The Initiation (15 page)

T
HEY CAME AT HIM FROM TWO SIDES.
S
HERLOCK
stood up as quickly as he could, turning to face away from the altar and placing his attention onto a stained-glass window depicting the story of the Crucifixion.

He'd waited through the day to sneak in here after curfew. He didn't want to share his reasoning with James, given the headmaster's warning.

James and two other boys hurried up the chapel's nave toward the apse. James walked stridently, like a general, trailed by Clements and Ismalin. Appearing from the choir room came Bret
Thorndyke, who stopped and crossed his arms like a bouncer blocking the door.

“What in the world are you doing?” James had a newfound confidence in both his stride and voice. It was like he'd grown up in a matter of twenty-four hours.

“Waiting for you, James,” Sherlock said in his usual haughty way. “Am I to assume you're having me watched? Or was it the chapel you were focused on? Do tell!”

“You were sloppy,” James said, coming to a stop a few feet from Sherlock. Clements and Ismalin stood blocking the nave. Sherlock admired the precision of James's deployment of his muscle. He'd thought this through; he'd assigned his boys to particular tasks. James had made himself into a leader of older boys as well as those his own age. Not an easy accomplishment. “That day. The first clue. When I entered, our room was like a steam bath. I complained about it, remember?”

Sherlock didn't answer. His eyes ticked from one spot to another, assessing possible escape routes. James was onto him. Rarely, he thought, did such situations represent checkmate, but James had him in a strong check and he had yet to spot the move to defeat it. There was one move—foot on the low railing that separated the altar table; a long leap to
the top of the pipe organ console; a difficult jump to the marble floor and straight down the nave at a run to the front doors. The route offered possibility. He mapped it mentally, calculated it at seven seconds. A long shot; he was more likely to break an ankle than get free.

“You had me fooled, telling me you'd just made yourself some tea,” James said. “In fact, you'd used the electric kettle to steam open the first clue. That allowed you to seem so superior and smart. You'd already read the thing. You might have gotten away with it if I hadn't noticed the same technique on the latest—the library. You didn't seal it correctly.”

“Indeed. I should imagine that aroused your curiosity to no end. It inspired the surveillance. I should have caught on to that.”

“You were too busy being one step ahead. I'm not entirely clear on how you solved the third clue's invisible ink, but I'm guessing ultraviolet.”

“Who says I solved it?” asked Sherlock.

“Please. Are we going to play these games? After all, we're all at risk by being here after hours. We could be busted any minute. Besides, we both had the same reaction to it: this place, the chapel. Why is that, do you suppose?”

Sherlock considered the escape route for a second time. He didn't like the way this was going. A
broken ankle didn't sound so bad.

“Boys,” James said.

The troubling part for Sherlock was how obedient the boys were, including the two upperclassmen. That, and the fact that the choreography had been well discussed, perhaps rehearsed. Clements and Ismalin came around James toward Sherlock while Thorndyke—Sherlock did not care for Thorndyke one bit—adjusted his stance to cover any chance of Sherlock attempting escape.

“Empty your pockets and turn 'em out,” said Clements. Sherlock did as he was asked. He handed over a crumpled piece of notepaper, three sticks of gum, and the rabbit-foot key.

Ismalin passed the items to James.

“What attracts you to him?” Sherlock asked Clements so that all could hear. “Is it him or what he offers?”

“Shut it!”

“I'm just curious.”

“Shut . . . it!” Clements said, “He asks me to tune you up, I will. That's all you need to know.”

“Or did someone else offer you something to befriend him? Say, Crudgeon, for instance.”

Clements bristled.

James clearly didn't like the suggestion. “Whatever you're doing, you're done. We're done
here.” There was no argument from his posse.

James had put together a group of supporters. No easy task in a place like Baskerville. Sherlock wondered if he'd underestimated his roommate.

“I knew it,” James said, holding up the pencil sketch of the key so the boy who drew it could see it. “Very good drawing. It was ultraviolet, wasn't it? Did you trace it? I think you traced it.” James looked around the chapel. “It brought you here. An interesting choice, Sherlock. Why is that? Why here in the chapel?”

Sherlock considered testing how far James would go to get him to talk. He measured the odds and decided to engage rather than withhold. “Why do you think, James? Or am I supposed to do all the thinking for you? Did you boys know the toilets weren't James's idea? Did he claim responsibility for that one?”

The challenge obviously irritated James. “The design of the key, a skeleton key, is very old. Reminds me of my home in Boston. Like a hundred years ago. The chapel is the oldest building on campus by far. My great-grandfather had it brought over from Europe, stone by stone, and rebuilt. It's probably several hundred years old. So a key like that is perfect for a place like this. On top of that is the tree, the branches. They're big and full, and the biggest,
fullest tree at this school is just on the other side of that wall. If you look at it carefully—the drawing, I'm talking about—and I have, the two are incredibly similar. I can see this as a sketch of the same tree a long time ago.”

“All of which is well and good,” Sherlock said, though disparagingly.

“Meaning?”

“You're thinking purely physically. Historically. You're missing the metaphysical, the metaphorical elements. The symbolism.”

“Am I?”

“Since early Christendom, the church and clergy realized the value of symbols to help their congregations stay on the path to glory, the path away from sin. The road to salvation. The symbols had to be chosen from what was known so the churchgoers could relate. The church hired artisans to create religious symbolism. Among the most popular—”

“—was the key.”

“There you have it,” Sherlock said. “The key to heaven. The key to salvation. The key to enlightenment. Marital trust. The keys, quite literally, to the kingdom. So, yes, I thought it wise to start here in the chapel.”

“And what have you found?”

“I thought you said, ‘We're done here.'”

“We're done when I say so.”

“But you just did,” Sherlock said, stinging him. “At any rate, you interrupted before I had much of a chance.”

“You've been in here . . . twenty-seven minutes,” he said, consulting his wristwatch. “What have you found?”

The boy's tone was threatening. Cruel. Clements and Ismalin stood a little taller. Sherlock could feel a beating coming.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. He needed a distraction. “Some interesting stained glass. Images one wouldn't normally expect.”

“Such as?”

“This one here. It's the Crucifixion. The two thieves and Jesus on the cross. You look at it, you move on. But . . . if you look more closely, what do you see, James?”

James moved closer to the poorly lit window glass, craning his neck to look up at it. To Sherlock's disappointment neither Clements nor Ismalin took the bait; they maintained strict attention on Sherlock.

“It looks as if the glass in the one on the left isn't as dark. Maybe it broke and was replaced.”

“Or maybe it was designed that way.”

“What way?”

“The thief on Jesus's left, our right, is named Gestas. It's said that he mocked Jesus's righteousness. Gestas told Jesus that if he was the Son of God then he should set himself free and take the two thieves with him. But the second thief, Dismas, told the other guy to back off, that Jesus didn't belong on the cross in the first place. He's known as the good thief. Jesus blessed Dismas and promised him a place in heaven.”

“That is such garbage!” Thorndyke called.

“Quiet!” James called out, condemning Thorndyke. “It's interesting, especially since the good thief is made of lighter glass.”

“He's being emphasized,” said Sherlock.

“Why would anyone emphasize a thief?” James asked.

“Why did you say we're done, if we're not?”

“Why the thief?” James asked.

“I have no idea. I do, however, take note there is no key in any of these three windows.”

“If you run,” James said, “we'll catch you. When we do, we won't be so nice.”

“I'm not much of a runner.”

“Guys . . . check out all the windows. Look for a key, a picture of a key. A door with a keyhole. Anything that looks like it involves a key. You,
Sherlock, stay where you are.”

“As you wish, sire,” Sherlock said, placing a hand onto an elaborate wrought-iron floor stand that held a massive, unlit candle. As the boys spread out, Sherlock pulled the stand incrementally closer to himself. The metal squealed against the marble. “Sorry! Lost my balance!”

Once more, Sherlock drew the candelabra toward himself. He slid his right foot out of the way, allowing him to cover what he'd been hiding. Inlaid in the white marble flooring was a small skeleton key with a tree limb top.

M
RS.
F
URMAN WORE A WHITE COTTON TOP
tucked into a Stewart plaid calf-length wool skirt, held closed with an oversized safety pin like a Scottish kilt. Her snakelike, unflinching eyes peered out from black cat glasses.

“Mr. Moriarty. A word, please.”

“I'm on my way to class.” In fact, half the school occupied the hallways of Main House in a frantic, yet orderly flash mob.

The woman's smile, or what passed for a smile, could easily be mistaken for a wince of pain.

Heeding Father's advice to stay in Baskerville,
he obeyed the headmaster's secretary and entered the classroom. She shut the door behind him, not following inside herself.

Crudgeon stood at the far end, away from the door. “Mr. Moriarty.”

“Headmaster.” James wondered why the meeting wasn't taking place in the man's office, only two hallways from this room.

“Sit.”

James squeezed into the chair, placing his laptop and books on the chair's writing arm. Crudgeon perched awkwardly on the desk at the front of the room.

“Breaking into the headmaster's office will most certainly result in expulsion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Being caught in the act, immediate expulsion. In this case, evidence is circumstantial, but it was a poor choice to make, James, especially as I've offered to help you.”

“I . . . ahh . . .”

“Your future is here at Baskerville, James.”

“Yes, Headmaster. I understand that.” He thought back to Father's warning.
I need more time
.

“These kind of wanton acts will not be tolerated. You will find the school a harsh and intolerant
place should you insist on continuing with this nonsense.”

“Would there be any chance you might believe I had nothing to do with whatever you're talking about?”

Crudgeon appeared to be trying to work a kink out of his neck.

“I didn't think so,” James said. “For the record, it happens to be the truth.”

“If we were on the record, we'd be in my office and this meeting would be in the books.”

“So it's not . . . on the record?” James asked curiously. “That's why Mrs. Furman is out there playing bouncer?”

“I will be calling you to my office for just such an appointment. I will make accusations and you will deny them.”

“Because I didn't do it! Why would I confess to something I didn't do?”

“What exactly were you after, James? I can tell you more about your family history than any of those records can. I am happy to do so.”

“Headmaster,
it wasn't me
.”

For the first time, Crudgeon appeared to consider the possibility. “Your sister, perhaps . . .” Spoken like a man thinking aloud.

“No!” James snapped sharply. “Moria? No!
Never!” He harkened back to his father's warning of the system making a target out of his sister. Of the miserable history of Moriarty women, most of which James knew nothing about. “She's way too much of a goody-goody, Headmaster. Maybe one of my friends thought they were doing me a favor. I wouldn't know. But not Moria.”

“Did you
arrange
the break-in, yes or no? This is the only time you will be offered amnesty, do you understand? Yes, or no?”

“No. And I'd rather be expelled than get someone else in trouble.”

“That can be arranged.”

James lowered his voice to a whisper. “When I left your house . . . that man. Did you arrange that?”

“What man?”

“I think you know what man. The man who told me to give up the search for the Bible, which is interesting, because I'm not looking for the Bible.”

“A man told you this?” Crudgeon was either surprised or a decent actor.

“You said ‘not yet,' when I said I wasn't a sergeant.” James waited for the man to say something. “Is my father a sergeant?”

That woke up the headmaster.

“More than a sergeant? Colonel? General?”

“What do you know?”

“What do I need to know?”

“You need to know you're in dangerous waters. Tell me what this man said.”

“I think you know.”

“Do not get fresh with me, boy.” Crudgeon's typical demeanor was crumbling before James's eyes.

“Tell me about the initiation.” For James it was a wild stab into the dark; he'd heard Father mention it, nothing more.

Crudgeon stood unexpectedly. He was shaking. “What were you after in my office? Now's your chance, your only chance.”

“Clues,” James lied, having no idea why.
Protect your sister.
“Father's years here. My family's history. Anything that might help me understand why some guy practically in your front lawn didn't want me looking for our family Bible when that's the only way out of study hall. The whole school blames me and Moria, Headmaster.”

“Yes. Pity, that. I hadn't factored that in. The social ramifications are regrettable. I can't take it back now, you understand? When I lay down the law, it's just that, the law. Your sister and you will have to endure. These things pass with time.”

“There's no reason to question Moria,
Headmaster. Leave her out of it, please.”

“No, I won't. Because you're guessing. You don't know the files. You haven't seen them. It's fine to be loyal to one's family, James. Admirable, in fact. But loyalty to a fault makes for scapegoats, and I can't afford for you to go playing martyr on me. Do we understand each other?”

James nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes, Headmaster. I understand.”

“You are in over your head, son. Curiosity really did kill the cat, you know? How do you think an expression like that starts? Not with a single cat, I'll tell you that. A summation of so many cats over so much time. Don't make yourself one of them. Speak with your
sister
.” Crudgeon leaned on the word. “Find out
everything
you can, and report back to me. And next time, don't be so stupid: let responsibility fall where it belongs. Ultimately we are all held responsible for our own actions. Even sisters.”

“Please, Headmaster. Not Moria. She wouldn't do something like this, and if she did, it would only be because she was thinking it would help me.”

“I expect great things from you, James, but don't push me.”

“No, sir.”

“Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong.”

“No, sir.”

“What else did the man—this man—say? Other than the bit about the Bible?”

James wanted to say: “That's for me to know, and you to find out,” but he didn't. Instead, he lied. “I think I'm being hazed, some kind of hazing. It started at my house, before I ever came here.” He studied the man, feeling his stomach turn as he realized this wasn't news to the headmaster. The man had to force a look to appear surprised. James felt sick to his stomach.

“Could be. You wouldn't be the first.”

“My father before me.”

The look from Crudgeon was at once both mirthful and black-ice cold.

Terrified, James spoke to break the silence between them. “I won't let you down, Headmaster.”

“That's yet to be seen. Now, get out of here, and remember: this meeting never took place.”