud followed by an ominous click. Xena tried the knob but knew even before it refused to turn that it was no use. That click told her what she didn't want to know. She rattled the knob. Nothing.
The door was locked. They were trapped.