The Witchmaster's Key (4 page)

“Well,” Rankin said, “in that case you might as well see what we found.”

He opened a drawer and produced a long purple-and-white feather, which he placed on the desk. “This was on the floor beside the door of the museum.”

“Any theory about it?” Frank queried.

“We know feathers were used to make witches' brew. The thieves must have dropped it when they were moving the stuff out the door.”

“Then it was part of Professor Rowbotham's collection?”

“He claims not. But why would anyone bring a feather along on a burglary job?”

“Thanks, sergeant,” Joe said.

“We appreciate it,” Frank added.

As the boys started for Rowbotham's home, Joe said, “I think that's an eagle feather.”

“Not exactly an eagle,” Frank disagreed, “but a close relative. I'm not sure. What bugs me, though, is that the professor claims it's not his.”

Joe had an inspiration. “What say we make a detour around by the cemetery and take a gander at Pickenbaugh's grave?”

“Good idea. Maybe the ghouls left a clue.”

They tramped through the woods to the spot where they had seen the weird mourners. The police were there, examining the empty coffin that had held the corpse of the witchmaster.

A few questions elicited the information that no clue to the desecration had been found.

Frank and Joe went up to one of the officers. “Found anything yet?” Frank asked.

The tall, thin man shook his head. Then he squinted. “What's it to you?”

“We were accused of pulling this little job this morning,” Joe answered angrily. “So we're interested.”

“Oh, you are the American fellows who are visiting here,” the officer said with a grin of recognition. “They tried to pin it on you but it didn't stick. Well, it looks like a burglary to me. The lining of the coffin was ripped as if the villains were looking for something hidden in there.”

“But why would they take the corpse, then?” Joe asked.

The officer shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Let's look around the cemetery,” Frank suggested. “Maybe we'll find something the cops overlooked.”

They walked between headstones until they came to a freshly dug grave. Frank advanced to the edge of the hole and peered into it. Joe moved up beside him.

A sudden slithering noise made them whirl around. Two hooded figures leaped on them from behind a clump of bushes. Two clubs descended in a swinging arc.
Zap!
Everything went black!

Frank and Joe tumbled headfirst into the open grave and lay still!

F
RANK
came to and sat up, rubbing the back of his head. Joe stirred beside him.

Footsteps sounded nearby, and in moments several people formed a ring around the grave and gazed down at the two boys.

“Young men,” said a clergyman, “what are you doing in this grave? We are about to hold a funeral!”

“Pretty embarrassing,” Frank muttered. He said aloud, “We fell in accidentally. Sorry about that.”

Some of the men bent down and helped the Hardys out. Nip Hadley was one of them. The mourners frowned as Frank and Joe stepped hastily past the coffin and made for the woods. Nip followed them.

Joe turned around. “Say, Nip, I want to apologize for being rude at the dentist's the other day. I didn't mean it.”

“That's all right, I wasn't my usual lovey self either. That tooth hurt a lot!” Nip grinned, then went on, “What happened? I don't go for that accident stuff.”

“A couple of goons conked us,” Frank said. “I didn't see who they were. Did you, Joe?”

“Negative. But you got to the scene of the crime awfully quick, Nip. How come?”

The groom looked hurt. “I followed the funeral procession, just like you guys did with John Pickenbaugh. Bushwhacking ain't my style.”

“Okay, if you say so, Nip,” Frank said.

The groom changed the subject. “Know what's happening at headquarters? You two are accused of being witches!”

Frank and Joe halted in their tracks. “Witches!” Joe exploded. “Who says that?”

“Old Mary Ellerbee. They say she's a witch herself and was a member of old John Pickenbaugh's coven. Anyhow, she was at his funeral.”

Something clicked in Joe's mind. “The old woman carrying the black cat! I didn't recognize her at the tearoom because of the bandanna she was wearing.”

“Come on, Joe!” Frank said. “We'd better get over there. Thanks for the tip, Nip.”

They found Mary Ellerbee at the police station. She was clutching an ancient book in her hands.

“Apprehend them!” she cried as they entered.

“What's the charge?” Frank inquired.

“Malicious mischief!”

“Where's the proof?” Joe challenged.

“Right here in this book. It says Melinda Hardy Smith was a Salem witch sentenced to be drowned. She was your ancestor. So you're both warlocks. You're up to mischief in Griffinmoor! If you didn't rob John's grave, you ordered it done!”

The Hardys knew that a warlock was a male witch.

“There's one big hole in your theory,” Frank said mildly. “Our ancestors weren't in America at the time of the Salem witch trials. So Melinda Hardy Smith has nothing to do with us.”

“That settles it,” a policeman said.

Furiously Mary Ellerbee stalked out, shouting strident threats as she went.

“She sure has it in for us,” Joe said. “I wonder why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Joe.”

They decided to let their parents know what was happening to them in England. At a telegraph office, they sent a cable to Bayport, explaining that they were on the Rowbotham case but had made little headway.

“It's nice to be in touch with home,” Joe stated. “Here everyone is against us.”

“Except Professor Rowbotham and Dr. Burelli,” Frank said. “You know something? I wish Chet and Phil were here with us.”

Chet Morton and Phil Cohen, their Bayport pals, were on a bicycle tour of Ireland. They often helped the Hardys solve cases.

At Rowbotham's home, the Hardys walked up along the semicircular drive to the house, where they found that the professor had installed them in a bedroom on the ground floor opposite the Witch Museum. They questioned him about the purple-and-white feather at the police station.

“It was definitely–ah–not in my collection,” he said emphatically. “A strange feather, incidentally. I would almost suspect it came from the mythical beast of Griffinmoor–the griffin, half eagle and half lion. Here, let me show you the Griffinmoor emblem.”

He led them into his study and pointed to a plaque on the wall. It showed a fierce eagle with a lion's head, flying off into the sky while bearing a knight in armor in its talons.

The legend at the bottom read: “Norman invaders were repulsed here by the eagle with gigantic talons.” Below that was the motto:
Avoir la Serre Bonne
.

“The motto is in French,” the professor explained. “It means, ‘to have a strong grip.' I imagine you realize the significance of such a motto.”

“When Griffinmoor grabs you,” Frank suggested, “it never lets go.”

“Ah–ah–that interpretation will do very well. Yes.”

Joe felt restless. “But what do
we
do is what I want to know. This confab isn't doing anything to solve the mystery.”

Frank looked at Rowbotham. “Professor, I think Joe and I should search your museum. The police may have missed something.”

“As you wish,” Rowbotham conceded, and gave him the key.

They reached the tall, dark building just as dusk was falling. It had an air of sinister foreboding about it.

Frank unlocked the heavy door. They went in and Joe snapped on the master light for the building.

Wham! A gust of wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind them. The sound echoed through the cavernous Witch Museum.

“Sounds like ghosts upstairs,” Frank said.

“Witches would be more like it,” Joe noted. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Me too. It's spooky.”

Hurrying up three flights of stairs, they entered the attic, a large room supported by rough crossbeams covered with dust and cobwebs. The walls slanted inward, and the Hardys could see the steep slate roof through a tiny window.

A pitch-black raven perched on the topmost pinnacle. As they watched, it emitted a loud,
hoarse croak and flew off in the direction of the churchyard, which was visible in the distance.

The rising wind shook the top of the Witch Museum. Rain lashed the tiles outside. A bolt of lightning cut through the sky. Thunder boomed overhead.

Ignoring the storm, the Hardys inspected the attic thoroughly.

“See anything?” Joe asked.

“Couple of spiders. That's about it.”

They went down a flight of squeaky stairs to the third floor. A sign on the door read:
WITCHES' BREW
.

Inside they found rows of shelves on the walls, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. They were labeled with the names of witch poisons, ointments, recipes, and herbs. But the shelves were bare.

“Boy, Professor Rowbotham sure kept a lot of powerful stuff in here,” Frank commented. “Hemlock, belladonna, aconite—”

“Also henbane,” Joe added.

The Hardys knew these were deadly poisons. Frank gave Joe a worried look.

“Remember when I asked you on the plane what the East Anglia case might involve? Maybe it's poison!”

Joe shuddered. “There must be a lot of this stuff floating around Griffinmoor, Frank. And the thieves might not know what it is!”

There was a rustling movement near the door. Something hurtled at them, aimed straight for Joe's head!

Before he could move, the projectile veered off onto a high rafter.

“A bat!” Frank chuckled.

“Very funny,” Joe groused.

Another set of rickety stairs brought them to the second floor of the Witch Museum. Here the sign read:
EFFIGY ROOM
.

Frank scrutinized the place. “This is where the witches lived. Statues of them, anyway. I remember the pictures in Professor Rowbotham's catalog. They showed witches in robes and Halloween hats, carrying candles. One held a crystal ball in the palm of her hand.”

“Don't forget the witchmaster, Frank. He stood over here with a sword in his hands, just like the guy we saw leading the funeral procession to John Pickenbaugh's grave.”

The Hardys descended to the main floor.

“We went through these rooms with Professor Rowbotham,” Joe said. “No need for a repeat performance.”

Frank nodded. A grandfather clock tolled loudly from a dark passageway. Boards creaked overhead.

“Joe!” Frank exclaimed, “I hear footsteps!”

“Probably a cat, Frank. A black cat, witch style.
Come on. We've only got the basement and the sub-basement. Let's get this over with!”

The basement walls were faced with brick. This was where Professor Rowbotham had kept his instruments of torture. Chains hung on the walls, but everything else was gone.

“Not my idea of a home away from home,” Joe said.

“Frankenstein's castle,” Frank suggested, “or Dracula's.”

The boys sounded the brick walls and the floor as they made their round of the basement. Since nothing suspicious caught their attention, they turned to a small wooden door on rusty hinges. Frank forced the bolt back. The hinges grated harshly as he drew it open.

A narrow stairway met their eyes. It fell deeply into total darkness.

“Obviously the sub-basement is not connected to the master switch. Maybe there's a separate one downstairs,” Frank said.

He descended the staircase, guiding himself with a flashlight he had brought along.

“There's the switch,” he said, flicking on a dim bulb and returning the flashlight to his pocket.

They found themselves in a musty dark room with a ceiling so low they could touch it by raising a hand. The flagstones that made up the floor were interspersed with ancient tombstones.

“If rheumatism is your bag,” Joe quipped, “this is the place to get it.”

“I hope we can get a clue to the burglary,” Frank said. “I'll start on the opposite side. You begin here. We can compare notes after scouting around.”

“Okay,” Joe said.

Frank started across the stone floor. Joe walked along the wall next to the staircase. The clammy chill of the place began to seep into their bones.

Joe shivered. “It's like being buried alive!”

“Pick your gravestone,” Frank joked, then added seriously, “Wait a minute! I see something! Joe, look at this!”

Frank had hardly spoken when the light went out. The Hardys were plunged into utter darkness!

F
RANK
pulled out his flashlight, snapped it on, and played the beam around the room.

“Someone fiddled with the fuse box,” Joe muttered. “Or a fuse blew by itself.”

“Let's find out. It's probably in the basement.”

The boys ascended the staircase. The basement was just as dark. Frank found the fuse box and lifted the cover.

The master fuse was turned down!

“That explains it,” Joe said. “Somebody put the whammy on the whole lighting system.”

“Whoever did it,” Frank said, “doesn't want us around. Must be afraid we'll find a clue.” Joe pushed the master fuse back in place, and the museum lighted up again.

Quickly the Hardys searched the entire building, but found nobody.

“Whoever pulled that trick got away,” Joe said, “via the front door. We left it unlocked.”

“We won't make that mistake again,” Frank said, and he turned the key. Then they hurried down to the sub-basement to see what Frank had discovered.