The Treasures of Weatherby Read online

  “Why not? Why wouldn’t she tell the police?”

  Harleigh grinned. “Because if it wasn’t true and there was no treasure, she’d feel like a fool. And if it turned out to be true and there was a lot of money, she wouldn’t want the government to know about it, because of things like taxes. Aunt Adelaide is against taxes.”

  “But wouldn’t she at least check to see if there really was a treasure?”

  “Well, she couldn’t do it herself, could she? She can’t walk, and a wheelchair can’t climb stairs. And I don’t think she’d send Josephine up there to look. She wouldn’t want Josephine to know.”

  Allegra looked surprised. Harleigh dodged another “Why not?” and went on to say, “I don’t know, but I think it’s because she doesn’t trust anyone who’s not a direct descendant. At least not where anything about money is concerned. I think she might tell my father, but he’s in Australia.”

  “And there isn’t anyone else you could tell? Someone who’d believe you?”

  For a moment Harleigh considered Uncle Edgar again, and then dismissed that idea too. Uncle Edgar might believe him and might even want to help, but since Junior was a lot younger and stronger, there wasn’t much he could do personally. And if all Uncle Edgar could do was tell someone like Aunt Adelaide, Harleigh could do that much by himself—if he had to.

  It was still pretty early when Harleigh put down his shears and said he thought he had done enough maze work for the time being. But Allegra wanted to go on. “Just a little bit farther,” she said. “Why not? Are you tired?”

  “No,” Harleigh said. “I’m not tired. I just have other things to do.”

  “To do, or to think about?” Allegra asked.

  Harleigh shrugged. “To think about, I guess.”

  “Well, couldn’t you think about them while we work? I think it’s important for us to keep going a little longer.”

  That’s what Allegra said, but when Harleigh asked her why, she only widened her eyes in that unfocused stare and said, “Because I think we’re almost there.”

  Harleigh was skeptical. He checked the tangled thicket of yew branches blocking the path just ahead of them. They looked the same as always, maybe even a little thicker and pricklier.

  Allegra was down on her knees, starting on some lower branches. Harleigh tapped her shoulder to get her attention. “How do you know we’re almost there? You can’t see the end, can you?”

  She reached in farther and clipped again before she put down the shears and, lying on her stomach, peered into the small tunnel she’d started. “Almost,” she said. “I can almost see it.”

  That was too much. As far as Harleigh was concerned, either you could see something or you couldn’t. And at the moment, he had more important things to think about than word games. “Okay,” he said. “Good for you. But I’m going.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait, I’m coming.” But he didn’t wait, at least not really. He did pause now and then as he took the complicated route back to the entrance, skillfully avoiding all the twists and turns that led to dead ends or else circled back to the main passageway, but if Allegra was following, she didn’t catch up. Not in the maze, at least.

  He had passed the black walnut tree’s clearing and was about to start through the bamboo thicket, when suddenly she was there beside him. He stopped, and she did too.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “With you?” she asked. It was definitely a question, and one that she should have known the answer to.

  “No, you’re not,” he said. “I’m going home.”

  “But about Junior—” she started to say, but he cut her off.

  “I can take care of Junior.” Right at that moment, with Allegra looking up into his face, he really believed what he was saying.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By daylight the next morning Harleigh had decided on a plan of action. Actually, he’d considered a great number of them during the long, mind-numbing midnight hours, but by the time a foggy morning sun began to sift in through the Aerie’s windows, he’d rejected most of them—including the one in which he would borrow the sword and shield from the entry hall’s suit of armor, lie in wait for Junior just inside the recital hall door, and when Junior appeared he would leap out shouting. . . . Well, maybe not.

  The one remaining plan had several advantages, the most important one being that it could be done right away, and until it was accomplished there was not much point in trying to figure out what the next step would be. This plan was simply to find out for sure whether Junior had already stolen the treasure. Until then, he was finally able to convince himself, there was no point in trying to decide what should be done next.

  As Harleigh, a bit groggy from lack of sleep, stumbled out of bed and into his usual summer uniform (shorts and a T-shirt), he reminded himself that he had to begin by finding out whether Aunt Adelaide and Josephine were planning to eat lunch in the kitchen or have it delivered to the recital hall, as they often did. If they were planning to eat in the kitchen, there would be plenty of time for him to get a quick look at the stage floor. And he would only have to stay long enough to discover whether it had already been chopped or sawed open. It seemed simple enough.

  Once in the kitchen, Harleigh’s method of operation was rather well planned. Instead of just asking Aunt Adelaide and Josephine where they were eating, which might have aroused their suspicions, he had decided to begin by talking to Matilda. He would ask Matilda what they were having for lunch, and then in the general discussion, Aunt Adelaide might mention where she was intending to eat. So as soon as he’d finished his toast and scrambled eggs, Harleigh went over to where Matilda was doing something with a rolling pin. He watched for a while as the rolling pin stretched and flattened a large whitish blob before he said, “That looks . . .” He almost said “disgusting” before he caught himself. “That looks interesting. What is it?”

  Matilda’s blank face (a face that usually showed no expressions at all) changed to shocked surprise. Almost as if she didn’t know Harleigh could talk. Or was it just surprise that he was talking to her?

  Clearing her throat, she said in a rusty voice, “Crust. Crust for chicken pot pie.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s going to be crust? For chicken pot pie?” Everyone, including Harleigh, liked Matilda’s chicken pot pie. “And that’s going to be the crust?” Harleigh watched a few more minutes, getting caught up in observing how the future crisp and tasty crust bulged unappetizingly out from under the rolling pin, first one way and then the other. So caught up that he momentarily forgot what he was doing. Suddenly remembering, he asked, “When is it going to be ready? I mean, will it be for lunch today?”

  “Mmm,” Matilda mumbled. “Lunch. Today.”

  “Chicken pot pie for lunch today,” Harleigh announced loudly, glancing at Aunt Adelaide, hoping she’d say where she’d have hers. And then, just as he was beginning to wonder if she’d heard, she spoke to Matilda.

  “When exactly?” Aunt Adelaide asked. “I do like my pastries to be right out of the oven. Should we be here at twelve or twelve thirty, Matilda?” Then when Matilda said twelve, Aunt Adelaide said, “Good. We’ll be here exactly at twelve.”

  So then he knew. Aunt Adelaide and Josephine would be in the kitchen at twelve sharp. And at 12:05 he, Harleigh the Fourth, would be making a quick inspection of the recital hall’s stage.

  Harleigh left for the library, determined to finish his Tuesday lessons in record time so he wouldn’t risk being late. But it was then that things stopped going as planned. Every lesson seemed to drag by, either because Uncle Edgar had worked hard at coming up with the sneakiest math problems and most complicated Latin phrases he could possibly find, or just possibly because it was harder than usual for Harleigh to keep his mind on his work. Time practically stood still while Harleigh tried to concentrate, first on geometry and then on Latin verbs, while checking his watch every few minutes to be sure it wasn’t yet twelve o’clock.

/>   At last Uncle Edgar closed his book and, in a concerned tone of voice, said, “What’s on your mind, boy?”

  Harleigh made an effort to look as if Uncle Edgar’s question not only bored but also puzzled him, but without much success. His “What do you mean?” was too quick and too defensive.

  As Uncle Edgar went on staring at him questioningly, Harleigh couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding away shiftily as he asked, “Can I go now?” And then, without waiting for an answer, he went.

  Out in the entry hall, Harleigh stopped to glance once more at his watch and was surprised to find that he had some time to spare. Only eleven forty-five. Not really time enough to get clear up to the tower and back, but more than enough to pick a hideout somewhere along Aunt Adelaide and Josephine’s route to the kitchen.

  It needed to be a place close enough to hear them go by, but not so close that he might risk being seen. Darting across the hall, he ran halfway through the drawing room before he stopped to look for the best hiding place. After quickly trying and rejecting spots behind some window drapes (too far away) and behind a French provincial chair (too exposed), he finally settled for flat on the floor behind a bulgy velvet love seat. At five minutes until twelve Harleigh had barely gotten into position when he began to hear the squealing squeak of the wheelchair. Aunt Adelaide, on her way to make sure her chicken pot pie was right out of the oven.

  As soon as the last whisper of wheelchair sound had died away into silence, Harleigh stood up and, running on tiptoe, headed for the recital hall. And only seconds later he was quietly pushing open one of the big double doors.

  It all seemed to be going well until, just as the door came to a stop, something bounced off Harleigh’s shoulder and landed near his feet. A dime. It was only a dime, but where had it come from? His first thought was that someone had thrown it, but a quick glance around reassured him that there was no one there. He was alone in the huge room, and a small coin had appeared out of nowhere and was now lying at his feet.

  Turning slowly in a circle, Harleigh once again surveyed the room. Could someone have thrown the dime and then ducked down behind a piece of furniture? Behind Aunt Adelaide’s massive desk, or the curtains of her canopied bed? A quick trip around the room produced nothing at all. As he looked carefully behind antique furniture, ancient artifacts, and paintings of people in old-fashioned clothing, some of Allegra’s weird ideas about “stories” flicked the edges of his consciousness. Long enough to make him wonder briefly if Weatherby House’s “storytellers” were capable of throwing things.

  But he had other things to think about and to do quickly. By making a strong effort he forced himself to forget, at least for the time being, the whole strange event. After all, it was only a dime, and he had to put his mind on what he had come to do: to find out whether there were any openings in the stage floor, and if so, whether it meant that the treasure had already been stolen.

  Behind the curtains that closed off the stage it was quite dark, but Harleigh, thinking back to the one time he’d explored the stage, seemed to remember some electric lights. Feeling along the wall near the stairs that led down to the performers’ door, his fingers encountered a panel of switches. He began to flick them on, or try to, but the first two produced no light at all. He was beginning to think that all the old bulbs had burned out when the third switch produced a faint glow. Not a great deal of light, but enough to see that, just as he remembered, the stage was empty except for two old pianos: a big grand and, against the back wall, an ancient upright. It was also easy to see that the varnished planks that made up the stage floor were smooth and unbroken. So the treasure had not yet been stolen.

  Switching off the light, Harleigh parted the curtains, jumped down to the recital hall’s floor, and dashed across the room and out into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He reached the kitchen only ten minutes after twelve o’clock. Not much later than his usual tardy appearances.

  Aunt Adelaide and Josephine were still at the table, as was Uncle Edgar, when Harleigh sat down to a serving of Matilda’s tasty chicken pot pie. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he nodded and smiled to the others, especially Matilda, and started to eat. He had accomplished what he had set out to do. He’d managed to find out that the treasure was safe, and now all that remained was to . . .

  That’s when the letdown hit him. All he’d actually done was to prove that he now had to go ahead and take the next step. The hard one. The one in which he would keep Junior from stealing the Weatherby treasure tomorrow morning while Aunt Adelaide and Josephine were in town.

  Chapter Twenty

  Back in his room at the top of the tower, Harleigh sat down on his bed and set to work going over some of the schemes he’d considered and then discarded the night before. They all seemed pretty hopeless. One very slim possibility was that tomorrow morning, as soon as Aunt Adelaide and Cousin Josephine left, he would be able to round up all the descendants he could locate and get them to come with him to the recital hall. The point being that Junior would find having so many witnesses to his crime more or less discouraging.

  The weak points of this particular plan included the fact that most Weatherby descendants were rather stubborn and suspicious people, particularly where Harleigh Four was concerned. Realistically thinking, he had to admit, rounding up even two or three distant descendants would probably be next to impossible.

  Another not very promising possibility involved locating Ralph and getting him to provide another dead bolt lock to take the place of the broken one on the recital hall’s doors. Then, tomorrow morning, as soon as Aunt Adelaide and Josephine left for town, Harleigh would rush to the recital hall and install the lock. The chief drawback of that scheme was the fact that dead bolts can be locked only when you are inside the room, which meant that although Junior would be locked out, Harleigh himself would be locked in.

  He’d gotten only about that far in his review of possible strategies, when suddenly there was a loud, determined knock on his door.

  Surprised and startled, Harleigh stared at the door for several seconds before he answered. During that time the visitor knocked again and then tried to open the door. But Harleigh, as always recently, had slid the dead bolt into place when he entered the room, so the door rattled loudly but stayed shut. But when he finally managed to call, “Who is it?” the answering voice was loud—and slightly familiar.

  “Come on, kid. Open up,” a rather hoarse, breathless voice said, and it did sound a little like Cousin Josephine’s husband, Cousin Alden. But maybe not. Harleigh stayed where he was. But then the voice came again. “It’s Alden, kid. Open the door. I have to talk to you.”

  Yes. It really was Cousin Alden. Sliding off his bed, Harleigh hurried to the door and slid open the bolt. Josephine’s scrawny little husband staggered into the room, huffing and puffing.

  Cousin Alden wasn’t a big man. Not nearly as fat as Uncle Edgar, nor as old as Ralph, but since he spent most of his time sitting around writing unpublished books, he was not in very good shape. Puffing and wheezing, he said, “They sent me to get you. They’re in the library, and they want to talk to you right away.”

  Harleigh didn’t ask who “they” was. When you got sent for in Weatherby House, you knew who was doing the sending. But after a moment, he did say, “Why?”

  Cousin Alden’s shrug seemed to bring on another attack of wheezes, but in between huffs and puffs he managed to get out, “Don’t know exactly, kid. But I don’t think she’s delighted. Guess I’ve never seen Adelaide the Great in a great mood, but this one is something else again. You better get a move on.”

  So Harleigh did. Leaving Cousin Alden to struggle down all the stairs by himself, Harleigh raced down as far as the third floor before he slowed enough to take his mind off his flying feet and try to put it on what was about to happen.

  What could Great-Aunt Adelaide be upset about? She couldn’t possibly know that he’d been in her room. He hadn’t touched anything except the doorknob and t
he light switches on the stage, and he definitely hadn’t moved or broken anything. And nobody had seen him on his way there or going into the recital hall. He was sure of that. There just wasn’t any way anybody could know.

  There were only three people in the library when Harleigh entered, a long-faced Cousin Josephine, a ruefully smiling Uncle Edgar, and a scowling Aunt Adelaide, whose wheelchair was pulled up facing the scowling picture of her famous ancestor, Harleigh the First.

  As Harleigh Four approached, Aunt Adelaide said, “Come here, young man. No, over there. Stand right there where we can all see you.” As soon as Harleigh took the place she indicated, directly in front of the famous portrait, she went on, “So then, tell us. Why were you in my room again, young man?”

  “In your room?” Harleigh swallowed and blinked hard, while silently asking himself, How could she know? How could she possibly know?

  “That’s what I said. And don’t try to deny it.” Aunt Adelaide was almost shouting. “We have proof, don’t we, Josephine?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we do.” Josephine got up from where she’d been sitting next to Uncle Edgar.

  “Proof?” Harleigh’s voice had gone high and quavery.

  “Tell him,” Aunt Adelaide said. Nodding at Uncle Edgar, she went on. “Tell both of them.”

  “Yes, I will,” Josephine said, looking at Uncle Edgar. “Ever since the last time, when he rummaged through Aunt Adelaide’s desk as well as the octagonal cabinet, and managed to break one of the most valuable crystal ornaments, we’ve been taking precautions. I once again urged Aunt Adelaide to get the lock on the doors repaired right away, but she felt it would be a shame to set modern locking mechanisms into that beautiful wood. So she decided that for the time being we would only set a trap every time we left the room. A trap that would let us know if anyone had entered while we were away.”