Sherlock Holmes and the Ravenclaw Codex

Chapter Eight: The Housemasters

Past experience had taught me that when my friend Sherlock Holmes was hot on the trail of a villain, he could be most exacting in his demands, so when I arrived at the Charms classroom fully fifteen minutes after our appointed hour, I fully expected a dressing down. However, the droning voice of Professor Binns from within was all I needed to tell me that my friend was still engaged, and I settled down on a carved bench to wait.

Minutes passed, and I began to run out of patience. When the great clock in the hallway struck twelve, I pushed open the door, to find Binns still in full spate as Holmes paced up and down the room in a state of the highest impatience.

"Well, Watson, here you are at last!" he exclaimed, interrupting Binns in the middle of what appeared to be a long diatribe on the correct classification of various illegal spell types. "I've been waiting for you this age." He turned to Professor Binns. "Well, Binns, I am sorry to say that Watson here is a man of choleric temperament and detests being kept waiting - our little chat has been very pleasant indeed, but we must terminate it if we hope to avoid an outburst... yes, very good, that's the way," he continued, as he took the professor by the shoulders, put him out of the door and slammed home the bolt behind him.

"What have you discovered?" I asked. "Is the mystery any clearer? Are you any closer to identifying the culprit?"

"Clearer?" said Holmes, "I doubt it. Between that slippery fellow O'Connell, with his insinuating questions, evasive answers and knowing looks, and that appalling windbag Binns, (and how such a tedious, puling creature as that can ever have been accepted into the noble house of Ravenclaw I am a loss to understand!) I think it is fair to say that I have rarely spent a more trying morning. O'Connell told me practically nothing, though I fancy he got even less out of me. Binns, on the other hand, has told me a great deal - and almost none of it of the slightest value. I can only hope, old friend, that your enquiries were more successful than mine."

In truth, although my morning had been considerably more pleasant, I hesitated to call it profitable. I had spoken first to Professor Drummond, head of Gryffindor house, a bearded, stout bull of a man with a firm handshake and a forthright manner, who turned out, rather to my surprise, to be the botany master. Botany, it seemed, took a much more aggressive and dangerous form in the magical world, and some of Drummond's tales of plants he had subdued in the far-flung travels of his youth and brought back to study in Hogwarts made my blood run cold. He was equally fascinated by my time in India and Afghanistan as an army surgeon, and, had we been differently placed, we could cheerfully have exchanged reminiscences all day. Unfortunately, he had little to say on the subject of Godfrey Easingwold beyond what everyone knew: that he was the son of a rich antiquarian bookseller, a clever boy, a model pupil and a prefect, much liked by teachers and pupils alike. Moreover, it quickly became clear that it would have been materially impossible for Professor Drummond to have seen anything of value on the night the Codex was taken, being entirely taken up with the search for ingredients for a potion for a malady he knew only by the unlikely name of "Dragon Pox", several students in Slytherin House having fallen prey to this painful and irritating illness. This was confirmed in due course by my next visitor.

Professor Blenkinsop of Hufflepuff house, an ethereal-looking lady of middle years, had greeted me with a sweet smile, saying: "You have quite enthralled my young charges, Dr Watson - but I trust you did not keep them up too late yesterday evening? A good night's rest is so important for the growing mind." I confessed that I had perhaps not adhered strictly to regulations in that regard, but that my pleasure in conversation with her young charges must be my excuse. From there the conversation turned to Dragon Pox and thence to medical matters: she was the school chemistry mistress, and had much to say on the subject of healing potions and lotions in the wizarding world (the greater part of her lore proved unworkable outside a magical environment, but a couple of her herbal tisanes were to play an invaluable role in reviving the flagging fortunes of my practice), and before I knew it the best part of an hour had passed. Unfortunately, she had very little to add to my knowledge of Godfrey Easingwold, for although he had done as well in her lessons as all the others, his interests lay more in the practice of pure magic. However, she did volunteer the information that Godfrey was much admired in her House for his team spirit: he was a member of several sports teams and had been picked to compete in a magical Triathalon of sorts that was to be held in France the following year.

"Poor stuff, but I did little better," said Holmes at the end of my account. "O'Connell spoke volumes in the lad's praise - he might almost have been writing his obituary - but he could tell us nothing of the slightest relevance, and I'm sure he knew it. And then the wretched Binns subjected me to the most tedious lecture on the subject of historical criminals and magical law that I have ever heard - the most dismal stuff imaginable, Watson, you can't conceive! But for your timely arrival, I might well have had to resort to violence."

"I believe you," I said with feeling. "And yet, was there nothing of value in what he said? You are dealing with magical criminals - surely the magical law that was set up to deal with them has some relevance? Or perhaps he has been spirited away by some vile incantation unknown to the world at large?"

"Don't be absurd," Holmes began in a peevish tone, but his words trailed off, and he stood motionless for a full minute before smiting his forehead violently with the palm of his hand. "Great Scott, Watson, what a bungler I am! I deserve to be sent back to school myself, and set to write lines for such a blunder! Of course! We have him now, the wretch, and no mistake!"

"Splendid!" I exclaimed. "I shall enjoy seeing Headmaster Black's face - to think that he ever doubted your abilities! So what now? Do we call the police? Or do we take the villain into custody ourselves?"

"The police?" said Holmes. "No, I think not. I know how the business was done - and a filthy trick it was, too - but we still lack the final proof. For that, we still require one more piece of evidence. Curse these provincial boarding schools! If we were in London - or if I could lay my hands on a good dog with a nose for a scent - I could bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion within a day. As it is..."

"But we do have a dog!" I interrupted him. "Stebbins' beagle! You saw this morning at breakfast how eager he was to assist you."

"Good thinking, Watson!" said my friend. "We could use his help - yes, perhaps we will establish a Hogwarts Irregulars in truth - that would be one in the eye for friend Black, to be sure. But now we must make haste - lunch is served at half past twelve, and the Headmaster detests impunctuality. We would not wish to seem in any way slovenly, eh, Watson?"

We found Weaselby waiting for us in the corridor. As he led us towards the Great Hall through Hogwarts' maze of corridors, he quizzed us earnestly about our mission, and expressed delight that Holmes had made such good progress. In the entrance hall, we came upon the caretaker, Goyle, mopping the floor. He shot Holmes a look of concentrated malevolence, turned his back on us and was about to slink off when Holmes hailed him:

"Goyle! A word with you, if you please!"

Plainly, Goyle would have given much to ignore Holmes entirely, but this was further than he could go in the presence of a Hogwarts teacher. He reluctantly turned to face my friend, who, to my surprise, addressed him in a firm but distinctly cordial tone.

"Listen to me carefully, Goyle," said Holmes. "There is something we need to discuss. I believe you have conceived some very wrong notions with regard to our purpose here, and so have come to believe - naturally, perhaps, considering what took place at our last meeting - that I am your enemy. I would urge you to think again, for what you know could be of vital use to our investigation. You are shielding a person you believe to be innocent, and, while you have broken no law, you will find, if you carry on in this way, that you have made yourself some powerful enemies. Whatever your former life might have been, you have acted honourably, and it would grieve me to see you come to harm as a result. So I must ask you, man to man: Where is he?"

Goyle swallowed, visibly affected. He stared at the ground for a long time, before looking Holmes in the eye and slowly shaking his head. Holmes sighed resignedly.

"Then matters must fall as they will," he said. "That is all: you may go."

Goyle nodded once, took to his heels and fled.