The Treasures of Weatherby

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Josephine’s stare became even more intense and suspicious. “What do you mean, you think you know?”

  “Well, I was just wondering if whoever it was might have been doing something up on the stage?”

  “On the stage?” Cousin Josephine’s stare was both amazed and disbelieving.

  “You know. The stage in the recital hall. In Aunt Adelaide’s room. I just wondered because—because somebody thought . . . I mean I thought I heard someone there. Up there on the stage.”

  “I see. And where, may I ask, were you when you heard this mysterious someone?”

  “I was just—just walking by. Out in the hall. That’s when I thought I heard something.”

  Judging by the expression on Cousin Josephine’s face, Harleigh knew he was only making things worse—telling a story he only halfway believed himself, and one that she obviously didn’t believe at all. Shrugging, he gave up and walked away. She didn’t follow him or call for him to come back, but when he glanced over his shoulder she was still standing there, staring after him. He hurried on.

  This time he didn’t stop until he was halfway up the iron stairs that circled the tower wall, but his steps kept getting slower and slower until he finally decided to sit down and think—or at least try to. Halfway up the winding staircase, he sat staring down, way down, into the dimly lit, circular space and tried to organize his thoughts.

  He hadn’t believed it when Allegra said she heard a metal detector on the stage of the recital hall. But now it seemed that someone had been there, or at least somewhere in the recital hall, and whoever it was apparently had done some things they shouldn’t have. Some things Aunt Adelaide and Cousin Josephine were now trying to blame on Harleigh. But he knew he wasn’t guilty, so somebody else had to be.

  And that brought up a new subject. The subject of whether or not Allegra really had seen Junior on a moonlit night swinging a metal detector over the dead lawn. And if she had, whether it had made a noise that she might have recognized if she ever heard it again.

  Which brought up a new question that Harleigh knew he wasn’t ready to deal with. Not yet. Maybe not ever. A question that nobody except Junior himself could answer. So, Harleigh reasoned, it would seem that the next step was to march right up to Junior Weatherby and . . . Harleigh began to picture the scene. Pictured himself, not-even-normal-sized Harleigh Four, walking up to enormous old Junior and demanding to know whether he owned a metal detector. And if he did, whether or not he’d had it with him while he was making a secret visit to Aunt Adelaide’s recital hall bedroom. And while he was at it, he might as well go on and demand to know exactly what he, Junior, thought he was looking for. Just imagining how that bit of detective work might turn out made the hair on the back of Harleigh’s neck stand straight up.

  So maybe not. At least not yet. But meanwhile, there was another important bit of information that would be a lot easier—and safer—to get. Information that probably could be provided by safe old Uncle Edgar instead of the scary individual who called himself Junior Weatherby.

  Yes. Uncle Edgar, who knew so much about so many things, might be useful. But that would have to be tomorrow, when he went to the library for his lesson. Harleigh got to his feet and trudged on up to his room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the next morning Harleigh had decided on the questions he needed to ask Uncle Edgar, as well as how he might go about asking them without giving away too much about what he was really trying to find out. The first question would be about sonar, or perhaps radar—just to make it sound as if he were looking for general information about machines that searched for things, and perhaps made a noise while they were doing it. But then he would get around to metal detectors and maybe find out what they looked like, and what kind of searches they were usually used for. And—this was especially important—if they made a noise while they were doing it.

  Sure enough, Uncle Edgar had lots of useful information. He even drew a picture of a long pole with some handles at one end and a large circular scanner at the other. And when Harleigh asked the important question, about what they sounded like, he said, “Well, I believe some of the newer ones have a small console on which symbols indicate whether anything made of metal has been located. But some of them still have audible indicators.”

  “What kind of indicators?” Harleigh asked.

  Uncle Edgar smiled. “Audible. Something that you hear.”

  Something that you hear! That was it—exactly what Harleigh had been looking for. Or maybe what he hadn’t been looking for, if he wanted to go on believing that Allegra had been lying when she said she’d heard a metal detector on the recital hall’s stage.

  Harleigh had a hard time keeping his mind on the rest of what Uncle Edgar wanted him to learn that morning, such as the relationship between diameters and circumferences and the dates of several ancient civilizations.

  Finally Uncle Edgar said, “Well, it seems our recently improved attention span is taking the day off.” His big, floppy grin spread across his face. “What’s on your mind, boy?”

  In the past, when Uncle Edgar said something of that sort, Harleigh might have let him have it with a quick comeback about how some teachers made their lessons interesting, while some others just didn’t have the knack. But today it somehow didn’t seem worth the effort.

  So all he said was that he had been working on a different sort of problem—a personal one. And when Uncle Edgar said he’d be glad to help if it were possible, Harleigh surprised himself by saying, “Yeah, well, I wish it was.” The surprising part was—it was true.

  It was almost noon before Uncle Edgar gave up on Harleigh, and even then he might not have, except that he was anxious to get to the special feast that Matilda was preparing.

  “Special feast?” Harleigh asked. “What is she doing that for?”

  Uncle Edgar stared at him. “He didn’t tell you?” he said. “No one told you?” Uncle Edgar seemed very surprised.

  “Your father didn’t tell you?” he went on asking, and when Harleigh said no, Uncle Edgar shook his head and made the harrumphing noise that usually meant he was displeased about something. “You didn’t know that your father was leaving for Australia today?”

  “Today?” Harleigh was surprised. “But he just got here yesterday.”

  Uncle Edgar harrumphed again and sighed before he said, “That’s true, but, it seems there’s some remarkable new building going up down that way that he feels he needs to look over and write an article about. So actually the visit here was only a stopover on his way. So now he’s off to Down Under, and it seems our Matilda is preparing a feast in honor of his brief visit. So come on, boy. Let’s give our heads a rest and go fill our stomachs.”

  Uncle Edgar was right, as usual. Not only about Matilda preparing a special meal with ham and sweet potatoes, which was Harleigh the Third’s favorite menu, but also about the fact that Harleigh J. Weatherby the Third was about to leave again. But something else that soon became obvious was that Uncle Edgar was in a bad mood, glowering and grumping, in between mouthfuls of ham, at everything and everybody, especially at Harleigh the Third. Saying sarcastic things like how he supposed the rest of the family ought to feel fortunate to have another generous visit from Aunt Adelaide’s heir apparent. “Aren’t we fortunate,” he said, “to have him with us for two whole days, and only six months from his last royal appearance?”

  After a while Harleigh Four’s father said, “Well, Edgar, I must say, you don’t seem to be in a very pleasant frame of mind.”

  Then Uncle Edgar held his hand up in front of his mouth and lowered his voice. But not so much that it kept Harleigh Four from figuring out that what Uncle Edgar was upset about was that no one had told “the boy” his father was about to leave.

  The two of them went on whispering for a while, with Harleigh the Third making excuses that Harleigh Four didn’t bother to try to overhear. He was used to that sort of thing. And besides, he had more important problems to worry about.


  When the meal was over, Harleigh Four’s father did his usual hand-on-the-shoulder thing and said, “Good-bye, son,” and that was the end of it. But at least there was nothing at all said about whether or not his son had been snooping around in Aunt Adelaide’s room. So that was all right. Harleigh Four wasn’t going to waste any time wondering whether his father hadn’t been told about Josephine’s suspicions or if he had heard and just didn’t care. Harleigh Four had other things on his mind, such as how he was going to go about finding out whether Junior Weatherby owned a metal detector.

  That same day, an hour or so after the taxi arrived to take his father to the airport, Harleigh Four’s investigation to discover the truth about Cousin Junior and the metal detector was once more underway. Not moving very rapidly, perhaps, but definitely underway.

  One reason he was making such slow progress was simply because there really was quite a long distance to cover. Harleigh had been to where Junior lived in the south ell of the west wing a couple of times before, but not recently, and he wasn’t too sure of the exact location. The other reason he wasn’t moving very quickly was that he was finding it necessary to stop now and then to think and plan ahead. To make plans such as—what exactly he was going to do once he arrived at his destination.

  It wasn’t likely, he had decided, that Junior would be at home in the early afternoon of a weekday in summer. Which was actually what he was counting on. But on the other hand, it was equally unlikely that the doors to his rooms would be unlocked or that his metal detector—if he had one—would be right out in plain view of anyone who happened to pass by.

  So what was Harleigh Four planning to do? Good question. Perhaps, if he was lucky, someone else would happen along—one of the other southern ell residents. Besides Sad Sheila there were, for instance, several more or less retired people who lived in the general area. There was A. J., the would-be lawyer; an old married couple called the Farleys; plus the Galworthy Girls, a pair of slightly identical twin sisters. All of whom were Weatherby descendants, of course, but only third or fourth cousins several times removed. But any one of them might have noticed Junior coming or going in possession of a long, strange-looking mechanism with a metal loop at the end.

  That was beginning to sound like a plan. He would look for the twins or the Farleys or some other relatively nearby relative who would surely have noticed Junior’s metal detector if he had one. Somewhat comforted by having come up with a plan of action, Harleigh began to walk a little faster, but not so fast that he didn’t take careful note of his surroundings.

  The second ell off the west hall, which must once have been the living quarters of servants, or else rooms for very unimportant guests, was quite different from the grand corridors in the central building. Harleigh had forgotten how narrow the halls became as you turned into the ell, and also how little light came in through the widely spaced windows. He’d also forgotten, if he’d ever noticed it before, the strangely depressing smell.

  The smell was—different. Not exactly dirty. Closer to heavy, perhaps, as if the air was dusty with memories of so many long, empty years. Stopping to sniff uneasily, Harleigh couldn’t help remembering how Allegra had carried on about feeling, even hearing, the stories of early Weatherbys. He also remembered how ridiculous he’d thought the whole idea was, and how he’d certainly told her so. But now, breathing in the strangely time-heavy air, he wasn’t so sure.

  Shaking his head, Harleigh squared his shoulders and marched on down the long, dim hall, passing many doors that led into long-forgotten rooms, where who knows how many people had spent their unimportant lives. He was still deep in thought when another turn, and a short flight of stairs, brought him to where he began to be aware that he was once more where people were still actually living. Where the light was a little brighter and there were sounds of sorts, water running, and the faint shuffle of footsteps. He had paused to listen more carefully when, only a few feet away, a door slammed open and someone came out into the dim light of the hallway. A huge, bushy-haired person with a long hooked nose and narrow, twitchy eyes: Junior Weatherby himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Momentarily overcome by confusion, Harleigh froze. He had prepared himself for a meeting with the ancient Farleys or some other distant relation, but not Junior in person. A Junior who should have been surprised to find Harleigh J. Weatherby the Fourth practically on his doorstep, but if he was, it wasn’t all that noticeable. What was noticeable was something a lot more unpleasant than surprise. When Junior said, “Well, look who we have way out here all by himself, little old Harleigh the Fourth,” what it sounded as well as felt like was—a threat. Not only a threat, but an insult as well.

  Harleigh Four was jolted for a moment before he took a deep breath and reminded himself that Weatherbys, real, direct-descendant Weatherbys, little or not, didn’t like to be threatened. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, “Hello, Junior. I’ve come to ask about your metal detector. What I want to know is . . .”

  That was as far as he got. At that point Junior’s big right hand shot out and grabbed Harleigh’s shoulder and shook him hard. So hard that the rest of what he’d planned to say was shaken right out of his mind, or at least off his tongue.

  “What’s that?” Junior was snarling. “What you talking about, kid? What makes you think I got a metal detector?”

  Harleigh tried to answer. Opening his mouth, he tried to say—something. Anything at all, but nothing came out. Nothing. Not even “Stop that!” or “Turn me loose!” But then, while he was still being shaken and still desperately trying to say something, he was vaguely aware that, behind Junior’s back, someone or something was approaching. And then, just at that life-or-death moment, a shrill voice said, “Stop that! What do you think you’re doing?”

  At the shockingly unexpected sound of that voice, the grip on Harleigh’s shoulder loosened for just a moment. But that brief moment was all it took. A quick step backward, a twisting turn, and Harleigh was free and running back the way he had come.

  He ran fast and hard, imagining Junior running after him, reaching out to grab him again, but as he reached the short flight of stairs leading into the west hall, he began to realize he was alone. No one was running behind him. Or not, at least, close behind him. He slowed his pace enough to be able to glance back over his shoulder. No one was there. He staggered to a stop, breathing hard and straining to hear whether or not he was being followed. Silence. A silence that lasted only a second and then, just as he feared, there it was. No doubt about it. The sound of approaching footsteps.

  As Harleigh turned to run, his eyes happened to fall on a door. A door, almost within arm’s reach, which was probably locked, but just maybe . . . The door opened, and Harleigh slipped through and closed it behind him.

  It was dark. Unable to see and fearing that any movement, any stumble or bump, would be heard by his pursuer, Harleigh stayed where he was. Leaning against the door, he listened as the sound of footsteps came nearer.

  Nearer, but not much louder, and certainly not running. And then there was something else. Another sound. A voice. A familiar, breathy voice saying, “Harleigh. Harleigh, where are you?”

  It was then that Harleigh realized who it was that he had seen approaching while he was being shaken by Junior. He hadn’t recognized the voice that demanded that Junior stop what he was doing. But there had been just the quickest glimpse of a thin figure with a gray cloud of hair. And now, remembering the voice, Harleigh suddenly knew. Just to be absolutely sure, he waited until she called once more before he cautiously opened the door.

  It was Sheila all right, thin and wispy, with eyebrows that tilted down toward sorrow, but when she saw Harleigh, there was that quick, surprising smile.

  After peering carefully around and behind her, Harleigh whispered, “Where is he? Where did Junior go?”

  “He’s gone,” she said. “After you ran away, he went back into his room and slammed the door. I don’t think he�
�s following us.”

  As Harleigh was slowly and cautiously leaving his hideout, Sheila said, “Well, hello again, Harleigh Four. Were you coming to see me?”

  “Coming to see you?” It was a question, but Sheila seemed to take it for an answer.

  “I thought that might have been what brought you all the way out here. I’m so pleased. But then to have that dreadful man attack you that way. Why would he do such a thing?”

  Still worried that Junior might appear at any moment, Harleigh only shook his head, mumbled, “I’d better go,” and hurried on down the dark, narrow passageway. But Sheila came too, her gliding stride keeping up with Harleigh’s nervous trot. They hadn’t gone far when she once again started to ask about Junior. “I can’t understand it,” she said. “Did you do anything at all to provoke him?”

  Harleigh stopped long enough to check behind them again. Still no sign of Junior. “I only asked him if he has a metal detector,” he said. A new idea occurred to him. “Maybe you know. Do you know if he has one?”

  “A metal detector?” Sheila looked and sounded puzzled. “I don’t know. What would it look like?”

  But even after Harleigh described the long pole with handles on one end and a flat circular device on the other, she still shook her head. She hadn’t seen Junior Weatherby with a metal detector. “But why would that make him so angry?” she wanted to know.

  Lowering his voice, Harleigh said, “I don’t know. Except that someone’s been using one in . . .” He paused and then went on, “around Weatherby House. I know because we—because I heard it. And whoever it was, he was where he shouldn’t have been, and doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.”

  “Oh, I see,” Sheila said. “Yes, I do see.”

  It wasn’t until they were back in the familiar grandeur of the mansion proper that their pace slowed. In the central hall they came to a stop near where an elaborately carved mahogany bench sat beneath a large painting of a young woman in a high-necked dress holding a small dog in her lap.