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Authors: Tracy Barrett

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“How long had she been working for the queen when the baby was born?”
Xander examined the paper. “It looks like the queen interviewed Miss Mimsy a few months earlier, when she settled in London to watch over the remodeling of the mansion. Miss Mimsy started work the day after the baby was born.”
“What else did you find out?” Xena asked.
“There are some newspapers from when the baby was kidnapped. This article is about when the king and queen got home and found that the princess was back. It says, ‘Nobody had seen her being returned, but in their joy, the means of her abduction and her return did not seem important. A few days later, though, the king decided that the fiend who had taken his only
child might attempt to do so again, for who knew what nefarious purpose, and so they employed the famous detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes to try to discover the perpetrator.'”
The thought of the terror that the king and queen must have felt, and their confidence in Sherlock, made Xena and Xander more determined than ever to solve their case. But could they succeed at this when the police didn't seem able to do anything? If Xena and Xander had failed in one of their earlier cases, it would have been disappointing, but at least nobody would have been really harmed. It was one thing to find a missing painting or an ancient amulet, or to track down a beast in the English countryside—all things they'd done in the past. But it was quite another thing to look for a missing friend who seemed to have been kidnapped.
“Lunch!” their mother called from the kitchen.
“Did you see anything else in those papers?” Xena asked her brother as they sat down to chicken soup.
“There were some other contracts. The Borogovian king and queen had a
lot
of people working for them! There was a first upstairs
parlor maid and a second upstairs parlor maid, and a butler, and a whole crew of gardeners and cooks and security guards.”
“Anything more about the baby, I mean.”
“There was something about Miss Mimsy. She said she really loved the baby and was terrified when she was kidnapped.”
“I bet she was!” Xena said. “If she hadn't been sleeping so heavily, whoever took Stella wouldn't have been able to get away with it.”
“Something I don't get, though,” Xander said. “If Miss Mimsy was drugged, how could she run to the telegraph office so soon? Wouldn't it have made more sense to send someone else? Maybe she wasn't drugged at all, just pretending! She could have put that opiate thing in her cup herself after she drank most of the cocoa.”
“Why would she do that?”
Xander shrugged and blew on his soup.
Their mother joined them. “How's the case coming?”
“Okay, I guess.” Xena was not feeling optimistic. “Sherlock's notes are even harder to understand than usual.”
“Like what?”
“Like there's a sketch of a ship,” Xena said.
“It's one of those ships with lots of sails. The king and queen were on a ship, but what does that have to do with anything? It must be just a doodle. There's a name written on the side of it, but that doesn't make any sense either.”
“What's the name?” her mother asked.
“It says ‘Pinafore.'”
“Oh, as in Little Buttercup?”
Xander froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Sherlock had called Miss Mimsy a buttercup! “What do you mean?” He lowered the spoon carefully back into the bowl.
Their mother launched into song. “I'm called Little Buttercup, dear Little Buttercup, though I could never tell why!”
Xena and Xander's first reaction was relief that none of their friends were there to hear her—aside from it being a strange song, their mother couldn't carry a tune, a fact that their musician father teased her about frequently. Their second was curiosity.
“Who's Little Buttercup?” Xena asked. “And where did that song come from?”
“You mean you've never heard of Gilbert and Sullivan?” They shook their heads, and their mother rolled her eyes. “What
do
they teach kids
in schools these days?” She sighed. “W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan were two men who wrote comic operas in Victorian England. The operas were hugely popular at the end of the nineteenth century, and people still put them on today. Buttercup was a character in their most famous operetta,
H.M.S. Pinafore
. I don't remember much about her except that she sold things to the sailors onboard the
Pinafore
—tobacco, scissors, watches, that kind of thing.”
“Wow!” Xena said. “Thanks, Mom!”
“Does that help?”
“I don't see how right now,” Xena admitted, “but at least we know what Sherlock was talking about.”
“Anything else? I might not have Sherlock's blood in my veins or a photographic memory, but there are some things I've picked up in all my many years!”
“Can't think of anything,” Xena said. She and Xander finished their lunch and loaded their bowls and spoons into the dishwasher. Xena wiped down the kitchen table, and by the time she went back into the living room, Xander had already pulled the papers out of the box again and put them next to the open casebook.
“Look at this,” he said, handing a yellowing paper to Xena. “It's from a police interview with Miss Mimsy.”
Xena quickly scanned the handwritten questions and answers. “Huh!” She put the paper down. “So Miss Mimsy had studied to be an opera singer! I wonder if that has something to do with the drawing of the ship, since it's got the same name as that operetta. What do you think?”
Xander shook his head. “I don't think so. It says that she was in music school, but her family lost all their money in the Panic of 1893, whatever that was, so she had to become a nanny. She worked for some aristocratic families before Queen Charlotte hired her. She had good recommendations from the other people she worked for, including a countess.” He rummaged around. “The letters are here someplace.”
Before he found what he was looking for, his phone rang. His eyes met Xena's. Could it be Alice?
“Hello?” His face fell, and he looked at Xena and shook his head. She felt her shoulders sag. “Oh, really?” Xander went on. “Okay. No, nobody knows. What day did you say? I'm sure
she'll be back by then. Yes, I have your number. I'll tell her to call you as soon as I see her.”
He snapped the phone shut. “That was someone from
Talented Brits
. They said that Alice passed the first audition, and they want her to come to the live audition next week.”
“Don't they know she disappeared?”
“Duh! It's all over the news!”
“What are you two arguing about?” Their father had come in.
“We're not really arguing,” Xena said. “It's just that this case is so frustrating. The clues are so weird! There's something in the casebook about the
H.M.S. Pinafore
, but it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the princess.”
“Are you sure?” their father asked. “What have you found out about the operetta?”
“Not much,” she admitted.
He disappeared into the study and came out with an encyclopedia of music. “The Net isn't the best place to learn everything, you know.” He leafed through the book and began reading them a synopsis of the story. It was hard to follow and kind of unbelievable, and they exchanged glances. Trust their dad to get excited about something so silly!
“‘Little Buttercup and the captain,'” their father read, “‘then sing a duet entitled “Things Are Seldom What They Seem.”'” Xander raised his eyes in a question to Xena, and she nodded vigorously. Those were the exact words that Sherlock had said to Miss Mimsy!
“Sorry, Dad,” Xander said. “Could you start over from the beginning?”
“Sure!” He seemed pleased at Xander's interest.
It turned out that the operetta was complicated, with people falling in love with other people who weren't of the right social class for them to marry. Buttercup wasn't a major character at the beginning, but she became important when it turned out that she had been a kind of foster mother to two of the men in the story when they were little boys, and she accidentally switched them, and somehow that led to everybody being able to marry all the right people.
Their father snapped the book shut. “Got what you needed?”
“I don't think so, but thanks anyway.”
“And what about the other clues?” Xander asked.
“What other clues?”
“You know, like those circle things in the casebook.”
“Those are just doodles,” Xena said. “And those other words—‘Norwood' and ‘rattle'—there isn't enough there for me to investigate online. There must be at least a hundred hits for each of—” She broke off when she realized that Xander wasn't listening. He got to his feet and went to the bookcase, where he pulled a fat volume off the shelf. Xena recognized it as being Dr. Watson's famous accounts of Sherlock's solved cases. Xander turned the pages without hesitating and mutely held the page up where Xena could see it.
“‘The Adventure of the Norwood Builder,'” she read. “So why didn't you remember this before, Mr. Photographic Memory?”
“It's just like you and the computer,” he retorted. “Norwood is a pretty common name. I knew I'd seen it before, but I didn't know where, exactly, until it came to me just now.”
“What was the case about?”
Xander scanned the pages to remind himself. “I don't think what the case is about is so important,” he said. “It's one of the clues in it that Sherlock must have been thinking about.”
“
What
clue?” Xena felt like strangling him.
“Fingerprints!”
“So?”
“Look at those swirls again.”
Xena examined the casebook page. “You know, they do kind of look like fingerprints!” Xena typed something on the keyboard. “Okay, it says here that in Sherlock's time, the police knew that all people have different fingerprints, but in England they weren't used as evidence in crimes until 1901, when Scotland Yard set up the United Kingdom Fingerprint Bureau. When was the kidnapping again?”
“December 1894.”
“So then why would Sherlock be interested in fingerprints?” Xena asked. “They couldn't have records of criminals' fingerprints if the government didn't even start keeping track of them until
after
the princess's kidnapping. They wouldn't have anything to compare with the fingerprints he found.”
Before Xander could speculate, his phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw that he had a text message. Without much interest, he glanced at it, and then sat up straight. “It's from your phone! It must be Alice!” He
opened the message and then wordlessly showed it to Xena: “riting u while noones here took me up 2 the”
Then it stopped, as though the sender had to hastily press SEND before finishing. Xander frantically punched buttons to call her back, but instead of Alice's timid “Hello?” he heard his sister's voice telling him to leave a message. He sent back a text message saying, “where r u?”
“What is it?” Xena asked.
“She must have turned off the phone.” Xander was glum.
“Or someone else did.”
“That would mean someone caught her at it. Someone who doesn't want anyone to know where she is. Someone—”
“Someone who knows now that we're on the case,” Xena finished for him. Neither one spoke what was in their minds. Would the ruthless kidnapper come after them next?
S
o you kiddies think the message came from the missing princess?” Two days had passed since they had talked to the police about the handwriting in the note that was supposedly from Alice, but unfortunately, once again the same officer was at the desk. His tone was polite, but Xena detected a smirk in his voice. They explained again, and the officer opened Xander's phone, looked at it in bewilderment, and handed it back to Xander. “Show me what you saw.”
Xander found the message and passed the phone back to the man.
“This makes no sense,” the officer said, and this time it wasn't a smirk but irritation that both of them heard clearly. “And here, what's this?” His large fingertip covered the screen.
“I can't see where you're pointing.” Xander tried to sound polite.
“It looks like the sender was someone named Xena.” He looked hard at both of them. “Didn't you say that was your name, young lady?”
“Yes, but—”
“Unusual name, wouldn't you say? Not likely there are two Xenas sending messages to this lad's phone.”
“But—”
“And,” said the policeman, as though in triumph, “the princess's name is Alice. Not Xena, is it?” He snapped the phone shut and handed it to Xander. “You kids must have something better to do than to play tricks on the police. Did you ever hear of interfering with an investigation?” He held up a finger for silence as Xena was about to say “but” again, and she clamped her lips shut. “It's a serious offense, but I have kids of my own, so I won't report you. Not this time, anyway. However, if you poke your noses into this again …” He didn't need to finish the sentence.
“I told you, he's another Lestrade,” Xander said glumly as they made their way through the Tuesday-morning crowds. It wasn't full tourist season, but London was never completely free of
foreigners who stood hunched over maps as they tried to figure out where they were going. Xena and Xander made their way around two young women and overheard one say to the other, “No, it's here—see? Waterloo Bridge. It's right next to that.”
“I don't understand why he won't pay attention to us,” Xena said. “It's not like we were making things up. He's just like most grown-ups—he doesn't get texting at all. Just because it was sent from my phone doesn't mean I'm the one who sent it!” She waited for a response from Xander, but there wasn't one. She looked around and saw that he had stopped and was talking to the two women. He was exercising his famous charm, flashing his blue eyes at them, making the most of the dimples that appeared whenever he smiled.
“So it's too far to walk?” one of the women asked.
Xander nodded. “It's a short Tube ride, but there's no Tube today. I can try to get you a cab,” he offered.
They both said, “How sweet!” and he went to stand on the curb, where Xena joined him.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “We're in the middle of an investigation!”
Xander looked smug. “They said they were going someplace near Waterloo Bridge.”
“So?”
“So that's where Somerset House is! We still haven't figured out what Sherlock meant by writing that in the casebook. Let's go there and see if we can find something out.”
Even on a day when people were almost fighting over taxis, Xander managed to snag one. The two women thanked him profusely, and he said, “Mind if we come along? We need to go that way too.”
“Of course! Hop right in.”
The drive took longer than usual due to the heavy traffic, and Xena and Xander made polite small talk with the two women. They were from Australia and were eager to see everything. When they got out of the taxi, the two women went to a nearby shop while Xena and Xander stopped to gawk at the huge palace that was Somerset House.
“What amazing fountains!” Xander said. They paused in the courtyard to watch as the brilliant jets of water shot up in the air and danced in intricate patterns. Xena wandered over to look at some signs standing against the elegant, immense building.
“Wow, I'd love to come back sometime and see this!” She pointed at a notice about an exhibit of works by William Shakespeare.
Xander shrugged. He wasn't as interested in old things as his sister was, and besides, there wasn't time. He approached the information counter.
“Six pounds each, please,” said the man seated there.
Xena and Xander looked at each other. Neither had that much money on them. Most museums in London didn't charge admission, and it didn't occur to them that they might need to pay an entrance fee. “We don't need to see the exhibits,” Xena explained. “We were just interested in the history of the building.”
The man directed them to a room off the courtyard that was devoted to the history of the palace. Xander immersed himself in old engravings showing the palace when it was a private home.
“Check this out,” Xena said from across the room. Xander tore himself away from a scene of elegant ladies with parasols walking small dogs on leashes across a bright green lawn. Xena was looking at a long text detailing what had
happened to Somerset House once it had become a public building.
“This has got to be why Sherlock was interested,” she said. “See, it says that this is where they used to store all the birth certificates and marriage licenses and things like that for the whole country.”
Xander rapidly read the rest of the information. “It says that during Sherlock's time, anybody who wanted information about British subjects could go to Somerset House to find whatever it was they were interested in. This could be why Sherlock mentioned it in the casebook! He might have wanted to know something.”
“But what?”
Xander was reading again and didn't answer. “Darn it,” he muttered.
“What?” He didn't answer, so she read it for herself. “Oh.”
The records—all 300,000 of them—had been moved to the National Archives when Somerset House became a museum.
“So where are these National Archives now?” Xena asked.
“A long way away.” Xander had memorized the map of London. “This says they're all the
way in Kew.” Xena didn't know where Kew was, but from Xander's tone, it wasn't anyplace they could walk to, and the chances of lucking on someone going that way in a taxi again were slim. What tourist would be interested in birth certificates and marriage licenses?
“Time to call the SPFD.” Xander pulled his phone from his pocket.
 
Mr. Brown pulled up to where they were waiting on the curb. They settled themselves into his comfortable car and he drove to Kew, in the southwestern part of London. Mr. Brown kept them enthralled with his tales of the work he had done as a young man with the CID, the detective branch of Britain's police force.
“Did you ever work on a kidnapping?” Xena asked.
“One or two, but they were much different from this. I can't go into detail, you understand.” Mr. Brown dropped them off, saying he was picking up Andrew from a friend's house and he'd be back for them in an hour.
The huge glass-and-cement complex of the National Archives could hardly be more different from the graceful stone Somerset House. The
buildings were kind of intimidating, but Xena and Xander found some comfort in the way they looked. They clearly meant business.
Once again, there were posters advertising exhibits of old manuscripts, letters to and from famous people, and other records of all kinds. Xena promised herself she'd come back as soon as she could. She tore herself away and followed Xander, who was striding toward the information booth.
She caught up with him just as the man at the desk was saying eagerly, “Oh, so you're the kids who are descended from Sherlock Holmes! I've always loved his cases, and I followed the ones you were involved in with interest. What are you working on now?”
“We can't talk about it,” Xander said.
“Oho, state secret! Well, fill out this form, and I'll help you locate what you need.”
Xena filled in the blanks, requesting any papers in the five years leading up to the kidnapping of Princess Stella bearing the names of Queen Charlotte, King Boris, Princess Stella, or Miss Mimsy. She pushed it over the counter to the man, whose eyes widened.
“This will take a while.” He handed the form
to a clerk. “You can look around, if you like. I'll call your name when we have something.”
They were too nervous to do anything but pace up and down the corridor, looking at the large pool outside and glancing up at the high ceilings. It was a quiet place, like a library, except when someone came in and exclaimed over the building and the exhibits.
It seemed like forever before the man's voice said, “Holmes?” They hurried back to the desk. “I've put the documents you requested in a private reading room. Here, put these on before you handle them.” He handed each of them a pair of white cotton gloves. “Oils from your hands can damage the pages. You can have room three-twelve.”
The room was almost bare, with a table and two chairs, and a glass door in sight of the main desk. Xena was dying to get her hands on the papers, but she knew Xander could speed-read them so fast that there was hardly any point in her helping. So she sat on the hard wooden chair in the small, windowless room, chewing the inside of her cheek nervously.
“Aha!” Xander held up a yellowing sheet of paper. “Got it!”
“What is it?” Xena tried to snatch the paper out of Xander's hand, but he said, “Nuh-uh! You might rip it.”
He spread the paper out on the table. At the top, it said in flowery writing, “Certificate of Marriage.” It was dated June 1892 and the groom was Jonathan Blunt, which meant nothing to Xena, but the bride's name was familiar: Eugenia Mimsy.
“Miss Mimsy got
married
?” Xena could hardly believe it. “But the contract said she wasn't supposed to!”
“She was married before she became a nanny, and I guess she didn't want to tell the queen. And look at this!” Xander pointed to the words “birth certificate” scrawled in the margin, in the by-now familiar handwriting of their ancestor Sherlock Holmes.
“So Miss Mimsy had a secret marriage a year and a half before she went to work for the queen.” Xena copied the names and dates into her notebook. “Good for her. I know it wasn't honest, but it's not fair that she couldn't have her own family when she was taking care of someone else's. And we know that Sherlock found this same paper. I wonder what he meant
by ‘birth certificate.' This is a marriage license.”
“I don't see where this takes us,” Xander said. “Lots of people must have had secret weddings in those days, if nannies couldn't get married. And look at this.” He showed her another paper, a death certificate for Jonathan Blunt, dated only a few months before his wife was hired by the queen.
“That must be why Miss Mimsy—or Mrs. Blunt—needed the job so badly that she'd lie,” Xena said. “Hmm … I wonder.”
“You wonder what?”
Xena shook her head. “Never mind. It's crazy. Unless … wait a second. Don't leave this stuff. I don't want someone to think we've left and clean it up.” Xena ran out. Through the glass door, Xander saw her conferring with the clerk, who nodded and disappeared into the back. What was she doing?
In a few minutes, the clerk came back and handed her another piece of paper. Xena scanned it, raised her head, and asked the clerk a question. He went back into the archives. This time he stayed away for so long that Xander was about to get up and see what was going on, when
the man reappeared, empty-handed this time, and shook his head. He and Xena spoke together a little longer, and then she came back.
“What's that?” Xander tried to snatch the paper from his sister's hand.
Xena couldn't hold back a triumphant smile. “A birth certificate for the nanny's baby.”
“What?”
This time he managed to grab it. Sure enough, it said that in November 1894, a baby girl named Josephine was born to Eugenia Mimsy Blunt, widow of Jonathan Blunt.
“Think about it, Xander. The queen interviewed Miss Mimsy—or Mrs. Blunt—months before Princess Stella and Josephine were born. If the nanny didn't tell the queen that she was married, maybe there was something else she wasn't telling her. Like, that she was going to have a baby.”
“What made you think that?”
“Remember what Sherlock called Miss Mimsy?” Xena asked.
“You mean ‘Buttercup'?”
Xena nodded. “And remember what we found out about Buttercup in the opera?”
Xander sighed in exasperation. Usually he was the one who tantalized Xena with hints, and
he wasn't used to having to guess. “She sold things to sailors, and she used to be a nanny, and she took care of two babies who—” He broke off as understanding dawned on him.

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