"Ah!" he said. "Perfect!" And he reached in carefully with a long-handled pair of tongs to pull out a shapeless blob of yellow metal. Smiling, Humphrey laid the blob on the marble to let it cool.
"There!" he said. "If you change an amulet's shape, the magic force runs out of it—at least that is what the great experts say. To be doubly sure, we'll take this thing down to the bridge, put it in a matchbox, and pitch it into the river."
"I hope this really will be the end," sighed the professor. "My heart isn't quite as strong as it used to be."
"Neither is mine," added Johnny, shuddering slightly.
The professor, Father Higgins, and the two boys were a bit sad about leaving friendly old Humphrey and his marvelous eccentric home. But they really were anxious to get back to Duston Heights, so the next day they made travel arrangements. The professor reserved four seats on a flight leaving London at four P.M. the following day. At first everyone worried about Father Higgins's passport, but it was found securely buttoned into an inner pocket of his clerical jacket. Apparently Masterman had made Father Higgins look like Father Higgins again in order to get past the passport officials.
Sadly on the following morning, the travelers said good-bye to Humphrey on the platform of Bristol Temple Meads railway station. The trip to London was fast, and from Paddington station they took a cab to the airport for the long journey home. The professor's car was waiting for him at the Boston airport, and they all threw themselves and their luggage wearily into the old maroon Pontiac for the final ride home. It was about dawn when they rolled into Duston Heights, and though he was sleepy, Johnny thought he had never seen any town that looked so beautiful. It was too late to wake up the Dixons or the Fergusons, so Johnny and Fergie stayed what remained of the night at the professor's house. Father Higgins stayed too, because he was exhausted and didn't want the professor to drive him to Rocks Village that night.
A week passed, and Johnny got little pieces of information. Father Higgins returned to his parish, and hardly anyone accepted the story that he had suffered an attack of amnesia brought on by the flare-up of an old head wound he had gotten during World War Two. The professor saw a small item in the London Times that said that the ashes of Mrs. Mary Higgins had been recovered and reburied under the floor of St. John's church in Glastonbury. Another item in the same paper said that the disappearance of Dr. Rufus Masterman from his hotel room in Ilfracombe remained unsolved, but the police were still making inquiries. Finally, at the end of the summer, the best news of all arrived: Father Higgins was going to be transferred back to his old parish of St. Michael's in Duston Heights. The bishop had received a lot of complaint letters from members of the Rocks Village parish. When Father Higgins had disappeared and then returned claiming amnesia, many people felt that it proved he was totally out of his mind. So back he went to St. Michael's. Needless to say, the Dixons were overjoyed to get their old pastor back, and of course Johnny, Fergie, and the professor were happy too. So at last things seemed to be getting back to normal.
When Father Higgins returned to St. Michael's after Labor Day, the professor threw a backyard barbecue to celebrate. He cooked hamburgers and hot dogs on the backyard grill, and laid in a big supply of lemonade, iced tea, and soft drinks. Chinese lanterns were rigged up on clotheslines that were strung through the trees in the yard, and of course the professor wore his tasteless apron with witty sayings and his puffy white chef's hat. The professor's good friend Dr. Charles Coote came down from Durham, New Hampshire, for the fest. He was a tall, gawky man with a bumpy ridged nose and big goggly glasses who taught at the University of New Hampshire, and he knew a lot about magic and the occult. Johnny's grandparents came to the party too.
Everyone had a glorious time. The boys wolfed hot dogs and hamburgers, and Grampa Dixon beat the professor at horseshoes. Fergie then beat both of them. The Dixons went home early as usual, and the others inspected the bedraggled, weedy wreckage of the professor's flower garden. He never had the time or energy to get it in shape, and it looked thoroughly dreadful. It was a lovely cool evening, and a gentle breeze rocked the Chinese lanterns. Fireflies winked among the tall weeds, and a few crickets could still be heard in the grass. For a long time no one said anything. Father Higgins swirled the brandy in his glass and looked thoughtful. Finally he spoke up.
"Dr. Coote," he asked slowly, "why do you think Masterman picked on me? Is it because I'm superstitious and believe in ghosts?"
Dr. Coote laughed. "My dear Father Higgins," he said, "I don't think your beliefs had anything to do with what happened to you. To tell you the truth, you just were susceptible. You really wanted to talk to your dead mother and iron things out, and the spirit of Masterman used that to his own advantage. Remember one of the notes that you found in your house? You may be wrong about everything. Some kindly power was trying to warn you."
Father Higgins made grumbly noises and sipped his brandy. "All right then," he said, poking a hairy finger at Dr. Coote. "Answer this one for me: How did that dratted hunk of glass get into my church? Who put it there?"
Dr. Coote scratched his head. "Hard to say. Your church is over two hundred years old, and I've heard stories that there was a very rich man who lived in Rocks Village in the late 1700's who made trips to Europe and brought back ancient objects. He probably discovered that the glass fragment had evil powers. Maybe he put it in the church to hold its evil in check. One thing I can say for sure: Masterman never put the glass in the church. He was a disembodied ghost who haunted the glass, and he couldn't have turned a doorknob with his shadowy hands. That was why he needed your help, Father. He needed a real human body with real hands, so that he could shove those two pieces of glass together and complete the circle."
Fergie was standing nearby, sipping soda pop. "Hey, Dr. Coote," he said suddenly, "what do you think those creepy knights would've done if they had gotten loose?"
Dr. Coote frowned. "I hate to think what those wretches would have done," he said, staring off at the night sky. "I've heard tales of men who could turn themselves into superhuman beings by doing unspeakable things—like eating the hearts of other humans. Would you like it if someone could get inside your head and listen in on your thoughts? Or make you imagine that you were somebody else? Let's just say that those knights could have made life very difficult for a lot of people—maybe for everybody on earth."
It was getting late, and everyone was feeling tired. The professor yawned, flapping his hand in front of his mouth. It was contagious. Father Higgins yawned, and so did Dr. Coote. Soon everyone was walking slowly back toward the lighted house. Johnny felt exhausted, but he still had one more question rattling around in his head.
"Uh, professor?" he asked timidly. "Is your brother really a sorcerer? I mean, he saved us out on the bridge, but then he got trapped by Masterman just the way you did."
The professor chuckled. "Humphrey would like to think he's a sorcerer," he said. "He's memorized some spells and he's whipped up some potions in his lab, but that doesn't make you a wizard. Just before we left, he told me he was going to stop fooling around with magic."
"Do you think he really will?" asked Johnny.
The professor grinned and peered at Johnny over the top of his glasses. "John," he said solemnly, "if I told you I was going to stop being a foul-tempered old crank, what would you believe? Eh?"
Everybody laughed.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by John Bellairs
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ISBN 978-1-4976-2540-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Secret of the Underground Room Page 9