First he looked at the stuffed raven. A little plaque read mervyn, beloved pet.
Then he opened the trunk, full of souvenirs from a trip to some foreign land. There were rolls of paper with strange letters on them, a smoking pipe as long as Horton’s left arm, a scary mask, and a long silk robe embroidered with dragons and mermaids.
By the light of his candle he squinted at old books about Norse mythology, amazing science experiments of ancient Persia, Egyptian tomb-building, pirates, India, King Arthur, and the history of turnips. (The history of turnips is much more interesting than you’d guess.)
By the way, Reader, you may have assumed that Horton could not read. But his father had once been a scholar and had taught Horton how to read and write. That was before his father got sick and his books had been sold to buy medicines that hadn’t worked.
Thus, Horton was immersed in a book about pirates when the glass doorknob turned and the door to the room opened.
Ah, Reader, don’t let me startle you with my little tricks.
There’s nothing to fear here. The door was opened by kindly Old Lord Emberly Luggertuck.
“What ho? Who’s this?” he cried. “Not another ghost, I hope.”
“I’m a kitchen boy.”
“The ghost of a kitchen boy or a live kitchen boy?” asked the old man, who looked much like your grandfather only with a walrus mustache. He lit an enormous oil lamp in the shape of a monkey taking a bath.
“A live kitchen boy, Lord Emberly, sir,” said Horton. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I’ve been reading your books, sir,” he said. “Please, sir, if you’ll let me keep my job, I’ll promise never to come back here again.”
“My boy, you are most welcome to come here as often as you like and read all the books you like. I only wish my grandson, Luther, would do the same. I doubt the boy has ever read a book.”
Lord Emberly settled into a leather chair and propped up his feet on the shell of an enormous tortoise. (The tortoise, alas, was long deceased from natural causes. Someday remind me to tell you the story of how this very same tortoise, nicknamed Daphne, prevented Attila the Hun from capturing the fortress of Rei Ruam.)
“Yes, young Halfpott,” continued Lord Emberly. “I hope you do come back and read all the books you want. But you must never tell anyone about this room. No one knows I sneak back here some nights. If M’Lady hears about it, she’ll throw a fit.”
And so young Horton and Old Lord Emberly Luggertuck shared the library from then on. Sometimes Horton would read while Lord Emberly tinkered with the strange machine, which turned out to be a giant cuckoo clock. Sometimes Horton would tinker while Lord Emberly told him tales of his many travels and adventures.
And Horton always kept his promise not to reveal Lord Emberly’s secret, though he would have loved to have told Bump all about it.
He knew that if M’Lady ever found out, he and Lord Emberly would both regret it.
In Which St. Pomfrey’s Bluff Is Called . . .
Horton blinked.
He was still in the Front Hall and Portnoy St. Pomfrey was still staring at him.
But now Horton saw that St. Pomfrey’s eagle eye was actually rather sleepy-looking. He realized that St. Pomfrey didn’t know his secret. Or much else, for that matter.
He was right. St. Pomfrey had not seen into Horton’s soul. In fact, he had not seen into anyone’s soul. The great detective was bluffing.
St. Pomfrey merely hoped to scare the guilty party into returning the Lump. That night, the detective planned to hide in the Lump Room and wait for the culprit, probably a footman or a kitchen boy, to tiptoe in.
Tomorrow morning the case would be solved. He would receive a large reward and then invite the reporters in to hear an embellished version of the story that would end with him grappling with a knife-wielding thief.
Many of his cases, including the famous Mystery of the Gold-Plated Umbrella Stand had been solved in this manner.
Ah, but this case won’t be solved so easily.
St. Pomfrey did spend the night hiding in the Lump Room. But no one tiptoed in to return the Lump. And even if they had, St. Pomfrey wouldn’t have seen them, for the World’s Greatest Detective had fallen asleep behind a credenza.
Not only had the Lump not been returned, but Old Crotty soon discovered that someone had ransacked M’Lady Luggertuck’s writing desk!
This upset M’Lady Luggertuck greatly, since she had several letters in that desk that it would have been best if no one else had ever read. (See “M’Lady Luggertuck Meets a Handsome Frenchman.”)
In Which Bump Is Called to Serve . . .
The next day, Colonel Sitwell awoke to find that his monocle had been stolen.
Some of the footmen suggested that the colonel had merely misplaced it, but, since I know how the story is supposed to end, I’m reasonably certain that it was indeed stolen.
The poor colonel could barely see, yet somehow he managed to soldier on—eating and napping with his usual gusto.
Crotty’s keys—which opened every door, gate, and secret passage in the castle—disappeared the day after that.
And the following morning a valuable bust of Napoleon was reported missing from the Front Hall.
Portnoy St. Pomfrey felt a prickle of alarm. Not so much of a prickle that he would actually begin to exert any energy himself. No, ’twas not that prickly. However, he did begin to realize that someone must start investigating.
He sent for Bump.
“Mr. Bump, you have about you the fragrance of equus poopus, or in the common tongue, horse manure,” he said when Bump arrived.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bump. “I spend most of my days shoveling it.”
“I see,” replied the Great Detective, peering down at the small, sandy-haired lad. “Aside from that aforementioned odor, you remind me of myself when I was your age. Keen-eyed and clever, with a streak of curiosity that would either make me famously rich or famously dead.”
“Really?” asked Bump, wide-eyed with excitement.
“Yes, son, yes,” said Portnoy St. Pomfrey, who used this same speech whenever he needed cheap help.
“I imagine you’ve heard that I will receive a large reward for my invaluable services when I find the Lump.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you like some of that money?”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, my boy, I need someone swift of foot, eye, and ear to find the clues, the tiny details, the overheard comments that will allow my celebrated cerebellum to solve this terrible crime,” said St. Pomfrey. (What he really wanted was someone to eavesdrop on the other servants.) “Can you do that? And can you find one or two of your little friends to help, too? You’ll all get a share of the reward if you bring me Valuable Clues.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir!”
St. Pomfrey’s plan of hiring Bump was a good one—better, in fact, than he could have guessed—but it did not bring immediate results. Another ghastly crime was at that very moment being discovered.
Hark, is that the sound of a bellowing M’Lady Luggertuck that I hear? Yes, it is. Corset or not, she was in a Raging Fury and was looking for someone to sink her (false) teeth into.
In Which the Purple Sanctity of the Wig Room Is Violated . . .
I have chosen, Reader, not to burden you with descriptions of the rooms of Smugwick Manor, other than Lord Emberly’s. They were, mostly, filled with boring old junk like end tables and flower vases and bric-a-brac. Some were recently remodeled by M’Lady Luggertuck and revealed the most appalling taste. (See “M’Lady Luggertuck Brings Fashion to Smugwick Manor.”) The lamps were particularly hideous.
One room, however, merits description, yet almost defies it—the Wig Room.
In decorating her Wig Room, M’Lady Luggertuck had decided that plaster, paint, rugs, and wallpaper were too common. Thus the entire room—floor, walls, and ceiling—was upholstered in purple velvet. The purpl
e was deeper than any purple you or I have ever seen. In fact, you or I might call it black, but the clever London shopkeeper who sold it to M’Lady Luggertuck insisted that it was indeed a deep, deep, deep purple.
The room held just a single chair, but, Reader, what a chair! ’Struth, it was a throne for M’Lady to rest in while Old Crotty and the Wig Keepers fitted M’Lady’s wigs to M’Lady’s head.
Each chair leg was a dancing goat carved from ivory, then gilded with pure gold. The arms were swans’ necks and the seat back bore a tapestry of Jason holding the Golden Fleece.
The seat cushion was so soft that M’Lady Luggertuck would sink down and sometimes get stuck.
Surrounding the chair were pedestals, also covered in purple velvet. Each held a gleaming, polished porcelain Wig Head.
Atop each Wig Head was, of course, one of M’Lady Luggertuck’s wigs.
Every shade and style of hair currently fashionable was represented. This one was named the “The Parisian Wing.” That one was “The Follicle Fantasy.” And over there, looming high above the rest, was the famed wig known as “Colossus o’ Curls.” And so on. (Wigs that fell out of fashion were buried in a sacred spot on the Smugwick estate.)
Each week the Assistant Wig Keeper hauled up two twenty-five-pound sacks of wig chalk just to keep them all properly powdered.
Imagine the Assistant Wig Keeper’s surprise as she staggered into the room with her heavy sacks and saw that one of the Wig Heads was bald!
Yes, bald! Sometime during the night, a thief had slipped into the Wig Room and defiled that heavenly hair haven by stealing the Colossus o’ Curls.
In Which Trouble Furrows the Luggertuck Brow . . .
I feel certain that the theft in the Wig Room explains the aforementioned Raging Fury of M’Lady Luggertuck, who had decided to sink her (false) teeth into Portnoy St. Pomfrey.
St. Pomfrey was trying to sink his teeth into an anchovy-stuffed deviled egg. I fear he did not enjoy it as much as he hoped.
M’Lady Luggertuck, wearing a second-best wig, roared at him across the dinner table. “Mr. Pumfley, a Fashionable Wig has been stolen from right under your nose!”
St. Pomfrey’s hand shook and an eggy bit fell off his spoon and onto his silk suit, ruining in one instant the product of a week’s patient labor by the three tailors.
M’Lady roared on. She cared not for the patient labor of the three tailors.
“Shall I inform the reporters stationed on my lawn that you have not only failed to find the Lump, but you have failed to make this household safe for Fashionable Wigs?”
“I would prefer, M’Lady, if confidentiality could prevail until all the facts have been sifted and—”
“By the time you, sir, have sifted all the facts, I shall be Wigless and stripped stark naked by thieves!”
This was an eventuality no one wanted.
M’Lady continued. “How difficult can it be to figure out which servant has possession of a three-foot-tall wig fashioned from twenty-three pounds of real human hair?”
“Ah, M’Lady, it may not be a servant.”
The Luggertuck eyes flashed and St. Pomfrey’s spoon fell to the floor with an eggy clatter.
“Of course it’s a servant,” M’Lady spat. “You don’t think a member of my own family would steal my wig, do you?”
Luther, who had been unusually quiet during this exchange, began to choke guiltily on a caviar-filled scone.
But St. Pomfrey was too flustered to notice.
“Nay, nay, M’Lady. Certainly your own family is above suspicion. However I have received reports of pirates in these parts. Perhaps one of these brigands—”
M’Lady Luggertuck interrupted venomously.
“Pirates? Really, Mr. St. Pumfley. We’re one hundred miles from the ocean.”
M’Lady Luggertuck began to wonder if St. Pomfrey really deserved his fame. She began compiling mean-spirited remarks about his detective methods, intelligence, and personal hygiene, which she would spread amongst the other m’ladies of the land if necessary and possibly even if not necessary.
In the meantime, she could only sit around and shout. Which she did for the remainder of breakfast.
Though her shouting took its toll on St. Pomfrey’s nerves and digestion, M’Lady felt a little disappointed in the tone and timbre of it. She simply failed to hit the high notes.
She needed her corset tightened, she realized, and was just about to ask Crotty to do so when Footman Jennings announced the presence of visitors.
“Well, who on earth is it?” asked M’Lady irritably.
In his most official voice, Footman Jennings announced, “Duchess Carolyn Crimcramper and her son Master Montgomery Crimcramper.”
“Egad,” muttered M’Lady as her visitors entered.
Egad, indeed. Had you forgotten? The duchess is the one who started all the fuss by asking if her son, Montgomery, might stay in order to be closer to Miss Celia Sylvan-Smythe.
Though the ball was yet a week away, Montgomery’s mother hoped he could get in several visits with Miss Sylvan-Smythe to lay the groundwork for a proposal the night of the ball.
Reader, I must warn you. Montgomery is such a dull character that, if he did not play such an important part in the story, I would have left him out. His mother is dull, too. In fact, you’re welcome to forget her. There are enough characters for you to remember as it is.
You’ll recall that Luther Luggertuck appeared to hate Montgomery—“ugh” was his assessment of his cousin’s character—but now he will pretend to like him.
“I’ll offer to show him around,” Luther said to himself. “I’ll offer to be friends, and, oh yes, offer to accompany Montgomery on his visits to Miss Sylvan-Smythe. Next to him, even I will shine like a star. Perhaps she will fall madly in love with me and I won’t need the plan after all. Oh, but it’s such a delicious plan.”
For Montgomery’s part, his brain simply worked too rarely to realize that Luther might be competition.
And so Montgomery and Luther became summertime chums. Ignorance and Evil—an ugly alliance.
In Which Napoleon Returns . . .
A meeting was held that afternoon in the loft above the stables. A roll call was not taken, but would have gone like this: Bump, here. Blight, here. Blemish, here. Horton, absent. (Horton had too many gherkin tongs to polish.)
“It’s certainly too bad Horton could not be here,” said Blemish.
“He’s got a stack of dishes a mile high!” complained Bump.
“I’m afraid that all the extra guests in the manor are making his job truly Sisyphean,” said Blight.
“What’s that mean?” asked Bump.
“It means he’ll work and work and never get it all done. The guests dirty the dishes faster than he can clean them.”
“They sure do. It’s so unfair! Why do they make him do it all himself?” lamented Bump.
“Such a nice fellow, too,” said Blight. “I wish we could find a way to aid him.”
“Actually,” said Bump more cheerfully, “maybe we can share our reward with him!”
“To what reward do you refer?” asked Blemish.
Bump told Blight and Blemish of his talk with the Great Detective and of the man’s offer to share the reward for finding the Lump.
“If we find it, we’ll be rich!” cried Blemish, so excited he forgot to talk in a butlery way. “We can get Horton out of the kitchen! And get ourselves out of these stinky stables!”
“Ahem,” said Blight, disapproving of Blemish’s use of the slang term “stinky.” “My colleague’s grammar notwithstanding, I do heartily concur that we must secure the Lump and, in turn, a share of the reward.”
Blemish still could not control his enthusiasm.
“Let’s go!” he cried. “Let’s start looking right now!”
“Shh,” said Bump. “We need to be quiet about this. Clever, too. The butlers have already searched the castle and the stables and the gardens. I doubt we’ll find it by chance.�
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“Then what do we do?”
“I think we should try to discover who did it, then follow the thief and see if he leads us to it.”
“Well, I don’t think it was one of us servants,” said Blemish, beginning to regain his butlery composure. “None of us, to put it quite bluntly, believes the Lump is really a diamond, except perhaps Old Crotty. And it is my opinion that she would never steal from the Luggertucks. Not in a million years.”
“Good point,” said Bump, impressed. “Perhaps it was a burglar.”
“That leads me to ask,” said Blight. “Why would a burglar steal a frumpy wig, a monocle, and a bust of Napoleon? After all, there must be something in the manor worth more than that . . . er . . . stuff.”
“Good point,” said Bump, again impressed. He’d never before realized how bright Blight and Blemish were. “That means it must have been one of the Luggertucks or Colonel Sitwell.”
“Sir and M’Lady would have no reason to steal the Lump,” said Blight, “and the colonel is not inclined to put forth the necessary exertions. Plus, why would he purloin his own eyepiece?”
“What?” said Bump, getting a little lost in all the butlery talk, not to mention a little annoyed.
“If I may use the common term for his condition, he means that Colonel Sitwell is too lazy to steal, and has no motive,” said Blemish.
“I see,” said Bump, “well, that leaves Luther.”
“I, for one, am not at all surprised,” said Blight.
Blemish seconded this. “I’ll wager he’s too greedy to wait until he lawfully inherits the Lump. But why would he steal the wig and those other things?”
“That’s what we’ll have to figure out,” said Bump. “From now on, one of us will be watching him all the time. The other two will cover that person’s chores.”
“I’ll go first,” said both Blight and Blemish at the same time.
They drew straws and Blight won. They decided he should start immediately.
Horton Halfpott; Or, the Fiendish Mystery of Smugwick Manor; Or, the Loosening of M’Lady Luggertuck’s Corset Page 4