The Witchmaster's Key (8 page)

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” he said effusively. “It was an accident. Really it was.”

“So was the London blitz!” Joe said angrily.

“The hose got out of control,” McKnight insisted.

“Okay. Forget it,” Frank said.

McKnight seemed relieved, and he went into the silversmith's shop, where the fire chief was inspecting the damage.

“Well, he's a cool customer!” Frank exploded.

Joe shook the water from his clothes. “He did that deliberately. We've got a score to settle with Mr. McKnight.”

Filtering through the crowd of Eagleton Green craftsmen, the Hardys kept their ears open. They learned that the fire just about ruined the artisan village and its residents.

“I'm ready to sell out,” a jeweler stated. “The thefts in the past few months were bad enough, but the fire is the last straw. Start packing, say I!”

“Aye! Aye!” his neighbors shouted.

The village bookbinder raised his voice. “What's the reason for this harassment? Tell me that if you can!”

“Witchcraft!” a potter bellowed. “The robbery at the Witch Museum in Griffinmoor! It let the spirits of the witches loose! The spirits are haunting us!”

“That's right!” said a woman. “There's a lot of haunting around Eagleton Green! Pigs are dying, and no one knows why! Horses are falling sick, and the vets can't cure them!”

“Sure!” another agreed. “If it ain't witchcraft, what is it?”

It was depressing to listen to the crestfallen artisans. It appeared that Eagleton Green would not survive.

“Frank, look who's coming,” Joe said as Professor Rowbotham weaved through the crowd toward them. Puffing, he swung his cane in a wide arc that barely missed Joe, who leaned back to avoid being hit.

“Ah–ah, I am pleased to have found you. I
thought you might be–ah–interested in the fire. I came here in the hope of running into you.”

“What's up, professor?” Frank inquired.

“I have a message for the pair of you. It might help your investigation, but it is not something to–ah–discuss here. Suppose we go home. I have my car.”

At his house, Rowbotham explained that an unidentified man had phoned to say he had vital information about the burglary at the Griffinmoor Witch Museum.

Joe became excited. “What kind of information is it? Does he have a suspect for us?”

“He refused to say. Indeed–ah–he told me he has sworn an oath never to reveal what he knows about the burglary.”

Frank looked crestfallen. “So, a guy tells you he's got the info, and then he tells you he's not telling.”

Rowbotham blinked. “Not exactly. I mean, he said he might be released from his oath under certain conditions.”

Frank perked up. “What conditions?”

“Ah–ah, he wants a meeting at Stonehenge.”

“You mean,” Joe said, “where the cave men tossed those boulders around like marbles?”

Rowbotham smiled. “I imagine we are talking about the same place. Yes, Stonehenge, where prehistoric people placed those–ah–massive stone blocks in a precise arrangement.

“The Druids used Stonehenge for their religious rituals. The man who phoned said he could speak freely at the Druid altar when the full moon is in the sky. To wit–tomorrow night!”

Joe chuckled. “Sounds like a lot of hocus-pocus to me. I'm not a Druid!”

“The man might know something,” Rowbotham said solemnly. “He might be a witch!”

“Or pose as one,” Frank remarked. “This could be a setup.”

Rowbotham looked puzzled. “A setup? I am not familiar with the term.”

“A trap,” Frank interpreted.

“He might want to ambush us,” Joe said, “down where the Druids play.”

Rowbotham looked dubious. “Ah–ah, I think we should take the risk. My informant might unravel the mystery for us. At least you boys will see Stonehenge. I'll be your guide to the ruins.”

The three talked it over, and the Hardys at last agreed to go. Rowbotham said he would drive them the hundred miles or so to Stonehenge, and they could return to Griffinmoor immediately if the man did not appear.

“Now, then, what have you to report about your visit to London?” the professor inquired.

Frank described their adventures in Soho. “So you see,” he ended, “we were locked in by a locksmith and then I was drugged by this palmist who was supposed to be telling me my fortune.”

Joe took up the story, covering their stop in Green Park and the underground surveillance.

“What do you propose to do about these hostile persons?” Rowbotham asked.

“We could prosecute the locksmith,” Joe said.

“No good,” Frank retorted. “We don't have any proof. I'd sure like to corral that palm reader, though.”

Rowbotham suggested a phone call to the London police. Frank agreed and conversed for a few minutes with the officer at the desk. Hanging up, he rejoined Joe and the professor.

“The police don't know anything about the palmist,” he said. “She's not local. They've got plenty of fortunetellers in their mug books, but none of them sounded like the gal with the needle.”

Joe mentioned the items in the London witch collection that seemed to have been taken from the Griffinmoor museum.

“Ah–ah, the wand and the crystal ball were stolen from here,” Rowbotham stated. “I myself discovered that they once belonged to the Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins. I am happy to know the curator is willing to return them. If only we could find the rest of the artifacts!”

Something clicked in Frank's mind. “Perhaps some of it was shipped out of England! Interest in witchcraft has revived all over the world. Traffic
in the stolen objects could be international. Let's check with Interpol.”

“And with Dad, too,” Joe added.

“Ah–ah, I can give you a duplicate catalog for your father,” Rowbotham offered.

They prepared an air-mail package along with a letter to their parents, and Rowbotham ordered Sears to post it.

Frank and Joe were tired when they went to bed. However, they were up early the next morning, eager to get on with the case.

At breakfast, a letter arrived from Fenton Hardy. He told his sons that their ancestors had emigrated to America from Dublin after the Salem witch trials. He also suggested they check on the Irish genealogy of the Hardy family if they had time, and he sent his regards to his old friend Chauncey Rowbotham.

“Your father should see how well you are doing,” Rowbotham complimented Frank and Joe.

“Still, we haven't solved your case, professor,” Frank said.

“Let's see if the Griffinmoor police are doing any better,” Joe said.

He phoned local headquarters and asked about the Pickenbaugh grave robbery. He found that the police were at a dead end, without clues or suspects.

“They're putting John Pickenbaugh's case on the back burner,” Joe said after hanging up.

“Might as well make tracks for Stonehenge,” Frank concluded.

“We can ask the Druids to solve the case for us,” Joe said humorously.

They went outside and got into the car to wait for Professor Rowbotham. He appeared, wearing a long white coat, a peaked white hat, a pair of thick goggles, and heavy gloves with broad leather cuffs.

“My driving costume,” he explained to the Hardys, who were staring at him in bug-eyed amazement. “I never take a long ride without wearing my driving costume.”

He turned on the engine, released the brake, and started with a jerky motion and a grating noise that sounded as if he were stripping the gears.

“Ah–ah, we are off!” he announced.

Off is right! Joe thought.

The Hardys began to worry as the compact barreled southwest out of Norfolk across the center of England toward Stonehenge. Professor Rowbotham wandered from one side of the road to the other. He ignored traffic signals. He went either too fast or too slow. And he chortled to himself as he drove.

Not far from their destination, Rowbotham ran over a duck as he whizzed past a farmhouse.

“The farmer will have a duck dinner,” Frank muttered under his breath. He looked through the rear window. The duck had escaped between the wheels of the car and was waddling into the farmyard, quacking loudly.

On and on the compact sped. Just when Frank and Joe believed they would make it all the way to Stonehenge without an accident, Rowbotham swung across the road to pass the car in front of him. Unfortunately the other lane was occupied by a car being driven in the opposite direction at full speed.

Rowbotham gave his compact the gas in a frantic effort to get out of the way. It bucked, rocked, and skidded, as two wheels crunched onto a soft shoulder.

Out of control, the car careened into a ditch!

T
HE
car jolted to a halt on the other side of the ditch. Frank's neck whiplashed, and Joe grabbed the dashboard to avoid being thrown against it.

Professor Rowbotham slumped over the steering wheel, a trickle of blood above his eye showing where he had struck his head.

Joe shook him. “Professor! Professor!”

Frank rubbed the back of his neck to ease the pain. “He's knocked out, Joe. Let's give him some first aid.”

Frank ran around the car and Joe helped him edge Rowbotham from the driver's seat to the ground. Frank pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the blood. “Just a little cut,” he said.

Rowbotham groaned and opened his eyes.

“How are you?” Frank asked anxiously.

“Ah–ah, I have a headache. But–ah–I'm all right. How about the car?”

Joe got in, started the motor, and guided the vehicle back up onto the road.

“She's A-okay,” he called out, “except for a dent in the fender.”

“Ah–ah, then let's continue to Stonehenge,” the professor said.

Frank looked doubtful. “Do you feel up to it? You have one big robin's egg over your eye.”

“That doesn't bother me,” Rowbotham said emphatically.

“It bothers me,” Joe thought. He said aloud, “I'll drive if you like, Professor.”

“Certainly not,” Rowbotham replied testily. “I am quite capable of driving my car!”

They got in and resumed their journey, rolling through the counties of western England until they reached Wiltshire.

Rowbotham commented on the flatness of the terrain. “This is Salisbury Plain. Soon we will see Stonehenge. Ah–there it is!”

A group of tall stones came into view. They were arranged in a circle.

“We are now approaching the Avenue of Stonehenge,” Rowbotham explained.

“Avenue?” Frank said curiously.

“Well, you see, the people who constructed Stonehenge built a thoroughfare up to it.”

“The Druid Fifth Avenue,” Joe chuckled. “Not as lively as New York, though.”

Rowbotham spoke like a professor lecturing to
a class. “The Druids were not responsible for the Avenue. My goodness, no!”

“I thought the Druids built Stonehenge,” Frank said in a puzzled tone.

“A popular misconception. Stonehenge goes back to the Stone Age. Ah–the Druids appeared much later. They lived here on Salisbury Plain in Roman times. However, it is true that they used the site for their ceremonies.”

He turned the car into a parking area and stopped. The three got out and walked across the grass to the group of stones. A broad entrance led through a low embankment, curving away on each side. Rowbotham swung his cane in a wide arc, forcing Frank to duck out of its path.

“This is the outermost circle,” he said. “The distance across to the other side of the circle is one hundred yards.”

“As long as a football field,” Frank noted.

“A ball carrier would have to do a lot of broken field running to reach the end zone,” Joe quipped. “Jumbo blocks of granite for linebackers. What a defense!”

“Ah–I don't quite understand. Is that an American proverb?”

“Just football terminology,” Frank told him.

Rowbotham walked down to the center of the circle. He tapped a stone with his cane. “There are, as I said before, two stone circles. The outer one has stones–ah–thirteen feet tall. Only about
half are still standing, but you can imagine what it looked like when they were all in place.”

He turned toward the largest blocks. “This is called the Horseshoe because five groups stood in a curve, with the open end facing the Avenue. The three still standing are more than twenty feet tall. They weigh–ah–over forty tons.”

Frank and Joe tilted their heads back and glanced up. The rocks of the Horseshoe looked like menacing giant sentries.

“How did these Stone Age skyscrapers get here?” Joe wondered.

“A good question. The witches of old England said Merlin the Magician transported them through the air from Ireland. Modern archaeologists say they came from the stone pits of Marlborough Downs, twenty miles to the north. Ah–how prehistoric men moved such heavy objects remains a mystery.”

Rowbotham tapped a single large slab lying in the center of Stonehenge. “This is the Altar Stone. Our Druids and witches still convene around it.”

“So,” Frank put in, “this is where the mystery man wants us to meet him.”

“Precisely. That is why I suggest he may be a witch.”

“He's off his rocker, if you ask me,” Joe declared. “Druids! Who needs them!”

Rowbotham sighed. “I see you are skeptics who do not believe in Druids or witches. Our adventure
tonight may change your minds. Ah–it is getting dark. We had better prepare for the meeting.”

Suddenly he pressed his fingertips to his forehead, swayed, and leaned on his cane. The Hardys urged him to see a doctor about the bump he had received in the accident on the road. He refused.

“Ah–ah, we would have to go into the town of Salisbury, which would be a waste of time. Besides, I'm not badly hurt. I will rest in the car until I feel better.”