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Hermione Holmes and Anozira: Thanks! I know there were no middle schools in Victorian England, but this particular story is more for humor and fun (as you may have guessed given the title change). Some modern-day things will appear to give the effects I want in this story. So this story could be considered "Alternate Universe".

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Chapter Two

Sophia Sheperill

Some of the fog had cleared up by the time our cab had pulled up in front of a big two story brick building, with a rather large marble sign that read: "Simmons Middle School". The school appeared to be vacant, for when my companion and I arrived; there wasn't a soul in sight. But as the driver opened the two wheeler door for us, a tall, slim, bald-headed man in a three piece suit walked out.

Slowly but surely we made our way up the path, for Holmes was taking in every inch of the dirt ground. I looked at the ground as well as I followed Holmes, but it was long ago that I had realized that I would never be able to read half the things that Holmes could in a day, which he could detect in just a glance.

"Professor Josef Sterman?" asked Holmes as we reached the tall doors where the man was standing.

"No," said the man. "I am his butler, Martin. I will take you to Mr. Sterman. He has been very anxious to see whether you'd come or not."

"We got here as soon as we could," responded Holmes, failing to mention that he almost hadn't come.

The butler took the two of us to the headmaster of the school. As we walked in, he was pacing up and down the room. He was a shorter, overweight man of about five-three. He wore a panicked look on his face, and when we walked into the room, he hurried over to us, waddling as he walked.

"I am so glad that you could make it, Mr. Holmes," the man stuttered. He had a bit of a deep, shaky voice. He dragged his hands through his dark and thick, uncombed hair as he looked up into Holmes's tall face. "I must admit that I was starting to worry that you would not be able to make it."

"Well, I am here. Would you be so kind as to tell me in more detail what precisely has happened?"

"Yes, of course. Would you and your friend, who I believe is Dr. Watson, be so kind as to sit down?" questioned the professor, pulling up two chairs in front of a large, carved, wooden desk. He moved around to the other side of the desk to sit down in it. "Were should I start?"

"I always found that the beginning is the best," Holmes replied.

"Okay. Well, as I mentioned in my letter, the janitors were working their usual shifts this morning when they went into one of the rooms, number 120 to be exact, and found a young girl by the name of Sophia Sheperill, dead."

"How did she die?"

"I'm no medical doctor, but I believe that she was shot with a gun," he answered.

"Will you take me to the body so I can examine it?"

"Er, yes, of course. Right this way," said the Professor. And with that he rose from his feet and led us to room 120.

The room was on the other side of the school. As we passed through the hallway a chill passed down my spine from the odd quietness that seemed to be loud at the same time. The type of silence was one in which a man could hear a needle drop, but simultaneously, a loud whistling wind seemed to be blowing through one's ears. The echoes of our footsteps could be heard forever down the long thin hall.

At last we made it to the lonesome door, labeled '120 Professor Monvilyon'. My heart began to race as I tried to prepare myself for what laid behind the door, which the short, overweight headmaster was reaching his plump hand out to open. Slowly, ever so slowly, the door creaked open, testing us. Testing our imagination. Testing our bravery. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle and rise as goose pimples ran up and down my body.

What lay behind that testing door was what looked to me like a perfectly normal classroom. A few student desks, a teacher's desk, a large black chalkboard, and few boxes of named files on a shelf. Then I saw her.

In the middle of the room laid a lifeless, young girl, in a bloody lump on the floor. In the middle of that floor laid Sophia Sheperill—dead.