He yearned to go. The clammy, stinking mire seemed like a preferable place to be.
He held out the envelope. “Here, ma’am. The invitation.”
She took it and laughed again. “You’ll have to stop calling me ma’am if we’re going to be friends. Besides, I’m only a miss.”
He heard her, but he was already running. Back into the weeds, back through the muck to his proper place.
He had made a fool of himself, he realized, and worst of all, he would never have a chance to speak to her again.
In Which Horton’s Competition Is Enumerated . . .
Such sad thoughts ran through our kitchen boy’s head on the long slog back to Smugwick Manor.
But what of the lovely head of Celia Sylvan-Smythe? What thoughts ran through hers?
I shall not tell you, Reader. Miss Sylvan-Smythe is the only true lady in this story—even if she is just a girl—and I feel we owe her her privacy.
But I can tell you that she still had that nice smile when she picked up her bicycle and rode up the lane.
I can also tell you this.
Celia was too young to marry, but not to be engaged. Already, she had been wooed by no fewer than two dozen men. Stuffed shirts. Pompous popinjays. Greedy, as it were, pigs.
They were really wooing her father’s money, and some didn’t even try to hide this fact.
Oily, puffy, pasty, and dull, one and all. One was seventy-three years old. One was secretly already married. Most wore this year’s fashions but had not read last year’s books.
To say that they were slightly better than Luther Luggertuck is to say very little, and to say that Horton Halfpott was better than all of them put together is to state the obvious.
Word of the costume ball leaked out to these two dozen suitors and they quickly found ways to invite themselves.
But would their trip to Smugwick Manor be in vain? Was Celia’s heart already taken? I can’t say.
She leaned forward and whipped the bicycle up to top speed.
In Which Horton Is Rudely Received . . .
Horton arrived back at Smugwick Manor just after dark, stumbling up the drive in a state of muddiness, stinkiness, itchiness, and emotional confusion.
He expected to find the inhabitants of Smugwick Manor off to their nocturnal quarters—the Luggertucks to their stately bedchambers, the better servants to their small rooms, and his fellow lowly servants to their rickety cots in the stiflingly hot attic above the southeast wing, where it still smelled like pigeon dung although no pigeon had roosted there in forty years.
Instead, he found the manor alive. Lights bobbed behind windows as if candles were being carried from room to room. Several strange wagons sat in the drive, where all of the servants appeared to be assembled.
“Here, boy, what are you up to?” barked an extremely rude voice. It belonged to a rude man who grabbed Horton rudely around the neck.
“I—”
“What are you hiding, boy?” he demanded. (Rudely interrupting.)
“N—”
“Miss Neversly, is this filthy thing one of yours?” He dragged Horton toward the clump of servants. Even in the dim light, Horton’s muddy clothes were plain to see. And his coating of mire mud stank by day or night.
Slugsalt, a garden boy, and some of his cronies laughed; Miss Neversly did not. Instinctively she grabbed for her spoon, but luckily for Horton’s head she had left the spoon behind when she and the other kitchen staff were ordered outside.
“Yes, Constable Wholecloth,” she said. “He’s mine. One of my worst.”
Then she turned on Horton. “Been lazing the day away in the pond, have you?”
“No, ma’am, I—”
“Or have you been sneaking about, hiding what you stole?”
“What? No, ma’am, I—”
“Someone fetch my spoon, I’ll get the truth out of him!”
The baker, Loafburton, spoke up.
“Oh, Nell, leave him alone,” he said.
Several servants gasped at his impudence and cowered as Miss Neversly’s face turned red and her spoon hand twitched.
But the baker, a small man with strong, flour-covered arms, continued: “Don’t you remember you sent him all the way to the Shortleys’ today? He probably fell in the mire.”
“Yes,” cried Horton.
“Enough!” shrieked Miss Neversly. “Go to the stables and wash until the stink is gone. I won’t have you tracking mud into my kitchen and you have many dishes to wash tonight.”
“Wait!” barked Constable Wholecloth, coming toward Horton with a lantern. Horton could now see that the man indeed wore a policeman’s uniform a’dangling with badges, medals, epaulets, and sashes.
“Turn out your pockets,” the uniform said.
Horton did. They were empty except for a short candle stub. The constable, holding his nose, gave Horton a kick and told him to go wash.
Bump slipped away from the others and went with him. “You’ll never believe it, Hort!” he said.
“What on earth is going on?”
“Someone’s stolen the Lump!”
In Which We Learn of the Luggertuck Lump . . .
Some families have beautiful jewels that are passed down from generation to generation and are taken out only to wear at coronations, jubilees, and beheadings.
Some are pearl necklaces, others emerald brooches. There are golden rings and silver lockets and ruby tiaras.
The Luggertucks had a lump.
Except it was not just a lump, it was the Lump. The Luggertuck Lump. Possibly the world’s largest diamond and certainly the ugliest.
It was said that Sir Falstaff Luggertuck brought the Lump back with him from the Crusades. It did indeed look sort of like a diamond, but also a little like a rotten potato. It was said that the stone was so valuable that no jeweler dared to try making it look less like a potato, for fear of destroying nature’s finest gift.
It was also said—but only in the servants’ quarters and only in whispers—that the Lump was just a lump. It was ugly, it couldn’t be worn, and it looked like any other rock.
Slugsalt said he pulled rocks like that out of the cabbage rows every day. However, it must be noted that Slugsalt had never actually seen the Lump.
Nevertheless, the Lump was the great treasure of the Luggertucks.
Along with Smugwick Manor, it was the only proof left that the Luggertucks were any better than the bankers, sea captains, tea merchants, and factory owners who now crowded the private clubs and fancy balls. Those people may have had money, but the Luggertucks had nobility, class, royal blood, and the Lump.
Except they didn’t have the Lump anymore. The lavish Lump Room, with its massive locks and solid marble pedestal, was found empty by Crotty herself.
Can it be any wonder, then, that M’Lady Luggertuck was heard to cry, “Send for Portnoy St. Pomfrey, the Greatest Detective in all of England!”
In Which the Great Detective Arrives . . .
The next day, four white stallions wearing feathery plumes on their heads pulled an enormous carriage up the drive.
To say that the inhabitants of Smugwick Manor had never seen a carriage like it would be to suggest that there was another carriage like it that they had simply not seen. There was not and still is not.
When Portnoy St. Pomfrey solved the Case of the Sultan’s Sapphire, the sultan kindly offered to reward St. Pomfrey with anything he wished. St. Pomfrey asked for the hand of the sultan’s daughter in marriage.
When the sultan pointed out that his daughter was already married with three children, St. Pomfrey said he would settle for the “magnificent carriage” parked behind the sultan’s palace instead.
The sultan was too polite to tell St. Pomfrey that this was really the Royal Outhouse. Instead, he ordered the outhouse set on wheels and shipped to England. St. Pomfrey has ridden in it ever since, always wondering about the lingering odor and lack of windows.
This wheeled water closet was immediately f
ollowed by another vehicle, one that was certainly a carriage, but a really lousy one. Out of this vehicle jumped three members of the press.
“M. Hillhemp of the East London Tribune and Rannygazoo,” shouted the first as he leapt from the still-moving carriage.
“L. Gateberry of the Wapping Worrier,” shouted the next, a young woman who hopped gracefully to the ground despite her long dress and petticoats.
“I. Howbag of the West London Rannygazoo and Tribune,” hollered the last, tripping on the carriage steps and landing in a heap from which he sprang gymnastically, pulling a pad and pen from a pocket.
To whom these introductions were aimed remains unclear, as only Blight and Blemish happened to be near enough to the drive to bear witness to their arrival.
Hillhemp, Gateberry, and Howbag ran to the as-yet-unopened door of St. Pomfrey’s carriage.
“Any leads on the Lump, sir?” called either Gateberry or Howbag.
“Is Sir Luggertuck’s nephew Lord Crimcramper a suspect?” called another, who may have been Howbag, which means that the first one was Gateberry. Or Hillhemp.
Frankly, Reader, it is too difficult to tell these penbrandishing members of the reporting trade apart. Their actions were so similar that I shall no longer bother.
It was their job to follow England’s most famous detective and recount the details of his investigations in the pages of their newspapers. Do not judge them harshly. I worked among their number once. Their job was not easy.
The door of the carriage and the door of Smugwick Manor burst open at the same moment. From Smugwick Manor came a stream of footmen, a valet, Crotty and, yes, M’Lady Luggertuck herself.
She was not surprised by the sight of the carriage, of course, having closely followed St. Pomfrey’s adventures in the papers.
From the carriage came a commanding voice. Yes, it must be the great man himself! It must be Portnoy St. Pomfrey!
“Back! Get back you nattering nimrods of news, you journalistic jugwumps, you itchy inkers of inaccuracies!”
Hillhemp, Gateberry, and Howbag did not get back. They kept babbling questions.
A giant shoe emerged from the carriage. It was a fine shoe. It bore the St. Pomfrey foot. The very same foot that—according to these very same newspaper reporters—had tracked down murderers, thieves, and shysters from one side of Europe to another.
The rest of St. Pomfrey was equally impressive—seven feet tall and four hundred pounds heavy. Three tailors spent a week and two bolts of fabric to make each of his silk suits. The ruffles required another bolt.
Incredibly, his massive coiffure, which looked like one of M’Lady Luggertuck’s cast-off wigs, was actually his own hair.
The big man moved fast. Walking directly into Hillhemp, Gateberry, and Howbag—knocking one of them down and hurting another’s feelings—he strode toward M’Lady Luggertuck.
“Oh, Mr. St. Pomfrey, thank you so much for coming, we—”
“Wait, M’Lady, I beg! Wait for your gilded door to swing closed on its golden hinges and shut out this pack of nosy narwhales! Say not a word!”
And that’s just what happened. M’Lady Luggertuck, the valet, several footmen, and Crotty ducked back inside as St. Pomfrey rushed the door, the reporters just behind him.
“Just one quote, please, sir . . .”
“If it’s no trouble, sir . . .”
“Is it true that a kitchen boy was . . .”
SLAM!
And that was that. They were outside, and the story, dear Reader, was inside.
In Which Horton Scrubs and the Great Detective Detects . . .
And what of Horton Halfpott?
Alas, he was where he was every day at that time. In fact, at almost all times. He was washing dishes.
Imagine how many plates, how many saucers, how many bowls, brandy snifters, butter trays, ice-cube nimbles, gin jiggers, melon ballers, salad tongs, salt cellars, teacups, teakettles, teapots, teaspoons, and tea strainers were used every day at the fancy Luggertuck table, where five-course meals were eaten three times a day, tea was served twice, and midnight snacks were offered at eleven, twelve, and one o’clock.
(You’ll notice that forks were not mentioned. Faithful readers will remember that M’Lady Luggertuck had had a fear of forks ever since the events recounted in “M’Lady Luggertuck Hires a Tattooed Nanny.”)
The cutlery of the staff has not been mentioned either, but, yes, Horton had to clean their gruel spoons, too. He counted once and found that he washed 652 spoons in a single day.
Yet try as she might—and she might—Miss Neversly never found a spot on any dish Horton cleaned. He was too careful. Miss Neversly once thought she beheld a spot on a sardine tray and beat Horton with her spoon. Then she realized it was only her own shriveled, hateful face reflected in the squeaky-clean surface. This made her so mad she hit him again.
So picture Horton, standing on a bucket, scrubbing away and dreaming of a beautiful girl on a bicycle. Yes, Reader, even if we’re not dwelling on the subject, Horton certainly was. The boy was smitten.
“I wish I could see her again,” he thought. “I wouldn’t even have to talk to her. Just see her. I’ll bet she’ll be beautiful at the ball. But I’ll be right here on my bucket while she and Luther dance. No, I won’t even get to be in the same room. Unless . . .”
Whack! went a spoon on the back of his head.
“Halfpott! Pay attention!” bellowed Miss Neversly. “Everyone! To the Front Hall! Now!”
Horton did not dare to ask why. Would you? But it certainly seemed an unusual request. He had never set foot in the Front Hall and had assumed he never would.
He wrung out his rag and hung it on a tiny hook that kitchen boys had been hanging their rags on for two centuries.
The rest of the kitchen staff was excited, but Horton did not welcome the interruption, because it only meant that he would have to work later into the night to finish the washing.
In the Front Hall, he and the rest of the staff assembled in a long line. The head cooks and undercooks, the maids, the cleaners, the gardeners, the footmen, the butlers, the valets, the gamekeeper, the boatman, the boatwoman, the ferret comber, the fire stoker, the wig stroker and, of course, the many boys of kitchen, garden, and stable varieties.
Bump squeezed in next to Horton.
“A great big fat detective is here,” whispered Bump excitedly. “He asked to see us. He thinks one of us has the Lump.”
A chortle broke out behind them, close enough for hot sardine-scented breath to tickle their ears. They froze, prepared for a beating or worse.
“Well said, small stable boy, well said. I am, in point of fact, all three of those things,” St. Pomfrey boomed. The boys cringed.
“I am great—perhaps the greatest practitioner of deduction, detection, and misdirection ever to deduce, detect, and misdirect. I am big, though I am the shortest of three brothers. And alas I am fat, thanks to a love of sardines, deviled eggs, and other delicacies.
“Your remark proves your innocence, boy. The guilty party will try to flatter me with lies. You, common stable boy, are a truth-teller. You may go. Hopefully to bathe.”
Bump ran off. Horton wished he could go, too.
Portnoy St. Pomfrey chortled again, watching Bump run with a wistful look in his eye. Then he turned and glared at the servants. “The rest of you may not go! One of you has betrayed Smugwick Manor, betrayed M’Lady Luggertuck, betrayed all that is good amongst men. I will root you out like a mongoose in a snake’s den. I will peer into your soul and see the Lump within.”
His gaze came to rest on Horton. It seemed to linger.
Horton trembled. St. Pomfrey seemed to be peering into his soul at the Lump within!
Of course, Horton hadn’t stolen the Lump, but he did have a secret.
A Big Secret!
And it felt like St. Pomfrey knew all about it.
In Which Horton Recalls His Secret . . .
Horton’s secret actually goes back fu
rther than the beginning of this book.
It goes back to a day, several years earlier, when he got lost on his way to the servants’ attic after a long night’s washing.
It was dark. He was exhausted. He went up one floor too few. He felt for the rusty doorknob of the attic door and his hand touched a glass doorknob instead.
He should not have opened that door. He should have gone up to the attic where he belonged, where the other boys were already asleep.
But open it he did—just a crack—and peeked in.
An enormous window let in enough moonlight for him to see what he had found. Among the jumble of Peculiar and Unusual Artifacts were a suit of armor, a massive trunk, a partly built model ship, a strange machine with levers and gears, a white raven (stuffed), a painting of a man with a monkey, and the gilded bindings of hundreds and hundreds of books.
Horton closed the door immediately, found his way back to the stairs, and went up to bed.
But he did not sleep. He kept thinking about all those books and Peculiar and Unusual Artifacts. What else might be in the room, he wondered. He wanted a closer look at the painting and maybe a chance to fiddle with the strange machine and rummage in the big trunk.
Horton’s faithfulness and obedience have been spoken of before. And yes, they were strong enough to resist the temptations of a Sweet Sugarapple Pie.
But they were not quite strong enough to keep Horton from the call of those books. He went back to the room the next night.
It was late. Everyone else had gone to bed. He took several candle stubs from the pile of discarded candles. M’Lady Luggertuck insisted on using brand-new candles every night, so there were always plenty of half-used candles around. The better servants used these until they dwindled to tiny stubs. Only then were the lowest servants, such as Horton and Bump, allowed to use the stubs to light their way up to the attic.
Horton lit one of those runty candles at the kitchen fire and climbed the narrow, winding stairs. He found the mysterious room again, peeked through the keyhole to be sure it was unoccupied, turned the glass doorknob, and went inside.