by Matthew Ward
Before Arthur could catch himself, he tripped over a gravestone and tumbled to the ground.
The man gave a crooked smile, then turned and walked toward the other two dwarves, who were now grappling at close quarters.
“How did Carmine end up with you two anyway?” the undertaker barked. “Were all the other sewer rats already booked for the night?”
While Mr. Lowe’s arms were tied up in his struggle with the second dwarf, the first dwarf casually approached and smashed him in the nose with his mallet.
As the stunned little undertaker stumbled backward, the second dwarf extended a toe to trip him—and Mr. Lowe crashed to the ground on his back.
Arthur pulled himself to his feet and watched helplessly as the two thugs closed in on their prey.
“Always got something to say, haven’t you, Mr. Lowe?” the first dwarf smirked as he thumped his hammerhead against his palm.
The winded undertaker struggled to sit up, but the second dwarf pressed him down with his mallet and boot.
“No need to get up, Mr. Lowe,” the first dwarf sneered. “You’re just where we want you. We’re about to do a little experiment, see—to find out if you still talk so much after you’ve had your jaw broke.”
“Just you try it!” wheezed Mr. Lowe. “No broken jaw’s going to shut me up!”
“Oh, I see,” said the dwarf. “I was sort of hoping you’d say that. I guess we’ll just have to break more of you then, won’t we?”
He took a step forward and raised his mallet into the air.
From several paces away, Arthur saw a flash of fear in Mr. Lowe’s face—before the undertaker banished it again behind a glare of defiance.
The boy could stand back no longer. Without thinking, he strode straight for the dwarves, picking up his fallen lantern on the way.
As the dwarf lunged at his defenseless victim, Arthur brought his butterfly net down around the man’s head, the metal ring catching him at the throat and stopping him mid-lunge. His hammer fell harmlessly to the earth.
Before the dwarf could free himself from the net’s grasp, the boy bashed him about the skull with the lantern.
As shattered glass rained down upon his shoulders, the dwarf went limp and crumpled to the ground, motionless beside the astonished undertaker.
For a moment, Arthur felt a great surge of satisfaction course through his veins—but it was promptly replaced by the far more typical surge of terror.
“You little scab,” hissed the second dwarf in disbelief.
He lifted his hammer from Mr. Lowe’s chest and turned it toward Arthur.
Before the boy could backtrack two strides, the dwarf was upon him.
With one powerful swipe of his mallet, he knocked the butterfly net from Arthur’s grasp—and with a second, knocked the boy’s feet out from under him.
Arthur struck the earth with his shoulder. As the pain shot through his arm, he looked up to see the dwarf towering over him.
“Ain’t nobody never told you to pick on somebody your own size?” said the dwarf. “This oughtta teach you…”
With a cruel grin, the dwarf hoisted his hammer over his head.
Arthur held up his trembling hand in feeble defense. He wondered what his mother would think when she learned he had lied about hunting stripy-eared owls after she found his battered body in the middle of the graveyard.
The dwarf swung the hammer down.
As Arthur winced in horror, there came a heavy thump. But the hammer’s blow never reached him. His attacker went blank in the face and inexplicably toppled forward. The hammer struck the ground a foot to Arthur’s right, just before the dwarf fell face-first on top of it.
Breathless, Arthur looked up. Where his attacker had once been, Mr. Lowe now stood, clutching a giant mallet in his hands.
“Nasty little vermin,” the undertaker grumbled, “degrading a sacred, soothing place like this…. So, I guess I hadn’t quite given them the slip after all, had I? My mistake.”
Arthur struggled to catch his breath. “That’s quite all right,” he panted. “I’m just happy I’m still in one piece. Thanks for—you know—helping me keep it that way.”
“My pleasure,” said Mr. Lowe, wiping a trickling of blood from his nostrils.
“How’s your nose?” asked Arthur.
“Still attached, thanks to you—and that’s good enough for me. Not always the case in my business.”
When he had helped Arthur up, Mr. Lowe knelt down and held two fingers to the lifeless dwarf’s throat—then strode over to the other and did the same.
“Are they…?” the boy asked somberly.
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Mr. Lowe replied. “Though I certainly don’t envy them their position. Of course, it would have been us face-down in the dirt had you not possessed such singular butterfly-netting skills. Right then. If you’ll just help me drag these two out to the old hearse, we can be on our way before they wake up. We’re parked in the coffin-unloading zone, just around back.”
“You’re not going to…undertake them, are you?”
“What, before they’re dead? What a morbid lad you are. Don’t you know the Undertaker’s Oath? ‘No embalming shall be started, till the client’s soul has parted….’ Not that I wouldn’t love to help their souls along, of course—it’s certainly no less than they deserve. But no—I thought I’d just put them in a couple of body bags and drop them in a field somewhere for the evening. Always unsettling to wake up in one of those. Take it from me, the minute or so before they manage to find the zipper is absolutely priceless!”
Arthur gave an uneasy chuckle, then cleared his throat and said, “I can only imagine. But—are you sure we shouldn’t just call the police?”
Mr. Lowe scrunched up his face. “Please, Arthur. Why do you think I came to you instead of the police in the first place? Because as much as I detest Carmine for his views on just about everything else, I do share his opinion of law enforcement. There’s no more sizeist an institution than the police. The last thing I want is to have to deal with those vultures.”
“But you are willing to testify, aren’t you?” pleaded Arthur. “About the dwarf and the giant at the Mountain and Molehill? I mean, it may be our only shot at getting Sammy out of jail.”
“Well, how else am I going to make Carmine pay for this? Just put me in touch with Sammy’s lawyers, and we’ll see if we can’t get the judge to grant us a special preliminary hearing.”
“Really?” gasped Arthur. “Oh, wow—thank you, Mr. Lowe. I’ll ring them first thing in the morning.”
“See, Arthur?” the dwarf smiled. “How’s that for win-win? You get to help your chef—and I get some well-deserved revenge on my arch enemy. Not as good as having his body on a slab, of course—but I’m a patient man. Two people nobody can escape in this life: the lawyer and the undertaker. And if the first one doesn’t get you, the second one certainly will.”
Arthur looked across the courtroom to the place where Sammy the Spatula Smith was seated, his wrists bound in shackles and his large frame shrouded in loose-fitting prison clothes. At the start of the hearing, the man seated there had borne little resemblance to the jovial chef Arthur had once known—but over the course of Mr. Lowe’s testimony, the boy had watched a hopeful glow emerge on Sammy’s face.
“And what, Mr. Lowe,” said the judge at the center of the room, “did you do after the dwarf in question professed that he and his giant associate had sabotaged the Whipples’ cake and then framed the accused for the crime?”
“It was then, Your Honor,” replied Mr. Lowe, dressed in his finest undertaker’s suit, “that I got up and left the establishment. After paying my bill, of course. Always settle our accounts, we undertakers.”
“And have you seen either of these men since?”
“No, Your Honor, I have not.”
“And why, may I ask,” the judge added, furrowing his brow, “have you waited until now to come forward with this evidence?”
“The trut
h, Your Honor, is that I didn’t even know it was evidence until four days ago. And then, it was only due to the efforts of one remarkably determined boy.”
The courtroom rustled with curiosity.
Arthur’s heart stalled in his chest.
“And which boy would this be, Mr. Lowe?” said the judge.
“Why, that’s him right there, Your Honor,” the dwarf replied, pointing to the twelve-year-old boy seated amongst the Whipple family in the front row of the audience. “Arthur Whipple.”
The crowd gasped.
Arthur’s family turned to him in astonishment.
Across the courtroom, Inspector Smudge glared at him with a scowl so deep his face looked in serious danger of imploding.
When the stirring had subsided slightly, Mr. Lowe continued. “Just the other day,” he explained, “Arthur followed two of my, er, colleagues—a dwarf and a giant—to the GGDG offices, suspecting they were responsible for the attacks on his family. It was the first I’d heard of any exceptionally sized persons being suspected in that case. It was then I realized the fellow from the Mountain and Molehill wasn’t just talking nonsense. Indeed, if it weren’t for Arthur, I’d never have come forward at all. Just wish I’d have known about his deftness with a butterfly net before I asked to meet with him.” Mr. Lowe rubbed the fading bruise on the side of his forehead. “Vicious forearm he’s got, that lad. Can’t complain too much, though. He did use it to rescue me from a band of bloodthirsty ruffians in the end. I must say, without that boy and his butterfly net, I should not be in this courtroom now—nor likely anywhere else, for that matter….”
The crowd whispered in wonderment.
Unable to contain his outrage any longer, Inspector Smudge leapt from his seat. “Forgive me, Your Honor,” he blurted, “but you can’t be taking this man seriously! Clearly, this so-called evidence is nothing but unsubstantiated hearsay—and ought to be thrown out at once!”
“Inspector Smudge,” the judge barked, “it is only because of your impeccable commitment to justice that I do not have you thrown out! In this courtroom, I’ll have you leave the judgment to me!”
“Yes—of course, Your Honor,” Smudge nodded, returning to his seat in frustration. “My sincerest apologies.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said the judge. “But, of course—you are correct. Compelling as Mr. Lowe’s testimony may be, it is strictly hearsay, and as such, is inadmissible as evidence at Mr. Smith’s trial.”
Inspector Smudge grinned with the self-satisfaction of a full-bellied crocodile.
The hopeful glow escaped from Sammy’s face. The Whipples sighed in despair.
“It’s just not right,” whispered Simon.
“It’s a miscarriage of justice, is what it is,” grumbled George.
Arthur felt his heart begin to wilt. All he had worked for, it seemed, had come to nothing. Sammy would not be returning home as the boy had dreamed.
But the judge hadn’t finished.
“However,” he added, “given the thorough nature of Mr. Lowe’s allegedly witnessed confession, this court is compelled to believe there may be some truth in it. Inasmuch as this lessens the probability of Mr. Smith’s guilt, as well as the likelihood he will flee, this court sees fit to overturn its denial of bail to the defendant. Bail shall be set at fifty thousand. Mr. Smith, you are not to leave the country and must check in with Inspector Smudge once a week—but upon payment of bail, you shall be released from custody, and need not appear at court until start of trial in two months’ time. Do you understand the terms of your bail, Mr. Smith?”
Sammy could hardly contain his excitement. “Indeed, I most certainly do, Your Honor,” he nodded.
“Very well then. This court is adjourned.”
Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled.
The Whipples jumped to their feet and cheered.
“Justice lives!” cried George.
Across the room, Inspector Smudge stamped his boot to the floor as another scowl threatened to cause a cave-in of his features. Just beside him, however, Detective Sergeant Greenley sprang from his seat and clapped his hands together.
“Sit down, Greenley!” the inspector snarled.
“Of course, sir,” said the sergeant as he promptly returned to his seat. “Terribly sorry, sir.” But try as he might, he could not entirely expunge the smile from his face.
As soon as Arthur had risen to his feet, he was rushed by his siblings.
“Why didn’t you tell us, Arthur?” Simon laughed, clapping his brother on the back.
“Really, brother!” agreed Henry, gripping the boy’s shoulder. “Here you’ve been gathering evidence of Sammy’s innocence and meticulously planning his release for weeks now, and we’ve never known a thing about it!”
“Well,” Arthur smiled bashfully, “I don’t know if meticulous is quite the right—”
Just then, Cordelia clapped him on the back so hard, it made him gasp. “Hoping to keep all the fun to yourself, were you?” she said with a sly, yet unmistakably warm smirk. “Save some ruffians for the rest of us next time.”
The octuplets swarmed about him and wrapped their arms around his waist.
“You did it, Arthur!” cried Beatrice, beaming proudly up at him. She had uttered that phrase more than once since he’d saved her from a certain treacherous breakfast, but Arthur never tired of hearing it from her.
It was then his parents stepped forward.
“Indeed you did, my dear,” his mother beamed as she embraced him. “Well done!”
“Yes—well done indeed,” smiled his father, grasping the boy’s hand. “My my—what a fine detective you’ve ended up making! Why, I’d not be surprised if you’ve finally found your true calling in life. Rest assured, Arthur—you shall have our full support in this endeavor. Now that we know Sammy’s innocent, I’ll be hiring the offices of Bleader and Leach to clear him of these ridiculous charges. And with the work you’ve already done on the case, I’ve no doubt I can convince them to hire you on as a private detective. How would you like that, Arthur—working cases for the Winningest Legal Team in the World?”
“That,” Arthur gaped, “would be amazing.”
“I figured as much,” grinned his father. “Who knows what fantastic sleuthing records you’ll break if you keep on like this, at a place like that? Goodness, Arthur. Your failure quotients are getting so near a perfect 1, I can scarcely see the use in charting them any further. Hmm…. What would you say to throwing your old charts on the fire just as soon as we get home?”
Arthur had never considered such a prospect, but it suddenly sounded to him like the Most Exhilarating Thing in the World. He nodded excitedly.
“Very good,” his father smiled. “I’ll let you light the match…. Now—I’d best go congratulate Sammy before they escort him off again. Hope he’ll let me make up for not believing in him by paying his bail. Wish me luck. Oh, and Arthur—”
“Yes?”
“Excellent work, Son.”
“Thanks, Father,” the boy replied, then watched as the man turned and strode off toward the family chef.
When Arthur thought back to the terror he had felt at the Undertakers’ Graveyard just a few days earlier, or his embarrassment at the GGDG, or his guilt at Sammy’s arrest, it was hard to believe those events had ever managed to lead him here. Yes, there was more work to be done—but he had set out to have an innocent man released from jail, and he had succeeded.
Arthur stood about telling stories to his eager siblings of his encounters with Stuart and Brian, co-presidents of the GGDG, and his clash with the dwarven thugs they had sent to silence Mr. Lowe in the Undertakers’ Graveyard.
He looked up to see his father shaking hands with an undeniably grateful-looking Sammy the Spatula, then watched as a pair of court officials came to escort the chef out.
Just before Sammy left the courtroom, however, the chef turned and looked straight at Arthur. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but tears promptly filled his eyes.
Wiping them away with his shoulder, Sammy smiled and gave an amiable wink, then turned away again and exited the room.
And suddenly, all of Arthur’s recent troubles no longer seemed to him like troubles at all.
THE TROUBLES ARE OVER
Through a porthole on the Whipple family frigate, Arthur watched the last sliver of sun disappear over the shimmering horizon—and breathed a sigh of content.
At the sound of a nearby door opening, he turned to see Sammy the Spatula emerge from the galley and into the large, dark-wooded cabin where the boy stood with his father, Mr. Mahankali, and seven-eighths of the octuplets. (Franklin, being the nautical expert of the family, was occupied above deck, manning the ship’s helm. Having recently turned five, he was thrilled to be finally allowed to navigate all by himself.)
“Sammy!” cried Mr. Whipple from his position at the bar to Arthur’s right. “You’ve been a free man all of eight hours and I believe you’ve spent seven of those in the kitchen! Come out here and enjoy yourself, man!” And with that, he popped the cork from a large bottle of champagne.
“Sorry ’bout that, guv,” Sammy smiled. “The thought of cooking for you lot again were the only fing stopped me going barmy in that place. And, well—it’s the only way I know how to say fank you for what you and Arfur done for me.” He turned to face the boy. “That’s right, lad. A decade’s worth of cooking your favorites won’t ’ardly begin to repay such kindness and courage—but it’ll not stop me trying.”
Arthur blushed. “Ah, come on, Sammy,” he said. “It’s just good to see you back in your chef’s clothes and, you know, out of that other uniform.”
“Quite right,” agreed Mr. Whipple, holding up the champagne bottle. “Can I pour you a glass, old boy? World’s Bubbliest, this.”
“No fanks, guv,” Sammy smiled. “After what happened the last time I had a drink, I fink I’ll be sticking wiv milk for a while now.”
“Glad to hear it,” Arthur’s father smiled back. “In that case, I believe we have a fine vintage for you. Mahankali?”
