Because stable boys were not allowed in the nicer parts of the house, he needed to be very sneaky. He hid behind a tapestry of the Battle of Hastings, which hung near Luther’s room, and watched the door for the rest of the day, but, as Blight discovered by way of the keyhole, all Luther did was sleep until dinner.
After following Luther to the dining room, Blight gave up. He returned to the stables.
“Verily, that was the most boring afternoon I’ve spent in my whole life,” he told the others. “I must own that I would have preferred to have been shoveling horse manure.”
“Very good, Mr. Blight. Here you go then,” said Blemish, handing him the shovel with a chuckle.
Blemish didn’t see anything interesting either until just after midnight. Shortly after various clocks had struck twelve, Luther emerged from his bedroom, carrying a single candle and something big and heavy under his arm.
Blemish, hiding behind a tapestry of the Second Battle of Hastings, held his breath as Luther walked past, just inches away.
Then, as quietly as he could manage, he crept after Luther.
Suddenly Luther stopped and sniffed. He looked all around for the source of the smell.
Blemish, the source of the smell, slipped into M’Lady Luggertuck’s Spare Corset Closet just in time.
Luther continued on and so did Blemish. They went down a winding staircase and along the Creepy Hall of Luggertuck Portraits. Ah, if only Blemish had had a chance to look at the paintings! Surely he would have noticed the resemblance betwixt Bump and Great Uncle Wilkerson Luggertuck, Earl of Swinetusk.
But Luther passed by the paintings and tiptoed down the Grand Staircase to the Front Hall, and thus so did Blemish. He crouched at the foot of the stairs and watched as Luther approached the mantelpiece above the Great Big Fireplace.
Luther grunted as he raised the heavy object he had been carrying up onto the mantelpiece. But it was simply too dark for Blemish to see what it was.
Then Luther turned and headed up the Grand Staircase again. Luckily, in the darkness, he mistook Blemish for the Grand Newel Post.
As soon as Luther left, Blemish ran to find a candle, then rushed back to see what Luther had put on the mantel.
There was no mistaking the beady eyes that peered down at him. Napoleon had returned! Luther had unstolen the bust.
In Which Horton Falls in Again . . .
On Sunday, just one week before the ball, Horton rose early and took his customary trip to his family’s house.
The two halves of the journey—one to the house and the other back to Smugwick Manor—were very, very different.
The trip home was always filled with a week’s worth of hopes. Hope that something good had happened to his family. Hope that his father had gotten better. Hope that the family finally had enough money for a doctor.
Instead, he would find his family always a little worse off than the week before. The little cottage always a little bit more rundown as Uncle Lemuel got too old to fix the things that broke. And his father never any better.
Thus the trip back to Smugwick Manor was always gloomy. It also meant that he had to face another week of Miss Neversly and fetching firewood and washing dishes and on and on.
Sometimes, he envied Bump, Blight, and Blemish. Since they didn’t have families, they just slept late on Sunday mornings. They had nothing to look forward to except well-earned rest, but they also had no disappointments.
This week Horton had faced more than the usual disappointments. His father was worse, Uncle Lemuel had hurt his leg while trying to patch the roof, and one of the goats had run off. His mother had found it hard to smile when he gave her the penny and she, as usual, had to tell him that, no, it still wasn’t enough.
And so, Horton’s spirits were particularly low as he made the return trip to Smugwick Manor.
Then, as he approached Magpie Pond, where he would leave the road to take the shortcut through Wolfleg Woods, he saw something that made him feel better.
First he saw the bicycle, then the rider. It was Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe again, throwing rocks into the pond. Not skipping them, mind you, but lofting them high in the air so they made big splashes.
“Mr. Halfpott! Mr. Halfpott!” she called.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. He felt that he should slip on past. He felt that he shouldn’t be talking to her.
But he couldn’t have gotten by, because she actually ran forward to greet him.
“No, no. Don’t you remember? I’m not a ma’am, just a miss. I’d be glad to be called Celia, but I suppose since we just met you should call me Miss Sylvan-Smythe.”
“I’d like that, Miss Sylvan-Smythe.” Horton grinned in spite of himself. In spite of propriety. In spite of the fact that we’re not supposed to be dwelling on this subject.
She grinned back.
“Where have you been, Mr. Halfpott?”
“I’ve been to see my family.”
“Oh, I hope they’re well.”
Properly, Horton should have said, “Yes, thank you, Miss.”
But there was something irresistible in Celia’s manner—in her voice and her eyes. Something that told him he would find real sympathy here and, on that day, he needed it.
“No,” he murmured, “my father is very sick. He’s been sick for a long time.”
“What does the doctor say?” she asked.
Horton was ashamed to tell her that his family hadn’t been able to pay for a doctor in years.
Celia—being a very clever girl, after all—understood right away. And she formed a plan of action right away, too, but she decided to keep that to herself for the moment.
A hasty change of subjects was needed.
“Thank you for giving me that invitation to the ball. I’m coming as Little Bo-peep. What will you wear?”
Alas, Celia’s new subject caused the same problems as the old one.
It set off a chain of conflicting emotions in Horton, putting him over the daily quota of conflicting emotions that a person can be expected to endure gracefully.
Just talking to Miss Sylvan-Smythe mixed embarrassment and happiness, with happiness ahead by a nose. But to imagine that she wanted to see him at the ball was joy and shame wrapped in one. Joy because he would of course love to see her at the ball, too. Shame because he would be scrubbing the guests’ dirty dishes down in the kitchen while she danced in the ballroom.
He couldn’t speak.
“Oh,” she asked, “is your costume a secret?”
“No,” he stammered. “I don’t have a costume. I—”
He heard horses approaching behind him. If someone saw him talking to Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe, he’d be in big trouble. He’d better get going.
Then he heard a voice behind him. He’d tarried too long.
“Here now! Boy!”
He’d been caught, he realized, and he had a bad feeling he knew who’d done the catching.
“You’re one of our kitchen boys, aren’t you?”
Horton turned around. Yes, just as he had feared, it was Luther Luggertuck. And Montgomery was with him.
Worse than the knowledge of the trouble he was in was the fact that Miss Sylvan-Smythe would soon understand just how lowly his status was. Humiliation loomed!
“We don’t pay you to loiter around the pond with your friends,” snarled Luther.
What a statement! They hardly paid him at all, and it was his day off!
Luther and Montgomery dismounted. Luther, who had not yet met Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe, was being elbowed in the ribs by Montgomery, who had.
“Luther, that’s her! That’s Sylvan-Smythe,” Montgomery whispered, too loudly.
Luther was stunned. Why was the richest young lady in fifty miles talking to a kitchen boy? He was too unfamiliar with the concepts of friendship and love to suspect the truth, but he certainly suspected something.
He had merely planned to tease the kitchen boy, but now he realized that the servant must be put in his proper
place. The handiest proper place, it occurred to Luther, was the muddy waters of Magpie Pond.
But Luther’s cleverness ran too deep to let his emotions make him look brutish in front of a young lady. That was what Montgomery was for.
“Montgomery, that kitchen boy is pestering your future bride. Best go to her rescue,” he whispered to Montgomery, not too loudly. “I recommend you toss him in yonder pond.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice,” said Montgomery.
“The young lady’s honor is at stake,” hissed Luther, whose own claim to honor ran thinner than the servants’ gruel.
“Oh,” said Montgomery. “Well, I guess I’d better do something then.” He clomped forward.
Horton figured he had just enough time to run, but he didn’t move.
Instead, acting on an impulse, he turned back around and looked directly at Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe. He said quietly, “I think you’ll look very beautiful as Little Bo-peep. I hope you have a wonderful time.”
Then an even more outlandish impulse prompted him to whisper, “Maybe I’ll see you there,” just as a big, meaty hand grabbed him by the neck, pulled him backward, and flung him into the pond.
In Which the Alliance Faces an Early Setback . . .
Horton clambered out of the pond, muddy again. Humiliated? Yes, but not as humiliated as if he had just run away. But he also knew that lingering couldn’t possibly help.
“Good day, Master Luther, Master Montgomery, Miss Sylvan-Smythe,” he said, looking at the ground, and began walking briskly along the path to Smugwick Manor.
Since he owned no other set of clothes, the rest of the day would be spent feeling damp and clammy. Ah, but how warm he would have felt if he could have heard the conversation that took place after he left.
“Miss Sylvan-Smythe, what a pleasure to see you again,” Montgomery said. “I’m so sorry that you’ve been disturbed by one of Luggertuck’s servants.”
“I, too, am sorry,” she replied, looking not at Montgomery but at Horton disappearing into the woods. “However, my regret is double. First, that he was disturbed by you and, second, that now I am as well. You address me by name. Have we been introduced?”
Montgomery, struggling to keep up with her words, missed their meaning.
“Yes, yes, we danced a waltz at Madame Madelyn’s Spring Gala in London. Don’t you remember?”
“Thankfully, no.”
Luther cleared his throat and edged forward, standing as straight as he could despite years of bad posture from slithering around Smugwick Manor.
“Oh, yes,” said Montgomery, “this is my cousin, Luther Luggertuck. Luther, this is Miss Sylvan-Smythe.”
“What a pleasure,” Luther said. “I find that your beauty, which I have heard so much about, has been greatly understated.” And he reached forward as if to take her hand and draw it to his lips.
Well, Reader? You know a little of Miss Sylvan-Smythe by now. Do you think she is likely to listen to this transparent flattery?
Of course not. She jerked her hand away.
Luther tried again.
“I do hope you’ll be attending my mother’s costume ball.”
“Yes,” she replied, “there is someone I very much wish to see there.”
“What will your costume be?” asked Luther. “Perhaps Lady Godiva?”
“Certainly not!” replied Celia, outraged and very tempted to slap Luther, except she’d never slapped anyone before. “I’ll be dressed as Little Bo-peep. Please excuse me; I must be going.”
Luther tried again.
“As a matter of fact, Montgomery and I had thought to pay a call on the Shortleys, in hopes of finding you there. May we accompany you?”
“Do not bother,” she said. “Do not bother accompanying me, and do not bother visiting the Shortleys.”
And she got on her bicycle and sped off.
“I think she likes me,” said Montgomery.
Luther was glad he had a plan.
In Which Lord Emberly Luggertuck Delivers a Story and a Warning . . .
Horton sought to put the day’s humiliations behind him by turning to a good book.
He washed the dishes as quickly as he could but was still the last to leave the kitchen.
He lit one of his candle stumps to light the way to Lord Emberly’s study, but when he arrived he found it already aglow. Lord Emberly was there talking to Mervyn, the deceased white raven.
“I saw the herons again today, Mervyn,” he whispered. “Also two hawks, several finches, and that lark you used to like so much. Ah, I wish I could see you two flying together again.”
“Good evening, Lord Emberly,” called Horton.
“Ah, young Mr. Halfpott,” replied the old man. “I hoped to see you tonight. Something is troubling me.”
Poor Horton. His first thought was always to blame himself. He assumed Lord Emberly must be displeased with him for one or another of his recent misadventures, perhaps even suspected him of stealing the Lump.
“I heard from Mr. West, the gamekeeper, that you had a run-in with my grandson, Luther. Apparently it’s the talk of the manor.”
Now Horton felt sick. Lord Emberly had heard about his impolite behavior—talking to a young lady, disobeying a young gentleman. Now, he knew, the ax would fall. He would be barred from the study, perhaps dismissed from his job.
He stammered out an apology.
“No, Horton, I’m the one who’s sorry,” rumbled Lord Emberly. “Sorry that the evil young weasel bears my name, the once-great Luggertuck name. You have my apology, if not his.”
This unexpected sympathy made Horton begin to cry.
This was a little embarrassing to Lord Emberly who, though kindly, had little experience with unfortunate young persons. His own son was a vacant twit and his grandson, as has been noted, was an evil weasel. Neither one ever merited much sympathy.
Lord Emberly patted Horton on the shoulder, then began to tell a story.
“You know, it was Luther who drove me out of the manor.
“His mother, the so-called M’Lady Luggertuck is truly a terrible woman, but when she gave birth to Luther I dreamed that he might be a proper grandson. But everything I tried to do for the boy ended with him running to his mother, bawling. The kite string hurt his hand. The rocking horse rocked too much. The top didn’t spin right.
“Once, I tried to build him a tree house in the Big Ugly Oak Tree down by the mire. It started well enough. I carried the lumber and the tools, but I thought I’d try to make a man of him, so I asked him to help. I gave him a single board to carry. A single board, mind you.
“He began whining about what hard work it was before we were out of the garden. By the time we reached the mire he was calling me names. Then, just as I reached the edge of the mire, I received a mighty wallop on my backside. The little demon had whacked me with his board! I lost my balance and fell in.
“I looked up to see him toss the board into a bush, stick out his tongue, and run back down the path crying for his mother.
“By the time I climbed out of the stinking mud and returned to the manor, he had concocted a scandalous story, casting me as a villainous brute who had tried to lose him in the mire. Frankly, I wish I had.
“That was the last straw for me. I gave up on the lot of them, including my own son, Whimperton. I’ll never know why he married that woman and I’ll never know how he sired such a devilish child.
“That’s when I moved into the assistant gamekeeper’s cottage, where I’ve been much happier.”
Horton felt much better knowing that he wasn’t the only one who’d been foully treated by Luther, nor the only one to have fallen in the mire.
“But, Horton,” continued Lord Emberly, “I’m afraid it might not be so easy for you. If Luther has decided he doesn’t like you, he might do something very nasty. He’s capable of anything. He’s had many servants fired and several jailed, and one or two mysteriously vanished. You must be extremely careful.”
Lord Emberly, great man that he was—a hero of various expeditions to unscaled mountains, unnavigable rivers, and uncharted jungles—gave a brief shudder and added one last chilling warning:
“And if you upset his mother, you really will be in trouble.”
In Which Three Young Sleuths Trail a Sloth . . .
After the initial excitement of seeing Luther with the bust of Napoleon, Bump, Blight, and Blemish discovered that trailing the idle brat was boring to the point of agony.
To think that during all those long days while they worked in the stables, this cretin did nothing but sleep, slouch, slink, and slime his way around the manor and whine to his mother for his allowance!
While they went hungry between an early breakfast of gruel and a late supper of bread crust, singular, he filled the time between his lavish meals gulping Candied Quail Eggs by the handful!
Worst of all, they witnessed him abusing the servants. He leered at Milly the new maid, he whacked his valet on the head with a cane, and he even tripped poor Old Crotty. Any of these people, even Crotty, could have beaten Luther in a fair fight. But because they were servants and he was a gentleman, they could not defend themselves.
The stable boys had not found any evidence to connect Luther to the crime of stealing the Lump, but all agreed that his whole life amounted to one long, lazy crime against decency, his fellow man, nature, the British Isles, the Queen, and even the Luggertuck name, which wasn’t so great to start with.
Somehow, Bump thought, they were better off when they had not known just how good Luther had it and how little he deserved to have it so.
Bump usually took daytime Luther duty because, even without the cloak of dark night draped o’er the manor, he was very, very good at trailing Luther unnoticed. The tiny boy would flicker like a shadow from behind a vase, scoot under a table, or slip through a door left ajar, never losing sight of his quarry. And he was a mighty clever fellow. As he waited for Luther, his mind was busy fitting together the pieces of this mystery.
On this particular hot and sticky afternoon, as Bump stood behind the musty tapestry outside Luther’s door, he began to think the lazybones would never stir from his bedchamber. But he was wrong. The door opened, the weasel emerged, and the chase began: Down the third back staircase, through the Hall of Taxidermy, past the statue of Sir Falstaff Luggertuck (which was turned toward the wall because the nose had fallen off), and then through a door that Bump had never seen before.