“Oh, sorry, Headmaster. Am I interrupting?” “Out,” Crudgeon ordered Sherlock, pointing. James turned and pressed something made of paper into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock crossed his arms, hiding it. On his way out, Sherlock moved past the arriving Mr. Cantell, their hall master. Cantell entered wearing a decent imitation of Crudgeon’s obvious displeasure. Sherlock slipped what turned out to be a red envelope into his back pocket as he slid down the wall and sat out in the hall, his ears attuned to the conversation inside his own room. “Mr. Moriarty.” “Headmaster.” “You will stand when addressing me.” “Yes, Headmaster.” James stood, though begrudgingly, which proved to be a mistake. Body language and the conveyance of Attitude—capital A—it turns out, was everything to Dr. Crudgeon. “You visited Upper Two,” Crudgeon said, naming a boy’s dorm closer to Main House, “earlier this evening. You were seen there.” James said nothing. “Do you deny it?”
