“Only that a footman saw one of the kitchen boys in the hall near my room,” lied Luther.
“Aha!” shouted St. Pomfrey.
“But surely you don’t think that a kitchen boy would have stolen it and hidden it up in the servants’ quarters, do you?” asked Luther, with a syrupy tone that he had learned from listening to his mother talk to his father.
“That’s exactly what I think!” cried St. Pomfrey.
“Brilliant detective work,” cheered Luther.
“The case is solved!” cried M’Lady Luggertuck. She jumped up and pulled the nearest silver rope with a gold tassel.
Footman Jennings arrived a moment later.
“Jennings, send for Constable Wholecloth immediately.”
Jennings was dying to ask why the constable was needed, but he only said, “Yes, M’Lady.”
As soon as he left the room, St. Pomfrey spoke again.
“I fear we may be too late if we wait for the constable to arrive. The thief could even now be destroying the evidence. We must search the servants’ quarters immediately! We have no time to lose!”
(Actually he found time to grab several muffins and a smoked kipper, but he did move quickly for the first time since his arrival.)
Not trusting any of the servants, they all ran up the stairs to the attic to see for themselves. Perhaps “ran” is not an apt description of the way M’Lady huffed and puffed, clutched her heart, sagged, drooped, fainted, and was eventually pushed from behind by Sir Luggertuck and St. Pomfrey.
None of the Luggertucks had ever actually been to the servants’ attic before. M’Lady Luggertuck looked around at the unpainted walls, the leaky roof, and the rusty cots and sniffed. “Oh, those servants have such abominable taste.”
They found the costume under Horton’s mattress, of course, but not the Lump or any of the other missing things. However, Portnoy St. Pomfrey declared it safe to assume that Horton had stolen the Lump as well, but had hidden it more carefully.
“Let’s go ask him where,” said St. Pomfrey, eagerly anticipating his reward.
“Yes!” agreed Luther Luggertuck, eagerly anticipating the arrest of Horton.
“Yes!” agreed M’Lady Luggertuck, eagerly anticipating firing Horton.
“Yes!” agreed Montgomery, eagerly saying what everyone else said.
In Which Horton Runs Like a Rabbit with Foxes Close Behind . . .
With M’Lady Luggertuck leading the way, the group stormed down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Yet another Unprecedented Marvel—M’Lady Luggertuck in the kitchen.
Miss Neversly blushed and began a deep curtsy—this was her great dream, a visit from M’Lady! Perhaps, after all these years, M’Lady was finally going to offer one tiny compliment or word of thanks.
But M’Lady, red with anger, brushed the cook aside.
Loosened corset or no, M’Lady felt the fiery pleasure of a good tantrum brewing deep in her fashionable gut. Bile surged through her veins. (She hadn’t been this worked up since the incident with the pigeon in “The Ruination of M’Lady Luggertuck’s Favorite Hat.”)
“Where’s that filthy kitchen boy?”
The heads of five filthy kitchen boys popped up—all round-eyed with fear.
“That’s the one there,” hollered Luther, pointing at Horton. “J’accuse!”
“Where’s the Lump?” shouted several people at once, rushing toward Horton’s sink.
“We found the costume you stole,” snarled Luther. “Now, where’s the rest?”
Horton wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was clear that it would end badly.
In a blink, he was gone. Montgomery, who had been blinking, thought that Horton actually vanished, but the rest saw a feat that they would remember forever.
Horton dove headfirst between Sir Luggertuck and St. Pomfrey. Sliding on the wet floor, he swished under the kipper-carving table, hooked an arm around a table leg, skidded off at an angle, rolled, sprang to his feet, leapt to a chair, then to the cheese slicing table, then to a sideboard, then to the top of a China cupboard.
Finally, using the surprised, but rubbery, head of Miss Neversly as a springboard, he leapt toward a hanging lantern, grabbed it, and swung toward a grease-spattered window.
Alas, the window was closed! Things looked bleak!
But remember, Reader, that Horton was a nice young fellow and had made many friends among the servants.
It pays to be nice. Maybe not right away, but someday. For Horton, that day had arrived.
The baker, Loafburton, with one quick motion of his powerful, flour-covered arm, yanked the window open just in time and Horton shot through.
Miss Neversly threw her spoon after him but ’twas too late. Horton tucked, rolled, and came up running.
Most everyone froze with astonishment, but, unfortunately, Portnoy St. Pomfrey froze not. He was a professional criminologist, after all.
The big detective strode to the window, opened his enormous jowly mouth, and bellowed: “Hillhemp! Gateberry! Howbag! Gentlemen and Lady of the Press! There goes your story! There goes the thief! The kitchen boy did it!”
Hillhemp, Gateberry, and Howbag, who had been sulking around the front door for the past week, suddenly snapped their heads up, narrowed their eyes, tensed their muscles, and began composing headlines.
COLD-BLOODED KITCHEN BOY CAUGHT!
DISHWASHER DOES DIRTY DIAMOND DEED!
ANOTHER TRIUMPH FOR PORTNOY ST. POMFREY!
Horton was running right toward them. He tried to reverse his direction, but it was too late.
They lunged, they swarmed, they plucked at his shirtsleeves.
“Care to comment, kitchen boy?”
“What made you do it?”
“How do you spell your last name?”
Horton Halfpott was, indeed, caught.
In Which Horton Is on the Hook . . .
Portnoy St. Pomfrey strutted and boasted. He piled fib on top of lie on top of exaggeration and cemented it all with hyperbole. The reporters wrote it all down.
Miss Neversly alternated between hitting Horton with her biggest cast-iron spoon and demanding, “Where’s the Lump?”
M’Lady Luggertuck reveled in a state of ecstatic maliciousness.
Luther smiled. Once, when no one else could hear, he whispered in Horton’s ear.
I can’t bear to tell you what he said. But I guess you must know, mustn’t you? All right, if you must know:
Luther said, “I don’t guess Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe will be quite so sweet after she finds out you’re a little thief. Or perhaps I should call her the future Mrs. Luther Luggertuck!”
Horton said nothing. At least part of what Luther said was true, he realized. Whatever feelings she might have had for him would be crushed. However, he felt sure that she would never become the future Mrs. Luther Luggertuck. At least, he prayed that she would not.
Could any words have saved the situation, he would have said them. But no poet, no orator, no ballyhooer, and certainly no kitchen boy could have turned this tide with mere words.
Even if he broke his promise and told everyone about Lord Emberly and the study, no one would believe him. Anyway, he realized, he didn’t have permission from Lord Emberly to take the costume.
So Horton said nothing.
At last, Jennings returned with Constable Whole-cloth.
“Ah, the smelly, muddy one. I knew it all along!” cried the constable, rudely, upon arrival. “He probably hid it in the mire. It’ll never be found until he tells us where to look.”
“Oh, no!” cried M’Lady Luggertuck.
“Don’t worry, ma’am; one night in my jail and he’ll be ready to talk. We’ve got a full house of prisoners right now. Real mean ones and just as smelly as this runty kitchen boy.”
Horton’s arms and legs were tied and he was put in a little wagon, which Constable Wholecloth drove back to town.
As they passed the stables, Horton saw Bump waving to him. Bump was very w
orried because Blight and Blemish hadn’t returned and now Horton was being hauled away. However, he still tried to raise Horton’s spirits.
“Don’t worry, Hort!” Bump called. “We’ll get you out!”
Horton called good-bye to his friend, but, in truth, he didn’t think he stood much chance of escaping.
Besides, any tiny, feeble hope that he might win the heart of Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe seemed to have disappeared. And that felt even worse than being in trouble.
In Which a Shot Rings Out . . .
By the time Blight and Blemish figured out how to steer Siegfried, they were a long way away.
It was morning when they finally got back to Lugger-Upon-the-Wold and started down the road to Smugwick Manor. Siegfried was no longer in any hurry. The stable boys, however, were.
“Won’t our noble steed go any faster, Mr. Blight? We’ve got to get back and warn Horton.”
“Well, Mr. Blemish, I have said giddyap many times, but he still isn’t giddy,” answered Blight. “Perhaps the creature is tiring.”
Then they saw a wagon approaching. It was driven by Constable Wholecloth and there in the back sat their good friend Horton Halfpott. Tied up!
“Ah, here he is now,” said Blemish. He began to call loudly.
“Mr. Halfpott! Mr. Halfpott! We regret that we have disturbing news to deliver. Luther is planning to cause you harm!”
“Thank you, Blemish,” answered Horton. “I’ve found out the hard way.”
“Oh dear, I can see that,” called Blemish. “May we be of any assistance?”
“No, you may not!” roared Constable Wholecloth, stopping his wagon and drawing his pistol. “Get away from my prisoner.”
“He seems rather rude, Mr. Blight,” said Blemish.
“Yes, he does,” said Blight. “However, I fear we must risk agitating him further. We have additional information to impart.”
“I agree,” said Blemish, and he called out again.
“Mr. Halfpott, Luther has hired some men to kidnap someone at the ball tonight.”
“Who?” asked Horton.
“Silence!” shouted Constable Wholecloth, and he rudely fired his pistol into the air.
The gunshot startled Siegfried and the mighty stallion began to gallop down the road with renewed vigor. (The constable’s horse stayed put. He had grown accustomed to gunshots, shouting, and rudeness.)
“Who?” cried Horton again.
Blemish, just barely hanging on to Blight, who was just barely hanging on to the saddle, called over his shoulder.
“Little Bo-peep!”
And with that, Siegfried, Blight, and Blemish were around a bend and out of sight.
Suddenly Horton cared very much about escaping.
In Which St. Pomfrey Weighs the Evidence . . .
Blemish and Blight arrived back at the stables and quickly held a conference with Bump.
“The best way to prove that Horton is not the thief is to prove that Luther is,” said Bump. “We’ve collected the evidence. Now it’s time to go see Portnoy St. Pomfrey.”
Normally, it would have been difficult for three stable boys to enter the respectable parts of the manor. But today was the day of the ball and the entire edifice swarmed with servants carrying out M’Lady Luggertuck’s last-minute orders.
She stomped around the house inspecting and belittling the servants’ work. This was not an Unprecedented Marvel. In fact, it was a fairly common occurrence. (See “The White Glove of M’Lady Luggertuck.”) Even with her corset Loosened, M’Lady was a bully of the worst sort.
“These throw rugs were not thrown properly!” she bellowed. “These drapes are not draped properly! These French doors are not French enough!”
Bump, Blight, and Blemish each picked up a chair and pretended they were moving them. Luckily, no one thought to ask why three chairs were needed in Portnoy St. Pomfrey’s room.
They found the detective making out his bill. His mood ran as high as the grand total he tallied up. He would be charging the Luggertucks a lot of money as soon as his suspect, Horton, broke down and told them where the Lump was hidden.
“Ah, Bump, I see you have brought a couple of your equally equiney friends with you!” St. Pomfrey cried merrily. “Well, you didn’t bring me many Valuable Clues, but I’ll let you all share in the reward anyway.”
He gave each of them a tarnished penny.
“Don’t worry, I’ll just add it to the bill,” he chortled. “And here, help yourself to some Caramel Anchovy Brickle.”
“No, Mr. St. Pomfrey,” said Bump. “We didn’t come for a reward. We came to tell you who stole the Lump.”
“Too late! I personally apprehended the vile culprit just a few hours ago after a brutally dangerous struggle that required all of my strength and several jujitsu moves to—”
Bump interrupted.
“We don’t have time for all that. Luther plans to strike tonight.”
“Luther?” asked Portnoy St. Pomfrey. “You mean the old guy with the monocle?”
“No, that’s Colonel Sitwell. Haven’t you been paying attention at all?” shouted Bump, whose ears were turning red. “Luther is M’Lady’s son!”
“Ah, yes, such a fine young gentleman.”
Bump’s ears were sizzling. He was a nice little fellow, but this was too much. Though he didn’t know it—and, alas, won’t find out during the course of this book—royal blood ran in his veins. When called upon, the tiny stable boy could face down anyone, even a gargantuan detective. He prepared to launch an angry barrage of insults that would have included the words “lazy,” “idiot,” and “halitosis.”
“Ahem,” said Blight, clamping his hand over Bump’s mouth. “Perhaps Mr. Bump would allow us to interject.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Blemish to the detective, “your zealous pursuit of justice has no doubt been so relentless that you had no chance to observe the following facts.”
Blemish told him about seeing Luther replace the bust of Napoleon.
Blight described seeing Luther wearing the wig and the monocle.
Blemish, speaking for Bump, showed him the stolen stationery found in the Fork Vault, which had been opened with Crotty’s keys.
Finally, Blight revealed how they had overheard Luther’s plan to use the Lump to pay the kidnappers.
St. Portnoy was impressed. The boys had certainly put forth a lot more effort than he had.
“That, my sagacious stable boys, is a fine theory. Cultivated with a wit as sharp as the odor that clings to your bestained breeches. I congratulate myself on seeing within you the potential for impressive powers of deduction and detection.”
Bump, Blight, and Blemish had little idea what he was talking about. But it appeared that he believed them.
“Howsoever,” the detective continued, “deduction and detection are deficient without discovery. Until you have found the Lump, your theory is nothing more than a theory. I cannot accuse Luther Luggertuck, son of the wealthiest family in the area—and the family that is paying my enormous fee—without proof. You must find the Lump first!”
“That shall be no problem,” said Bump. “I know exactly where it is.”
“You do?” thundered St. Pomfrey.
“You do?” asked Blight.
“Muwr Gnu?” asked Blemish, whose mouth was full of Caramel Anchovy Brickle.
Yes, Reader, he did. The question is: Do you?
In Which Piracy Plays a Hand . . .
By the time Horton was hauled into Lugger-Upon-the-Wold, berated by various town officials, questioned by the magistrate, and taken to jail, it was early evening.
Horton knew that all across the county, folks were getting ready for the big costume ball.
It seemed possible that he would spend long years in jail, but all he could think about was Bump and Blight’s message: Luther was out to kidnap Celia.
Even as he was being dragged down a filthy set of stairs toward the town’s small, but unpleasant, dungeon, he
was trying to figure out how he could escape and warn her.
Suddenly he smelled fish. Old fish.
The constable, rudely dragging him by the ear, opened a cell door and threw him in, once again rudely. (Why must he be so rude, Reader?)
It was very dark inside. There were no windows and no candles. Horton tripped and fell on the floor, which was an inch deep with filth.
“’Ere’s a new friend for you. Maybe ’e’ll join your crew,” the constable said, and laughed and laughed as he barred the door.
“Stow it, you fat tub of whale blubber, or you’ll find yourself walking the plank,” shouted someone inside the dark cell.
Constable Wholecloth just laughed harder at this.
“You lot don’t even have a plank!” he called, and stomped off.
“He’s right, Cap’n, we don’t have a plank,” said someone, and there began a lot of grumbling.
“Hush, boys, we’ll get our plank and a new ship to go with it, once we finish tonight’s job.”
“But how can we do the job when we’re stuck in jail?”
“’Tis a good point, Bart. A good point. It’s so dark in here I couldn’t see a mermaid’s—”
Horton interrupted, “I’ve got some candles, sir.”
“Who’s that? The new prisoner?”
“Yes, sir, it’s me, Horton Halfpott, the fellow with the leg of lamb.”
“Good to see you again, boy, though I can’t actually see you. Do you mean to lend us your candles and help us escape?”
“Certainly,” said Horton, pulling several of his precious candle stubs from his pockets. “But I don’t have any way to light them.”
“Don’t worry, son, Old Bart’s pipe ain’t never gone out, not in typhoon nor gale nor belly of whale.”
Old Bart held the candles one by one to the glowing tobaccy in his pipe. Soon the cell was dimly lit by four flickering candle stubs.
“Look at the rust on those bars,” said a patch-eyed pirate named Lawrence.
“Why are you in jail?” Horton asked, again against his and my better judgment.
“Argh,” muttered Captain Splinterlock, “a small disagreement over the price of food and lodging at Slaughterboard’s Inn.”