Maybe 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.”
Except for him, Xena thought as she watched the redheaded boy slip out a side door.
She didn't need to be a famous detective to know that Andrew Watson didn't like them one bit.
“When is it going to be my turn?” Xander asked his sister the next day. Xena was flopped onto her twin bed against the far wall and had been hogging the casebook for hours.
“Pretty soon,” she said, but she seemed in no hurry to pass the book over to him.
Xander sat on a small chair by the window and stared out at the gloomy, rainy Saturday afternoon. He sighed and watched a raindrop hurry down the pane of glass and catch up with another one. He took his eyes away from the window. “I can't believe I'm so bored that I'm watching raindrop races,” he said. “Is there anything in there we could try to solve?”
“I wish,” Xena said. “But these cases took place over a hundred years ago. There's one about a ruby that somebody lost and then some weird notes about a toeless guy. Stuff like that. It's mostly just notes and sketches. I'll tell you if I find anything. Mom said we had to do something cultural this afternoon anyway, remember? Why don't you look for an art exhibit or something?”
Xander groaned and picked up the newspaper that was resting on a tiny wooden end table. During their first days in London their mother had made them go see the Rosetta Stone and huge landscape paintings and Greek sculptures, and Xander didn't want to go to another museum the whole rest of the year. But Xena was different. She could go to a museum every day for a week and then wake up the next day and ask to go to another one.
Xander scanned down the page. “Medieval illumination,” he read. “Wire sculptures by some guy with a name I can't pronounce, paintings by Nigel Batheson, nature photographs—”
“What?” Xena interrupted him.
“Nature photographs.”
“No, that other one,” Xena said. “Paintings by who?”
“Nigel Batheson,” Xander read again.
“Wow!” Xena said. “This is amazing! Look at this.” Xander got up to join her, and she angled the casebook toward him. He peered at the old-fashioned handwriting as Xena took the newspaper.
“Nigel Batheson,” Xander read aloud. “Girl in a Purple Hat. Noticed missing Thursday last.” There were some more notes, and at the bottom of the next page was a notation in the same handwriting but a slightly different shade of ink, as though some time had elapsed between the inscriptions: “Case abandoned to pursue intriguing problem of lion's mane.”
They both sat back. “It's got to be the same guy,” Xena said. “How many artists named Nigel Batheson can there be? And look—they even mention that same painting in the newspaper.” She ran her finger down the column. “See? It says, ‘Sadly, Batheson's most important work is still missing from the collection. This painting, Girl in a Purple Hat, is a portrait of a little girl of about eight seated on a wicker chair in a summer garden.’”
“What?” Xander broke in. “That's the same picture as in the notebook!”
“Duh,” Xena said. “That's what I just said. Anyway, the paper says, ‘The painting was discovered missing a century ago and has never been recovered. Fortunately, a copy had previously been made.’ Look, there it is.” They bent their heads over the newspaper. The grainy picture showed a pretty girl with blond curls and a bright purple hat, sitting on a chair with flowers and shrubs behind her. The contrast between the color of the hat and the girl's green eyes was striking even in the newspaper.
Xena went on reading. “‘Although it is claimed that the copy could never capture all the charm of the original, at least it gives an idea of what the missing painting looked like. Note the model's slightly sulky expression, which makes the painting stand out from the sometimes overly sweet view of childhood frequently depicted in portraits of the era.’”
Xander sat back on his heels. “Wouldn't it be awesome if we could find that painting? I mean, isn't it amazing that we saw the name of the artist in the paper? It's like it was meant to be.”
“That would be cool!” Xena said. “But it's been missing for so long. Where would we begin to look?”
“We have something that could help,” Xander pointed out. “We have this.” He gestured at the casebook. “The notes of the great Sherlock Holmes. They give us a head start. Look, here's a list of names. Wife—Marguerite; children—Abner, Cedric, Robert.”
“And what does this mean, do you think?” he pointed at the word Taynesbury scrawled in a corner. A little farther down was a sketch of a dragon that seemed to be curled up on itself with its tail in its mouth.
Xena took the notebook from him. “I don't know, Xan. Those names could be anything. And it looks like the dragon is just a doodle. It says that the painting was noticed missing on a Thursday. But that's not really a big help.”
“Come on, Xena.” Xander was impatient. “We've watched hundreds of mystery shows on TV and we always figure out the bad guy before the detective does. And I'm always reading detective books. Besides, we have Sherlock Holmes's genes. Doesn't that mean anything?”
Xena hesitated before answering. “It could be dangerous.”
“Are you kidding?” Xander laughed. “Looking for a picture of a girl in a purple hat could be dangerous ? How could finding the answer to a hundred-year-old secret be dangerous?”
Xena glanced down at the newspaper again. “We wouldn't have much time,” she said, and Xander held his breath, knowing she was considering it. “The exhibit opens next Friday at a museum called the Victoria and Albert, and then a few days later it leaves on a worldwide tour. This guy Batheson has gotten really popular again all of a sudden, the paper says.”
Xander nodded. “We owe it to him,” he said, rubbing his finger over the initials stamped on the cover. “Not to Batheson. We owe it to our great-great-great-grandfather. He solved most of the mysteries he set out to solve. It's not his fault he had to leave this one before it was finished. Let's see if we can figure it out for him.”
Xena looked at her brother. From someplace deep inside of her came a sense of family pride she hadn't known she possessed. Wouldn't it be amazing if they could solve some of the great Sherlock Holmes's cases for him?
She stood up. “Okay. Let's find that painting before the art show opens,” she said. “Or at least before the exhibit goes on tour around the world. Let's make sure it's included this time, just as though Sherlock himself had found it.”
Xander stood too and held out his hand. Xena took it and they shook on the deal.
“Now,” said Xander. “Where do we start?”