The Bluebeard Room (9 page)

He gathered his young wife tenderly in his arms as if she were a child. Tall and powerfully built as he was, Nancy had wondered earlier if he might be capable of violence when provoked by rage or opposition to his wishes. There was no sign of any such tendency in his nature now. Never had his deep love for Lisa seemed more apparent. He murmured words of gratitude to Nancy. Then, with his wife in his arms, he strode across the roof and started back down the stone steps.

Nancy paused to peer down through the notch in the parapet. The sheer drop to the rocky ground below almost left her giddy! Would Lisa have gone over the brink . . . or would some instinct of self-preservation have awakened her in time? The very thought of what could have happened made Nancy feel sick!

As she turned away, her eyes caught a distant glimmer of light. It was coming from a point somewhere west of the castle. Peering intently, she could make out a tall smokestack in the moonlight. . . .
The engine house of the old abandoned tin mine!
Nancy felt a surge of excitement.

She hurried after Lord Penvellyn and followed him down the tower stairs. In the doorway of the couple’s room, she hesitated uncertainly as he deposited his still-sleeping wife on the bed.

“Can I help in any way?”

“I think she’ll be all right now, thank you,” Hugh replied. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,
Nancy, for saving Lisa!” He was clearly unused to making such emotional speeches and spoke in a tone of gruffly awkward sincerity, adding with a shudder, “My God, when I think what might have happened—!”

“Has she ever sleepwalked before?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but . . . who can say?” Hugh shrugged helplessly. “I don’t usually wake up at night, but she must have made some slight noise in leaving the room. I awoke, and when I discovered Lisa was gone, I ran out into the hall and saw that the tower door was open.”

After talking a while longer, Nancy returned to her own room. But instead of going back to bed, she put on a sweater and jeans. Then, after waiting and listening to make sure no one was up and about, she stole quietly out of the castle.

Lisa’s bicycle was leaning against a wall of the courtyard. Nancy mounted it and pedaled off into the darkness. A chilly breeze was blowing in from the sea, making her glad she had worn her sweater. The moon had slipped behind a veil of clouds, but there was light enough to see her way. She took the road that ran near the castle and followed it to the paved highway leading west to Penzance.

When she neared the mine’s engine house, Nancy turned off the highway. She parked the bike among some trees and started on foot toward the smokestack, which was visible not far off. Soon the engine house itself came in sight, but she was
approaching a blank wall of the old stone building. Nancy circled about till she could see a window. A light still gleamed from within.

Not a sound broke the night’s silence, save for the distant beat of surf on the rocky coast.

At last Nancy ventured closer and peered in the window. The light was coming from a lantern, but there was no one inside. The door opened readily. Nancy wrinkled her nose in distaste as she entered. The interior reeked of incense and marihuana!

On the floor lay a broken hypodermic syringe and scattered marihuana butts, indicating recent drug use. But there were other signs that interested her even more. One was a five-sided figure painted on the floor, the “magic pentacle” that witches and wizards stand inside when summoning the occult forces of darkness. On the wall were chalk marks that she recognized as witch symbols.

In this part of Cornwall, it seemed, drug use was closely allied with witchcraft!

Suddenly Nancy froze as she heard a faint, strange melody in the distance. The music had a thin piping quality, like an Irish tin whistle playing an old folk tune. But where could it be coming from, in such a lonely spot this late at night? Nancy felt a chill of fear.

Were the cultists and drug-users who were in the engine house earlier still lurking nearby? And if they were, had they seen her?

She went out again and peered into the darkness.
The moonlight was too dim to see very far, but the piping sound seemed to be coming from the west. She didn’t want to use the lantern from the engine house; that would advertise her approach. Better rely on her little purse penlight, Nancy decided.

She started cautiously toward the sound, wondering what she would find. From what she could recall about the landscape she had glimpsed while being driven from the station to the castle, there was nothing out this way but bleak, uninhabited moorland.

Nancy proceeded, step by step, flicking on her penlight now and then to avoid obstacles. The piping sound was moving too, she sensed, drawing her onward. A pang of mistrust shot through her. Suddenly her feet squelched into sticky muck. She tried to back out—only to sink still deeper!

Nancy floundered wildly, but the effort only sank her ankle-deep into the muck. With a gasp of terror she realized,
I’ve walked into a quicksand bog!

“Help! Help!” Nancy screamed, giving way to blind fear. She knew that her cries might bring the very people she had come to spy on, maybe even the spooky cultist who had sent her the elf-bolt, but any risk seemed preferable to the horror of her present predicament!

Again and again she called out, with no response. As she paused for breath, Nancy became aware that the piping music had stopped. Too late she realized that its only purpose must have been to lure her into the deadly, quaking bog!

For several moments Nancy hovered on the verge of utter panic. Shrill screams rent the air and, with a convulsive shudder, she realized that the screams were coming from her own throat!

If she were to survive, she had to keep her head.
With a steely effort of will, Nancy took a firm grip on her nerves and began to assess her position. By now, her floundering had sunk her at least a foot into the muck. Unless she calmed down, she would soon be up to her knees in the slimy morass!

I must stay still, she decided. It seemed unlikely that anyone other than her unknown enemies would be wandering on the moor at this hour. But sound travels farther at night in open terrain, she had always heard, so there was at least a faint chance that her cries might be heard by a distant passing motorist on the highway.

Nancy took a deep breath, then yelled as loudly as she could. She was hideously aware that with every passing moment she was sinking deeper and deeper into the bog. Her skin crawled as she pictured herself waist-deep in the bog . . . then shoulder-deep and neck-deep, until finally . . . !

Shuddering, Nancy thrust such thoughts from her mind. Somewhere she recalled reading that by lying flat, a victim trapped in quicksand could spread his weight and thus survive much longer. But it seemed a desperate move and she was reluctant to put it to the test, save as a last resort. She decided to continue trying to attract attention. Again she screamed for help as loudly as she could . . . and again.

Suddenly Nancy’s heart gave a leap. Was that a sound she had just heard? . . . Yes! Someone was calling back to her! . . . A man’s voice!

“This way! Over here!” Nancy cried frantically.

Her eyes caught a distant gleam of light. The glow seemed to widen and grow brighter, and presently she realized that someone was shining a flashlight on her.

The beam shifted away to take the glare out of her eyes, and Nancy was at last able to make out the man who was holding the electric torch. There was something familiar about his voice, but it was only minutes later, after his strong hands had reached out to pull her slowly but surely out of the squelching muck, that she finally recognized who he was.
Alan Trevor, the reporter!

Nancy sank, gasping and trembling, into his arms, babbling her thanks.

“H-h-how did you happen to hear me?” she quavered.

“I was snooping around the old engine house, checking out some rumors and trying to dig up a story on drug-dealing in Polpenny.” Trevor waited in turn for Nancy’s explanation of the ghastly plight from which he had just rescued her.

“Y-you’ve saved my life,” she acknowledged shakily, “and I’m more grateful than I can say . . . but could I ask one more favor?”

“Why not?”

“When you write your story about what you saw back there in the engine house, could you leave me out of it . . . at least for now?”

There was a brief silence. Nancy expected him to
bargain for information in exchange. Instead, he merely said, “Okay. The important thing right now is to get you back to the castle.”

The reporter not only accompanied her to the spot where she had left Lisa’s bicycle, but insisted on following her on foot all the way back to the castle courtyard. Then with a quiet “Good night,” he vanished into the moonlit darkness. Nancy was surprised and touched by his behavior.

Luckily, no one was awake in the castle, and Nancy was able to get up to her room without being seen. She showered and sank gratefully into bed, leaving until morning the task of brushing all traces of her night’s adventure from her jeans and shoes.

Next day, on the pretext of feeling a bit unwell, Nancy went to visit the local medic. Lisa offered to drive her to his office, but Nancy declined, saying, “I’m hoping that a stroll in the sunshine and fresh air will make me feel better. Just give me directions and let me ramble.”

The physician, Dr. Carradine, occupied an old stone house on the outskirts of Polpenny. He turned out to be a tall, sandy-haired man with tired eyes that suggested a busy practice.

“Lady Penvellyn called to tell me you were coming, Miss Drew,” he said when Nancy was seated in his surgery. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“Nothing with me, thank goodness. It’s Lisa
herself I’m worried about. Would it be all right to consult you about her health?”

“Hmm . . . normally the answer to that question would be no. But I realize you two are old friends, and she has mentioned to me that her mother’s very concerned.” Carradine frowned and steepled his fingers, “Frankly, Lisa’s not well. She’s very run down. I’ve prescribed a course of vitamins and food supplements to build her up physically, but her problem may be emotional.”

Nancy nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s occurred to her mother too. But is there any chance she could be
taking
something harmful to her health?”

Carradine’s frown deepened. “You mean drugs?”

“No, something that Lisa doesn’t even suspect may be harmful.” Nancy took out the aspirin bottle that she had filled with Ethel Bosinny’s elixir. “This is an herb tonic she’s been taking. It’s probably perfectly wholesome, but, well, perhaps there’s something in it that disagrees with her, or that she may be allergic to.”

The doctor uncapped the bottle and sniffed its contents. “Hard to say offhand. I’ve never tested Lisa for allergies. But suppose I have this analyzed and let you know the results.”

Nancy thanked him, not mentioning that she had removed the bottle from Lisa’s room and poured out the undrunk glassful after Ethel Bosinny left. “One more question, Dr. Carradine. Lisa walked in her sleep last night. What would cause that?”

“I’m no psychiatrist, Miss Drew, but it sounds like an emotional problem she can’t cope with, something that festers in her subconscious and disturbs her rest. Let me know if it continues.”

As she trudged back to the castle, her thoughts distracted her from enjoying the bright morning and the beautiful scenery of the little Cornish fishing village. As sometimes happened when investigating a mystery, Nancy had the feeling that an important link in the evidence was staring her in the face . . . but what was it?

Even more depressing were the lurid news stories about her and Lance Warrick. Nancy had tried to shut them out of her mind, but they were becoming too blatant to ignore. Hopefully, and against her better judgment, she had picked up a couple of papers at a village newsstand to see if the topic might have faded from public view as quickly as it arose. Instead, she saw the rumor mills were busier than ever!

Back at Penvellyn Castle that afternoon, as she huddled in an overstuffed chair in the sitting room, Nancy realized miserably that the story was now being played up in newspapers all over Britain. She had already heard herself described on the television news as “Lance Warrick’s newest girlfriend—a Yank female private eye who combines curves with brains!”

Most painful of all was an article in a rock magazine that a castle maid brought back from the
nearby resort town of St. Ives. It claimed to tell the “inside story” of Lance’s latest sizzling romance and informed its avid readers that the American girl detective, Nancy Drew, had fallen head over heels in love with the rock king in New York and had pursued him across the Atlantic, hoping to wangle a proposal of marriage!

Almost as bad in Nancy’s eyes was the way her stay at Penvellyn Castle was played up and sensationalized. The Golden Mab was dragged in, to hype her detective role. One tabloid even hinted that Lord and Lady Penvellyn might be mixed up in a high-society criminal ring suspected of dealing in stolen art objects!

Another news story, even more startling to Nancy, suggested that she had come to the castle to investigate sordid rumors of a satanic witch cult!

Several press photographers had already made vain trips to the castle. As the day wore on, the phone rang incessantly until Hugh ordered it left off the hook.

There was little doubt in Nancy’s mind who was responsible for the flood of publicity. Hadn’t Lance himself said that Jane Royce was the best press agent in the business?
Got a sixth sense for what’ll make the headlines, that girl—she knows how to squeeze every drop of press coverage out of any angle that comes along!

Nancy had to squeeze her eyes shut tight to keep
from crying whenever she thought of that night on the town with Lance and the tender way their lips had melted together. Obviously he’d been using her from the very first!

“Nancy dear, you mustn’t let this business about Lance Warrick upset you so,” Lisa crooned. “It’ll blow over as quickly as it started.”