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.
“Now,” Sheila’s voice was once again so soft that Harleigh had to strain to hear, “you said you wanted to talk to me.”
Harleigh blinked, wondering for just a moment what she was talking about before he remembered he’d said exactly that. He also remembered what he’d wanted to ask about and why. It all came from what Allegra said about Sheila’s “sad story.” Something about the way she’d said it, with a deep sigh and a slow shake of her head, made him curious.
Not that he was often curious about other people’s stories, sad or otherwise. But now he found himself wanting to know not only how Allegra knew about it, but also about the story itself. Sitting down on the mahogany bench, he waited only long enough for Sheila to sit beside him before he began, “Tell me . . . that is, I’d like to know—to know . . .” He stammered to a stop and then came up with, “Why did you come to live in Weatherby House, and where did you live before that?”
It turned out to be a long story. A long story about the same kinds of bad things that happen to a lot of people. Things about deaths and desertions, and unwelcoming relatives, and how, when she was working as a secretary, a disloyal friend told lies about her that made her lose her job. But for some reason, maybe just really listening in person to the storyteller, it seemed more . . . more what? More real and alive, maybe. So alive that listening to parts of it made Harleigh’s eyes burn and his throat tighten.
He didn’t like the feeling, but when the telling was over and Sheila thanked him for being such a good listener and said she felt better, he did too. And then, remembering the disapproving way Allegra looked at him when he told her he didn’t know what Sheila was sad about, he liked thinking how much he’d have to say if the subject ever came up again.
It wasn’t until Sheila left and Harleigh was on his way up to the tower that he remembered that he’d decided there wasn’t going to be a next time. That he was through with Allegra, once and for all.
No more Allegra, except . . . except that some things had changed since he made that decision. Of course, some things were still the same. He was still angry about how she’d forced her way into the House and then run away to explore on her own. But what had changed was the fact that she probably had not been lying when she said she’d heard a metal detector on the stage in Aunt Adelaide’s recital hall bedroom. So maybe he’d change his mind enough to see her one more time, just long enough to tell her Shelia’s story, as well as all about what Junior had done to him, and what Junior might have done to him if Shelia hadn’t happened to come along. A couple of events that ought to really impress a person who was so interested in other people’s stories.
While he was still trudging up the steep circular stairs, Harleigh was beginning to plan his next visit to the black walnut tree and Allegra.