Dinner with the Wilsons was more chaotic than breakfast because everyone wanted to share about the day. Usually Mr. Wilson told a funny anecdote about one of his students. Stewart rambled on about his girlfriend, Alice, whose father he and Edward worked for. Meanwhile, Edward jealously badgered his brother about having a girlfriend, and stated that he wanted to find a new job. Lucille and Daphne giggled about dance lessons. Auntie Ei never said a word. Mrs. Wilson refereed the dinner table, nudged Rollie to eat more, laughed at Mr. Wilson’s story, and shushed the twins when she thought their turns were up. As for Rollie, he usually sat quietly taking in everything, but not eating much, being a picky eater.
But tonight was different. It was Monday night, which meant Tuesday came at dawn. For the first time in a while, the family conversation focused on Rollie and the Sherlock Academy orientation.
“Tomorrow’s the day, son,” Mr. Wilson stated plainly in between bites of his roast beef. “Fact: it’s supposed to be a beautiful day. And it’s supposed to be Tuesday all day.” He winked.
Rollie appreciated his father’s silly sense of humor.
“What time are you leaving, son?”
“Eight o’clock—”
“Eight o’clock!” Edward exclaimed. “Wait a minute. Just because that’s the same time I have to leave for work doesn’t mean I’m taking Roly-Poly with me. I have—”
“Edward, calm down,” Mrs. Wilson cut in, buttering her roll. “We didn’t ask that of you, did we?”
“I’m just throwing it out there before you get any ideas,” Edward said, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Stewart swallowed his bite of carrots. “Good job, Ed. Way to think ahead.”
Mrs. Wilson dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “We haven’t decided who is going with Rollie.”
“Is someone supposed to go with him?” Mr. Wilson glanced over his spectacles at her.
“Well, you didn’t think he’d go alone to who-knows-where?”
“Roly-Poly’s never been anywhere alone, have you?” Edward teased.
“I have too!” Rollie suddenly felt defensive. “I go to school alone every day.”
Stewart chuckled. “Good comeback, Rollie.”
Mr. Wilson took off his spectacles and gnawed on one of the ends thoughtfully. “I can’t go. I’ve got Mathematics 102.”
“I will accompany him.” Auntie Ei stood from the table decidedly, and loomed over them. “Be ready at the door at eight o’clock sharp, Rollin.” With that, she vacated the dining room.
A few moments of unusual silence followed as the family gaped after the old woman.
Mrs. Wilson blinked. “Bless her.”
Mr. Wilson grunted. “Fact: she’s unpredictable.”
Edward and Stewart slapped high-fives, relieved they did not have to take Rollie.
Lucille and Daphne giggled.
And Rollie frowned as he felt that usual flutter in his middle again.
* * * *
As expected, Rollie’s sleepless night was wrought with anxiety. Along with reducing his appetite, that flutter in his middle never preceded a decent night’s sleep. However difficult falling asleep was, somehow Rollie always woke up in the morning, which meant he had at some point indeed fallen asleep.
Such was the case Tuesday morning when he found himself waking up to his red alarm clock ringing. He clicked it off and jumped out of bed. He yanked open all the drawers in his dresser in a sudden panic, for he had no idea what to wear to the orientation. On a day–to-day basis he put little thought into what he wore, mainly because his wardrobe was far from exciting—all hand-me-downs from Edward and Stewart.
Rollie pulled out a pair of navy trousers sporting grass stains on the knees; he stuffed them back in the drawer. He shook out a gray wrinkled shirt and noticed a button missing. He kept pulling out clothes and for the first time noticed how hard he was on his wardrobe, for it was riddled with rips, stains, snags, and frays. And all his pockets were stuffed with odds and ends like paper clips, candy wrappers, pebbles, and pencil shavings, to name a few. He felt a little embarrassed until he remembered that Sherlock Holmes rarely took notice of his wardrobe, for he was much too consumed with clues to worry about clothes. Rollie decided he was the same way. Still, it wouldn’t do to go to the orientation with disheveled clothes. Mr. Wilson was fond of telling Rollie that “a careless appearance reflects a careless mind.” Maybe his father was right. What if Rollie was dismissed from the orientation because his clothes were wrinkled?
His mother poked her head into the room. “Good morning, my Rollie, are you excited?”
“What should I wear, Mum?”
Clearly panic showed in his eyes and a quiver vibrated in his voice because Mrs. Wilson flitted into the room. “Don’t worry. I know just the thing.” She rummaged through his closet and pulled out his best blue blazer. “Wear the blue slacks and a collared shirt. Oh, and a tie. You should look your best, I think.” She dug a hand into the outer pockets of the blazer and found a fistful of trash. She gave him an amused look before leaving the bedroom.
Within ten minutes Rollie was completely dressed and groomed. He grabbed The Return of Sherlock Holmes and headed downstairs. Standing beside the front door, Auntie Ei leaned on her umbrella for support. She took great care in her appearance, and was dressed nicely in a lilac floral dress, matching hat, and white gloves. She smelled of lavender.
“Good morning, Auntie.”
“Good morning, Rollin. Do you have your favorite book?”
Rollie held it up. “Think it’s okay to bring a Sherlock Holmes volume?”
“Absolutely. Why not?”
“Don’t you think a lot of the other kids will bring Sherlock Holmes?”
“Whoever said there would be other children?”
“Cecily is coming.”
“Is she bringing Sherlock Holmes too?”
Rollie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, there you have it. Straighten your tie. Don’t forget your manners.”
“Yes, Auntie.”
Ding-Dong!
Rollie jumped. His heart skipped and his middle flipped into double fluttering. Both the parlor grandfather clock and the front doorbell chimed at the same time.
Auntie Ei opened the door to a short, squat man in a bowler hat and long, black coat.
“Morning, ma’am. I’m ‘ere for a Rollin E. Wilson,” he greeted, reading the name from an index card.
“We’re ready. Rollin!” Auntie Ei called as she stepped onto the porch.
“Lady Wilson, let me ‘elp you into the cab.” Rollie blushed a bit when he remembered too late that he should have offered to help Aunt Ei. The driver escorted Auntie Ei by the arm to a black horse-drawn cab, much like the ones popular in London in the late 1800s. It balanced on two wheels and was hitched to a single chestnut horse.
Auntie Ei seemed not the least surprised, but Rollie gaped at it.
“You don’t have an automobile?” he asked.
“No, lad, this is our taxi service.” The driver opened for them two little doors that swung aside like window shutters, and helped Auntie Ei into the cab. “This ‘ere’s called a hansom and it’s the Academy’s official transportation. It’s just like one of the hansoms—”
“Sherlock Holmes may have ridden in!” exclaimed Rollie.
“Rollin, it is very rude to interrupt. Get in,” Auntie Ei ordered.
A little embarrassed, Rollie leaped into the hansom and sat on the edge of the cushion. He peered out the little round window in the back. The driver climbed up to his perch above in the back, flicked the reins, and got the cab moving down the street.
“Auntie, have you ever been in one of these?”
“To answer would be to reveal how old I am. A lady never reveals her age, nor should little boys raise the question.” She paused, a tight smile playing on her wrinkled face. “Perhaps I have been in one before.”
Rollie expected to stop a few doors down to pick up Cecily, but the cab passed by her house. He spotted a similar hansom and driver stopped at Cecily’s door.
Within twenty minutes, they drove south into London. They turned down several busy streets. Cars honked at the antique cab, but this did not seem to bother the driver or the horse. At first Rollie knew where they were, for he visited London with his mother almost every Saturday to check the post and do a bit of shopping. As the hansom turned onto smaller streets, Rollie lost his bearings, for they drove through a part of London he had never visited. He wondered if the driver was deliberately taking them on a confusing route.
Rollie assumed correctly, for as they turned out of a small alley he suddenly knew where they were. He recognized Regent’s Park and spotted Regent’s College where his father taught. He wondered if maybe he had passed by Sherlock Academy without knowing it every time he visited Regent’s College. He vowed to be more observant like Cecily in the future.
Soon the driver pulled on the reins to stop the cab, and hopped off his high perch to open the doors facing the horse’s rear.
“May I help you down, Aunt Ei?” Rollie asked quickly, remembering his manners.
A brief, small smile played across her face as she accepted his offer and let him help her out of the cab, but she seemed relieved to take the arm of the driver who escorted her down the sidewalk. Rollie stopped and stared up at the tall, red-brick building with rows of windows and one door. A flat roof with a chain-link fence crowned the four-story building.
“Rollie!”
Rollie whirled around to find Cecily hopping out of her horse-drawn hansom. She was alone. She smoothed down her dress and rushed up to him, excitement in her green eyes.
“Have you ever been in one of those cabs?” she asked him.
“No, but I really felt like—”
“Sherlock Holmes! I know! Rollie, look where we are!”
Rollie looked up again at the drab building. Posted above the mailbox, next to the front door, was the building’s address:
221 Baker Street.