The Witchmaster's Key (10 page)

Rowbotham nodded. “I can see that now. But at the time, I thought you had met the man who phoned here. I supposed he had given you vital information about the burglary at the Witch Museum.”

“That's understandable,” Frank said soothingly. “But how did you manage to drive to Griffinmoor?”

“Ah–ah, by that time I felt rested. Had a bit of trouble starting the car, but the man was very kind and helped me.”

“I bet he was kind!” Frank muttered.

“Well, ah–ah, I suppose I should have suspected him. Not very perceptive at all. Sorry about that.”

“Don't worry,” Joe said. “We made it back okay.”

“Ah–ah, I am glad you did. Now I'll go to my room and take a nap.”

Sears helped him up the stairs. Frank and Joe went outside to make sure the butler would not hear them. They stopped by a rosebush to discuss the new turn of events.

“I suspect the prof,” Joe asserted. “Why didn't he try to find us in Stonehenge?”

“And was he really as dizzy as he pretended?” Frank mused. “Or is he fuzzing up the facts to keep us in the dark? What'll we do now?”

“The car, Frank! Maybe it'll tell us more than the prof did.”

They went into the garage and searched the compact. Joe had his head in the trunk when Frank called him in an excited voice. He was in the driver's seat. As Joe approached, Frank handed him a cablegram.

“Take a gander at this! I found it wedged between the two front seats!”

Joe opened the cablegram. It was from New York. The message read:
Plans changed. Get rid of Hardys
.

J
OE
whistled. “Somebody's awfully careless with his cables!”

“That's for sure. This is one hot item to leave where we can find it. Any ideas off the top of your head, Sherlock?”

Joe hazarded a guess. “The cablegram was dropped when Bushy Beard helped the prof start his car in Stonehenge. Now we know for sure somebody's out to get us. And he's got a partner in the good old U.S.A.”

Frank reflected for a moment. “If Bushy Beard dropped it accidentally, then he's our enemy, not the professor.”

“Still, I think we should ask point-blank if the cable belongs to him,” Joe said.

“All right. His reaction might give us a clue.”

The clatter of horses' hooves announced the arrival of Nip Hadley. The Craighead groom rode
Midnight up the semicircular driveway and drew rein. The Hardys joined him. They noticed he had a black eye and wasn't wearing his cap.

“Where'd you get the shiner, Nip?” Joe asked.

“Playing soccer.”

“Why no cap?” Frank said.

“Left it in the stable.” The groom quickly changed the subject. “I'm glad you blokes are here. I have news for you.”

“Spill it, pal,” Frank said.

Nip glanced around to see that nobody was listening. Then he bent down and whispered, “I was in the kitchen over at Craighead Castle. I heard someone mention your name. Not a friendly voice, either. I don't know who it was, but he could be an enemy of yours. You better watch out!”

“Looks as if we have enemies all over England,” Joe joked.

“Also across the Atlantic,” Frank continued.

“What are you driving at?” Nip seemed puzzled.

Before the Hardys could reply, a red MG eased into the driveway. Nip turned in the saddle to make sure the vehicle had enough room to pass his horse. Deciding it had, he looked again at his American friends.

The MG came up slowly until it was a few yards away. Suddenly the driver stepped on the gas. Gravel spun under the tires as the car powered forward.

The MG hurtled at Frank and Joe! They whirled and saw that the driver was wearing a mask. Instinctively the Hardys hit the ground behind Midnight, using the horse for a shield.

The sound of the advancing automobile frightened the animal. It reared and threw Nip out of the saddle. He landed on the Hardys, and all three lay sprawled in the driveway.

The MG careened past like a red flash and roared away in a cloud of dust.

Nip picked himself up and quieted his horse, while Frank and Joe got shakily to their feet. None of them had noticed the car's license plate.

“I saw an emblem of the London Motor Club,” Joe reported. “At least it's a clue.”

Nip remounted, wondering aloud why anybody would want to kill the Americans.

“That's for him to know and for us to find out!” Frank responded grimly. “By the way, Nip, can you arrange a tour of the castle for us? We'd like to see how the Craigheads live before we go back home.”

Nip looked down in surprise. “When will that be?”

Frank gave Joe a sidelong wink, telling him to play along. “Pretty soon.”

“Any day now,” Joe agreed. “How about the tour?”

“Sorry. Ain't got the authority. I'm just in charge of the stable. You'll have to ask somebody who works inside the castle. Cheerio!”

Turning Midnight's head, Nip slapped the horse with his crop and cantered down the driveway. The clip-clop of horseshoes on gravel died away.

“This case is getting more mysterious all the time,” Frank observed.

“And more dangerous,” Joe warned. “Let's go in. We can talk to the prof when he wakes up. If he knows anything about the cablegram, he'd better come clean.”

Sears informed them that Rowbotham was awake and in the study. The murmur of voices told them a visitor had arrived. As they approached the room, they recognized the caller's voice. It was Dr. Burelli.

“There's only one way for us to solve the problem,” the dentist was saying, “and that is to get rid of—” He broke off upon noticing Frank and Joe.

Rowbotham invited the boys into the study.

“My patient and his brother,” Burelli greeted them. “How do your gums feel, Joe?”

“Fine,” Joe said. “No problem.”

“No pain?”

“None.”

“Ah–ah, we were discussing the Gravesend Players,” Rowbotham interjected. “One actor wants to play a lead role that he is simply incompetent to handle.”

“Fancies himself as Hamlet,” Burelli stated “but he should stick to Peter Pan. As I came in
the back way, I spied you talking to Nip Hadley. You seem to be friends with him now. He's not a bad chap when you get to know him.”

“Nip's got a few rough edges,” Frank said. “That's all.”

“The groom needs grooming.” Burelli laughed.

“We asked him if we could tour the castle,” Frank went on, “but he said he didn't have the authority to let us in. Only someone who works in the place could.”

“Ah–ah, Sears' sister is married to Goodman, the Craighead butler,” Rowbotham said. “Perhaps he could arrange it for you.”

“That would be great!” Joe said.

The professor rang for his servant and requested that he ask his sister about the matter.

“Certainly, sir,” Sears replied. “I am sure we can do it. My sister is the housekeeper at the castle and will be glad to take you around. I'll go along to make sure everything is in order.”

The boys were galvanized. “How about tomorrow, Sears?” Frank asked. “We would like to get a good night's rest before starting on that venture.”

“Agreed, sir,” Sears replied.

“Well, I must return to duty,” Burelli informed the gathering.

Rowbotham escorted him to the front door. When he came back, Frank pulled the cablegram from his pocket and handed it to him.

“What is it?” the professor asked.

“Read it, sir.”

Curiously Rowbotham glanced at the piece of paper. A look of alarm came over his face. “Ah–ah, that is–well, that is outrageous!”

“We thought so, too,” Joe said.

“Where did you find it?”

“In your car!”

“What? Impossible! How would it get—”

The professor staggered over to his easy chair and collapsed in it.

A
LL
the blood had drained from the professor's face. He looked ill.

Frank was alarmed. “You need to see a doctor, sir!”

Rowbotham shook his head. “Ah–ah, I did. He told me I had a mild concussion. Nothing to worry about.”

Joe was suspicious. “Is the cablegram what's bothering you?”

“Just so. But I know–ah–nothing about it. I am concerned for your safety. Perhaps some evil person wants you out of the way because you are close to a solution of the burglary at the Witch Museum.”

“We have made no headway,” Joe scoffed. “This looks like one case we're not going to solve!”

“I have a feeling all these mysterious shenanigans
are connected with Lord Craighead's disappearance,” Frank said. “Was he really on his way to Dublin five years ago?”

Rowbotham shrugged. “Everybody in Griffinmoor believed he was. Nobody denied it at the time.”

“It could have been a cover story he dreamed up,” Joe pointed out. “Anyhow, there's one place to look for him.”

“Where?” Rowbotham asked.

“Dublin!”

Frank nodded. “I go along with that. We'd better add Ireland to our transatlantic tour. Professor, suppose you spread the word that we've gone home. That way we can carry on the investigation without fear of anybody tailing us.”

Rowbotham agreed. He told them to go to Tara Lodge near Dublin. “This is the home of Lord Craighead's army friend, Colonel Melvin Stewart. They were supposed to meet there.”

The Hardys made their plans that night. They would visit Craighead Castle the next day, and on the following morning, fly to Dublin.

“I'll pack the cap we found at Stonehenge,” Frank said. “Maybe we can go to the Isle of Man and check it out.”

The following day they set out with Sears for the Craighead estate. Joe drove Rowbotham's compact through town and out into the countryside,
while Frank mulled over the mysterious cablegram from New York. He put a pointed question to the butler.

“Sears, have you any relatives in America?”

“No, sir. But my brother-in-law, Mr. Goodman, has a cousin in New York. Why do you ask?”

Frank pretended to be unconcerned. “Just curiosity. Being Americans, we're interested in Englishmen who have relatives living in our country.”

The tower of Craighead Castle appeared over the crest of a hill. Joe coasted down the grade, up the driveway, and across a drawbridge into the castle courtyard.

Goodman and his wife came out to greet them. He was short, they noticed, and she very thin. Cordially the couple escorted the visitors inside.

“Milton Craighead is in London,” Mrs. Goodman confided. “So there's no fear of disturbing him. But first we will have tea in the drawing room.”

She rang a silver bell. Two servants wheeled a cart in. They placed cups and a large teapot on the table along with a tray of cakes.

Joe noticed that the housekeeper had piercing black eyes. She kept glancing at him even while talking to the others. He felt very uncomfortable under her gaze, but decided to forget it and down his share of tea and cakes.

After refreshments the tour of the castle began. First they went into the dungeon. A small round window let in just enough light to reveal a dismal sight. There were torture instruments in the middle of the floor–thumbscrews, racks, and braziers for heating pincers. Irons for holding wrists and ankles dangled from a rafter. Cowhide whips were stacked in a wooden cask.

“Of course we don't use this room any more,” Mrs. Goodman informed the Hardys. “But it had quite a bit of use in the olden times.”

The boys were glad when the butler led the way up again into the living quarters. They went along corridors and saw rooms that still spoke of elegance and splendor, even though a time-worn shabbiness prevailed. Finally they reached the battlements. The embrasures once manned by archers were empty. The openings for pouring boiling oil on besieging armies were covered over.

“I guess Craighead Castle hasn't been in a scrap for a long time,” Frank said.

“There hasn't been a battle for over three hundred years,” Goodman replied.

The group ascended to the top of the tower, where a flag flew in the breeze. It bore a picture of a griffin carrying off a knight. Joe made out the legend:
Avoir la Serre Bonne
.

“The Griffinmoor emblem!” he exclaimed.

Mrs. Goodman fixed her black eyes on him.
“You are right–this time,” was her cryptic response.

Before he could ask what she meant, the woman urged the group down the stairs from the tower and into the turret at the rear of the castle. The top room of the turret had no window. Explaining that the electricity had never been extended to the turret, Goodman lit a large candle and held it up high.

The flickering light fell upon an array of old armor. There was a Norman suit made of tiny bits of metal linked together. Behind it stood a French type, made of metal plates.

In one corner gleamed a suit of jet black armor holding a sword in one hand.

Frank patted the helmet. “So that's what the well-dressed knight wore.”

“I hope he didn't feel itchy,” Joe quipped. “How'd you like to try scratching your back through that tin outfit?”

The candle sputtered out. Goodman led them into the corridor. They descended into the courtyard and walked around the castle.

One thing struck Joe. Sunlight once more glinted off a window in the turret, but he could not remember seeing the window from within.

While pondering his oversight, they came to a wide stone staircase. Mrs. Goodman asked Frank to lead the way down. He did.

Zip!
His feet skidded out from under him, and he plunged head over heels, bouncing from one step to another till he hit bottom. Joe rushed to help him up.

“What a terrible fall!” the housekeeper cried. “How did it happen?”