The Treasures of Weatherby Read online

  “A trap?” Uncle Edgar, whose smile up until that moment had seemed to say that he wasn’t taking any of this too seriously, looked astonished.

  The dime, Harleigh thought suddenly. Something about the dime. Shocked and suddenly frightened, Harleigh stepped backward sharply, whacking his head against the portrait’s gilded frame. It really hurt. He was rubbing the painful spot as he heard Uncle Edgar asking, “What kind of a trap are we talking about?”

  Cousin Josephine nodded smugly. “Each time we went out, I would simply reach up”—standing on her toes and stretching one long arm upward, she demonstrated—“I would reach up and balance a small coin on top of each of the doors. And then, when—”

  “Yes, yes. I get the picture,” Uncle Edgar said. Turning to Harleigh, he asked, “And was it you? Are you the one who opened the recital hall doors this morning?”

  Possible answers flitted through Harleigh’s throbbing head. He shook it again to shake off the pain and tried to think. He could tell Aunt Adelaide it hadn’t been him. That someone else must have opened the door. He could make it a believable story. He was about to start when his eyes met Uncle Edgar’s steady, unbending gaze.

  And suddenly Harleigh found himself saying, “Yes. I opened the door, and I went in, too, and I could tell you why but you wouldn’t believe me.” Then he turned his back on all of them and ran out of the room.

  Back in the tower, Harleigh stretched out across his bed and let his mind spin. He went over all of it. Over how it had been Allegra who had told him about seeing Junior looking for something with a metal detector. And then how they, the two of them, had heard him looking for, and probably finding out, where the long-lost treasure must be. But now . . .

  But now it was Harleigh, Harleigh alone, who was going to suffer the consequences. It was he, Harleigh J. Weatherby the Fourth, who would surely be sent away to Hardacre Military Academy, where kids were whipped and yelled at, and those who weren’t big, and good at sports, were teased and tormented.

  Burying his face in his arms, he pictured how it would be. Pictured it all too clearly. He could almost see and feel the clenched fists and hear the taunting voices saying some of the things that had been said to him at Riverbend Elementary School. “What is it with you, anyway, kid, are you a midget? You sure you belong in this room? Come on, kiddy. We’ll show you the way back to the kindergarten.” He was still hearing the voices when he fell asleep, and then went on hearing them in his dreams.

  When he woke up it was almost dark. He had slept right through dinnertime. Not that it mattered. They probably would have sent him to bed without his supper anyway. He got up and went to one of the windows. This time the sight of the endless expanse of Weatherby House stretching away to the east and west failed to comfort or even interest him. But because there was nothing else to do he stayed there, staring out into the gathering darkness. Eventually he found himself thinking of Allegra’s story about someone who had spent many hours staring out of the same window. But now, instead of shrugging, Harleigh shuddered.

  He went back to sit on his bed with his face buried in his hands. Life was unfair, his head still hurt where he’d bumped it, and he was, he suddenly realized, very hungry. After listening to his growling stomach for several minutes, he stood up and growled back. “Why not? I can’t be in any more trouble than I’m in already,” and headed for the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When Harleigh decided on a quick visit to the kitchen, it was after eight o’clock and his hopes were not particularly high. Leftovers from any meal where Uncle Edgar had been present were not a safe bet. But there would surely be something in the refrigerator or the pantry, if only a couple of slices of bread. What he was not counting on, at that hour of the night, was seeing, or being seen by, anybody. Not even by Matilda, who by now surely would have gone off to wherever it was she lived, somewhere in the servants’ quarters in one of the branches of the west wing.

  But when Harleigh pushed open the heavy swinging door, there she was at the kitchen table, writing something in a notebook. Harleigh stared at her in consternation, and she stared back for a long nervous-making interval before anyone twitched a muscle. Harleigh made the first move. Remembering their surprisingly friendly encounter over the pie crust, he ventured a smile and said, “Hi, Matilda. I don’t suppose there’s any of that chicken pot pie left. That was really great chicken pot pie.”

  Matilda got slowly to her feet, and for an awful moment Harleigh thought she was going to grab him and drag him out of the kitchen and maybe all the way down the west corridor to Aunt Adelaide. But then a smile slowly penciled in across her big, blank face. “You hungry, boy?” she said, and without waiting for an answer she put down her pen and notebook and headed for the refrigerator.

  Before long Harleigh was sitting at the table and Matilda was sitting across from him as he bit into a large, juicy roast beef sandwich. Matilda seemed to have lost interest in writing lists or menus, or whatever she’d been doing, and had settled down to watching Harleigh eat, while now and then offering brief observations.

  “Yes,” she said at one point, nodding and smiling. “Real hungry.” And a minute later, “Too bad to starve a growing boy, no matter what he done.”

  Harvey smiled and nodded while he chewed. “I’m glad you think so,” he managed to say, but what he was thinking was, You’re right about me not deserving starvation, but not—his lips twisted in a rueful grin—but not about the growing part of it.

  “So, they going to send you away?” Matilda asked.

  Harleigh stopped smiling, as a chill ran down his back. “Is that what they said?”

  She nodded. “That’s what they were saying at dinner. She said they’d be sending you away to a soldierin’ school.”

  Harleigh didn’t have to ask who she was or what soldierin’ school they were talking about. The bite he was chewing stuck in his throat and he had to swallow hard before he said, “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

  There was another long silence before Matilda said, “You don’t want to go.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t have to try to answer, which was a good thing, because the way she’d said it made his eyes burn and another bite of sandwich refuse to go down.

  While he turned his face away, blinking and trying to swallow, Matilda got up and came around the table and stood there behind him for a moment before she patted him on the head.

  That was what did it. Afterward he couldn’t imagine why, except that it had been a bad day and that pat on his sore head reminded him that he was hurting in more ways than one. For some reason that was the last straw, and for a minute he really lost it.

  It was embarrassing. He hadn’t cried for years and years, no matter what happened, not even during and after all the useless operations. Matilda wrapped up the rest of the sandwich, and as he headed for the door, she handed it to him without saying anything more.

  It wasn’t until Harleigh was back in his bed in the tower, trying to find a comfortable position for his sore head, that he realized that he’d been missing an important fact. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but he seemed to have made a lump halfway up the back of his head by backing into something that he used to be able to stand under with at least an inch to spare. Did that mean . . .?

  It was an interesting thought. Fascinating, really. What it seemed to mean was that, after he’d given up on hoping, the third operation had really made a difference. He really had started to grow.

  Getting out of bed, Harleigh went to the one of the cupboards that had once held supplies for the famous Weatherby sunset parties and took out a pile of clothing. He put aside the shorts he always wore during the warm Weatherby summers and dug out a pair of corduroys he hadn’t worn for three or four months. They were only a little tight around his waist, but the length . . . He couldn’t believe it. The pants that had rested on the tops of his shoes just six months ago now ended way above his ankles. He really had started to grow.

  Back in bed, Harl
eigh stared wide-eyed into darkness, while his mind whirled in confusing circles. At one moment he was thinking that he couldn’t have found out that he was growing, and growing fast, at a better moment. At a moment when he really needed something to improve his state of mind.

  And then, a minute later, he almost wished it hadn’t happened. Not that he wished he hadn’t started to grow. He’d never wish that. But just that finding out right now had made it hard for him to concentrate on how miserable he felt and how angry he was at all of them. At Aunt Adelaide for threatening to send him away to that awful school, and at Josephine for gloating about their stupid trap. And at Uncle Edgar, too, for being on Harleigh’s side and not having the nerve to say so. And even a little bit at Matilda for making him embarrass himself, by giving him a sandwich and a pat on the head.

  It took him a very long time to get to sleep, but when he finally did he slept hard, waking up the next morning to a dark, gloomy sky and a confusing mixture of emotions—resentment and anger along with a certain amount of excitement about the definitely outgrown corduroy pants. For a while he just lay there, wondering exactly how much taller he actually was and how long it would take him to catch up to normal twelve-year-old height, before he suddenly remembered that this was Wednesday. The Wednesday when Aunt Adelaide and Josephine would go to town and Junior Weatherby would probably try his hand at a very important robbery.

  Wrenching his mind away from all of the rest of it, the good and the bad, Harleigh focused instead on the problem at hand. The huge problem of what, if anything, he could do to protect the Weatherby treasure.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was a strange breakfast. Aunt Adelaide was at her grimmest, and Cousin Josephine was not far behind. Uncle Edgar looked even gloomier than usual, but not melancholy enough, it seemed, to spoil his appetite. Nobody, except maybe Matilda, so much as looked in Harleigh’s direction when he came in. He took his place at the table without saying anything, and it wasn’t until the meal was almost over that anyone said anything at all.

  It wasn’t until Matilda had begun to clear the table that Aunt Adelaide turned to Harleigh and said, “Now listen carefully, Harleigh. It has been decided that since you do not seem to be ready to be a trustworthy member of the Weatherby family, we will need to have a serious discussion about enrolling you in an institution where you might learn to behave in a more responsible manner. Do you have anything to say?”

  Harleigh met her steely glare steady-eyed, but all he said was, “No. Nothing that would make any difference.”

  “I see.” Aunt Adelaide went on, “This morning I have an early appointment in town, so I’m afraid our discussion will have to be postponed until later. Perhaps this afternoon.” To Uncle Edgar she said, “In the meantime, Harleigh will go back to his old study schedule.” Turning back to Harleigh, she added, “So on Mondays and Wednesdays you will report to the library as usual at nine o’clock.”

  And that was that. Back in the Aerie, Harleigh gathered up his books and then sat down to wait until nine. There would be a robbery today while Aunt Adelaide was gone, or there wouldn’t be, and there wasn’t anything Harleigh could do about it. And if a lot of money that might have been used to keep Weatherby House from collapsing into ruins disappeared forever, that was how it would have to be. That was just how . . .

  Suddenly Harleigh looked at his watch, picked up his books, and started downstairs. He did ask himself why, but he didn’t try to answer the question. There was no answer, and he wasn’t looking for one. There wasn’t even an answer to “What?”—as in, “What do you think you’re doing?” But he kept on going until he reached the second floor, where he crossed the landing to a door that led out onto a small balcony. By peering from behind one of the balcony’s decorative pillars, he had a good view of the driveway. He’d only waited a few minutes when he began to hear the noisy old Buick, and then watched it head for the main gate. But as he watched Aunt Adelaide leave for town, Harleigh couldn’t help wondering if, somewhere behind another Weatherby House window, Junior was watching too.

  Back now on the grand marble stairs that led down to the entry hall, Harleigh had a serious argument with himself about which direction he was going to go when he reached the main floor. Would he turn to the left toward the library and a slightly early lesson with Uncle Edgar, or to the right in the direction of the recital hall and . . . and what?

  I won’t go far, he told himself as he started down the wide dimly lit west corridor. Just close enough to hear if he’s tearing up the floorboards. That’s sure to be noisy enough to be heard from that end of the drawing room. I’ll just wait there for a few minutes, or maybe in the poolroom, and see if I hear anything. He won’t see me. I’ll be careful not to let him see me.

  That’s what he told himself, but when he passed the drawing room door and then the one to the poolroom he didn’t stop, and it wasn’t until he had reached the recital hall when he began to hear it. Just what he had been expecting: a series of sharp splintering thuds that came from the direction of the stage. Harleigh paused for only a second, and then, as if drawn by a magnet, he opened the door to Aunt Adelaide’s recital hall bedroom and peered inside.

  The heavy velvet curtains had been pulled aside, and on the stage a huge hulk of a man was at work. As Harleigh watched, Junior bent to lay aside a large ax and pick up an enormous crowbar, and then bent again to thrust it into the damaged floor. Harleigh didn’t say anything, he was sure of that, but perhaps he gasped or even moaned, because suddenly Junior turned and stared directly at him.

  As Harleigh was backing out into the hall, several things happened simultaneously. Junior pulled the crowbar out of the shattered planks and jumped down off the stage. And at the same time, a voice whispered, “Here. Come with me,” and something tugged at Harleigh’s sleeve. Dropping his books, Harleigh turned and followed a familiar shadowy shape that dashed down the hall through a door and into—total darkness.

  Whispering, “Allegra. Where are you?” he staggered forward, only to fall over a large bulky object.

  The voice was Allegra’s, the dead, musky smell meant he was in the smoking room, and the object he’d fallen over was one of the fat, overstuffed chairs.

  “Allegra?” Harleigh said. “It’s so dark. Where are you?”

  “Shh,” she answered. “I closed all the blinds. Here. I’m over here.”

  Crawling in the direction of the voice, Harleigh found himself next to Allegra in the far corner of the room behind another one of the bulky, toad-shaped chairs.

  “Where did you . . .” Harleigh was beginning to whisper when the smoking room door was flung open and a monstrous figure appeared in the opening. With his huge bulk blotting out what little light might have come in from the hall, Junior was staring into almost total darkness, and as his hulking shape moved forward there was a grunt, followed by a thudding crash, a howl, and a string of oaths. It seemed that Junior, too, had fallen over a chair.

  On his feet again, Junior began to talk. “Come on out, kid,” he said. “I know you’re in here. You come out right now and I won’t hurt you.” His voice softened from a growl to a wheedling whine. “We’ll just talk things over. Maybe make some kind of a deal. Okay?”

  Behind the chair in the corner, Harleigh and Allegra lay low. Long seconds passed, and Junior muttered again and then apparently began to swing the crowbar, thudding it into chairs and against walls, tables, and finally the door to the poolroom. As the door disintegrated, Junior moved toward the light, opened what was left of the door, and disappeared into the poolroom.

  “Now,” Allegra whispered, “run.” And they did, Allegra first and Harleigh close behind her. Out into the corridor, past the poolroom and into the solarium. They had almost reached the exterior doors that opened out onto the grassy field that had once been lawn, when they heard Junior’s roar. “I see you, kid. Got you now. Here I come.”

  Harleigh ran fast, but out in the open, the length of Junior’s legs gave him an advantage. By
the time Allegra, with Harleigh close behind her, reached the first garden, Junior was very near. While jumping over crumbling stone walls and dodging around dead rose bushes and Roman statues, they maintained their slight lead, but the thunder of Junior’s feet was again drawing closer when they reached the bamboo thicket.

  The advantage was theirs then, as they slid through the well-known trails. Behind them they could hear swishing and slashing as Junior tried to keep up by forcing his way right through the heaviest stands of bamboo. When they reached the tree house clearing, they still could hear Junior’s noisy progress, but he was not yet in sight.

  It was then that Allegra slid to a stop, and turning back to Harleigh, she whispered, “Go that way. Go to the maze. I have to go over the fence.” Putting her hands on his chest, she gave him a little shove and then turned away on the path that led toward the fence and the tree where Harleigh had seen her fly.

  Harleigh reached out to stop her, but his hand only closed on one of the long ragged tatters of her dress, and then she was gone, and on the other side of the clearing Junior burst out of the bamboo.

  Harleigh ran toward the maze.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Once more Junior was close behind Harleigh as he reached the dead tree that blocked the entrance to the maze. Too close. If he’d been there only a few seconds sooner, he could have been safely hidden behind the branches of the dead tree by the time Junior burst out of the underbrush. But no such luck. Junior had arrived just in time to see Harleigh lift the branch that blocked the entrance, duck under it, and disappear. As he began to run down the path that he and Allegra had carved out of the surrounding hedge of yew, he heard Junior’s triumphant roar. “Okay, you little rat. I got you now.”

  But he hadn’t. Not yet. It was the yew itself that, for a time, gave Harleigh an advantage. The yew, and the fact that neither Allegra nor Harleigh had been able to reach high enough to trim back the higher branches. Although the original passageway had been open to the sky, it was now only a narrow tunnel with a low overhang. So while Harleigh moved freely, Junior had to run bent almost double to keep the stiff branches from whacking his head and scratching his face. And then, as he began to get the hang of running in a crouching position, he apparently made another mistake. The kind of mistake that maze explorers had been making for centuries. With Harleigh momentarily out of his sight, Junior took the wrong turn.