Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1

by Prestopnik, Thomas J.

  Dooley stepped onto the front porch. After a tentative knock, the door flew open. The lamp light illuminated Farnsworth’s twisted face. He grabbed Dooley’s arm and hauled him inside, slamming the door shut. Jagga watched curiously from the trees and then hurried around to the side of the house where he spotted an open window. He clearly heard the voices of two men inside and squatted beneath the window to listen.

  “Where is it?” Farnsworth shouted. “I know you took it, Dooley! Tell me before I bust your head open!”

  Dooley whimpered like a dog. “So I took it, okay? I came back here after you went to the party and found it.”

  “You found it? Why, you broke into my house, you little rat!”

  “The key was mine! I want to decide when we hand it over. If we hand it over.”

  Farnsworth held his seething temper in check. “If I don’t have that key in my hand when Caldurian arrives tomorrow night, we’ll both be finished. That was part of the deal. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dooley?”

  “I never agreed to any of this. You talked to that wizard behind my back.”

  “Are you dense?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that! Maybe you’re dense. I say we keep the key until after we get everything we want. Consider it insurance.”

  There was a crash of glass as Farnsworth flung aside a decanter of wine with his arm. “See how upset you’ve made me, Dooley. Now where is that key?”

  “Back at my house where it belongs, and you’re not touching it. I’m tired of you always stepping on me. It’s always your way, your idea. Well, enough, Zachary! Things haven’t gone so smooth with you in charge,” he spouted, his voice quavering. “You still got that old lady locked in your cellar which is a crimp in our plans if ever there was one. And Arthur Weeks is at my house this very minute demanding to get paid for his part. That’s why I’m here. He wants his money!”

  “Tell that beanpole he’ll have to wait a while longer. He’ll be paid by the end of the week.”

  “He’d better. If you cross him, Arthur says he’ll go straight to Clay Brindle and tell him how he lied about Nicholas. Then we’ll all be sitting in the lockup. And that key you’re harping about won’t get us out of there!”

  “You’re an annoying pest if there ever was one!” Farnsworth lashed out. “Why couldn’t you just leave matters in my hands?”

  As Farnsworth continued his tirade against Dooley, Jagga decided he had heard enough from outside the window. Having discovered the location of the key, he quietly slipped away from the house as the two men argued on and scurried back down the road to Dooley’s residence, determined to secure his freedom.

  Jagga stealthily approached and peered inside Dooley’s kitchen window. There at a table, jittery and white as a ghost, sat Arthur Weeks, mumbling to himself as he drummed his fingers on the table top. An oil lamp and a few lit candles illuminated the room. Jagga stepped aside, his back to the house, and glanced up through the trees to consider his options. There wouldn’t be much time to act since Dooley might return at any moment, possibly with Farnsworth in tow. He clenched his fists and walked to the front door.

  He turned the knob and quietly entered. The glow of light from the kitchen was visible in the darkened hallway. Jagga took each step carefully, conscious of the tiniest squeak in the pine floorboards. He was used to living in caves and woods and among open spaces. The confined living quarters of men seemed stifling and prison-like. Suddenly his knee slammed into a small table hidden in the shadows, sending a slew of objects clattering to the floor.

  “Is that you, Dooley?” Arthur called from the kitchen.

  Jagga stood still, the element of surprise now gone. He wondered if he should bolt. A light from the kitchen grew brighter as Arthur approached carrying an oil lamp.

  “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Was Zachary reasonable about my demand?” He held up the lamp and the light hit Jagga’s stony, scarred face. “He’d better be or–” Arthur’s jaw dropped when confronting the vacant stare of the short, burly Enâr bathed in the sickly light. He stood frozen, the lamp shaking in his extended arm. “Oh...” Arthur Weeks swallowed hard. “You’re not Dooley,” he nervously said as if trying to mollify a snarling dog blocking his path. “You should leave.” Arthur flinched as Jagga glared at him, his heart pounding as the stranger stepped forward. “Or I could leave.”

  Arthur suddenly pivoted on his heel and ran back to the kitchen as Jagga pursued in a flash. He screamed as the Enâr trapped him in the room and lunged at him. A crash of plates and the overturning of wooden chairs ensued as the two fought. The candles extinguished one by one as they were knocked down.

  “Where’s the key?” Jagga demanded when he grabbed Arthur by the collar.

  “Let me go! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Arthur Weeks struggled like a fish on a hook and then slammed a fist into Jagga’s ear, causing him to release his hold. Arthur dove under the table to the other side of the room. “What are you?”

  Jagga howled in pain as he got to his feet, holding the sore side of his head while sending a chair crashing into the wall with his free hand. Arthur made a move toward the doorway, but the Enâr blocked his way, trapping him in a corner.

  “Tell me where the key is! I know you’re in league with the other two. Tell me!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anything about a key!”

  “I think you do.” Jagga grasped an object he spied on a countertop and slowly approached a terrified Arthur Weeks.

  “Stay away!” he said. “Whatever you’re looking for, I don’t have it. Dooley Kramer lives here, not me.” His face perspired profusely. The long black locks on the side of his head stuck to his cheeks like wet grass clippings. Arthur pressed his body against the wall in a futile effort to break it down as he watched the Enâr step closer. “Please stay away...” The wildly fluttering flame inside the oil lamp softly reflected off the metal knife Jagga clutched in his hand.

  “I’m not leaving without that key,” he muttered as he closed in on his target. “And I’m going to find it, one way or another.”

  Dooley sauntered back to his house twenty minutes later through a swirl of autumn leaves. He had survived his confrontation with Farnsworth who reluctantly agreed to let him hold onto the key for the time being. He also promised to pay off Arthur Weeks within two days. Dooley breathed in the vigorous night air, feeling full of himself for having stood up to Farnsworth. He had plans to go places and to make his mark in the village, too, and tonight went a long way toward boosting his confidence. He could only imagine better things to come.

  Then he turned the knob on the front door. The light from his oil lamp illuminated the hallway. Dooley scowled when noticing the hall stand knocked over and a bevy of items strewn across the floor. He scratched his head.

  “Arthur! What’d you do while I was away? Clean up this mess.” He gently moved a few things aside with the toe of his boot. “I leave for a few minutes and look what happens,” he muttered. “Arthur, get out here!”

  Disturbing silence filled the rooms. Dooley looked up, raising his lamp which cast flickering shadows. “Arthur?” He stepped over the spilled items and headed to the kitchen. “You still here?”

  He poked his head into the room and his chest tightened. The kitchen had been torn apart. The table and chairs overturned. One window smashed. Dishes and food canisters thrown across the floor. Arthur’s oil lamp sat on a counter beneath a cupboard that had been ransacked, its doors wide open. Dooley shuddered and raced across the room, desperately searching for a wooden salt box he had stored in that cupboard. It was gone. He surveyed the floor and then spotted the salt box which had been thrown against the wall to his left. The hinged lid was open and a spray of salt dusted the floor. He grabbed the box but already knew the worst in his heart. Farnsworth would kill him for sure. This couldn’t be happening. Someone had stolen the key from its hiding place.

  “I’m dead!” he whispered as
he got to his feet. “Dead.”

  Dooley’s hand trembled as he tried to hold the lamp steady. His exhilaration of just minutes ago came crashing down, leaving a knot in the pit of his stomach. He stepped back, shaking his head. How could he fix this? He then bumped into an overturned chair, spun around and saw him. Sprawled on the floor behind the table lay Arthur Weeks, his eyes open as he gazed up at the ceiling, dead to the world. His body had been hidden from view when Dooley first entered the room. He stared at him for several minutes, unable to take his eyes off the knife wound in Arthur’s chest.

  Dooley cautiously knelt on one knee by the body, gently holding the oil lamp near Arthur’s face. He prodded the corpse’s arm with a finger to make certain he was dead before turning away and taking a deep breath. The scent of blood sickened him. He got to his feet and stumbled around the kitchen wreckage, holding his head and mumbling.

  “Who did this, Arthur? Who did this? I need that key back!” Dooley kicked a metal canister across the room and glared at the dead body again. “Who did this to you, Arthur? Tell me! I need to find that key or Farnsworth will kill me next!”

  Arthur kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling as Dooley rambled about, whimpering and cursing his bad luck. All seemed lost. His plans were decaying and either Farnsworth, Caldurian or Constable Brindle would make him regret this day for the rest of his life. There was little he could do to salvage the situation though he tried to think of something as he ran around like a madman. He howled at his ill fortune, kicking the walls and punching the air with his fist. In a spasm of rage he ran out of the house screaming, not even aware of the words he was shouting.

  “Murder!” he screamed into the night, twirling in circles on the road, sending up a shower of leaves that glowed in the light from the lamp he still clutched in his hand. “Murder! Murder! There’s a killer loose in Kanesbury!”

  Farnsworth soon came running down the road toward Dooley’s house with a glowing lamp in hand, stunned at the sight of his crazed neighbor in convulsive fits in the road.

  “What’s the matter with you, Dooley? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “Someone help!” he cried, unaware of Farnsworth’s presence.

  Farnsworth yanked him by the arm, snapping his body to a sudden halt. “Shut up, you fool! What’s going on?”

  He stared at Farnsworth with a vacant expression. “It wasn’t my fault, Zachary. It wasn’t. I didn’t steal it, and I certainly didn’t kill him. I didn’t!”

  “What are you jabbering about? Are you drunk?”

  “No, but I will be before the sun rises!” Dooley suddenly broke down in a fit of laughter, dropping his oil lamp. He bent over, his hands on his knees, laughing uncontrollably until he started coughing and sobbing. “Arthur’s dead!” he said. “He’s lying on my kitchen floor and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “Someone killed him,” he said, pointing to the house.

  Farnsworth dashed inside for a look and felt his blood turn cold. He had never seen a murdered man and the sight sickened him. He returned to the street and saw Dooley sitting in the middle of the road. Before he could say anything, he paused to listen. Voices approached from the main section of the village.

  “People are coming, Dooley! Quick! Tell me what happened.”

  Dooley looked up and sighed. “The key is gone. Whoever did this stole it.”

  “What? Besides Caldurian, who else knew we had it? Did you tell anyone?”

  “No! I swear!”

  The voices grew louder. A mob was heading their way.

  “We can’t let anyone know about the robbery! Do you hear me?” Farnsworth grabbed Dooley by the collar and lifted him to his feet. “DO YOU HEAR ME?” he said, shaking him violently.

  “Yes, yes! But what do we do?”

  “Let me think a minute! Let me think!” He rubbed his face with one hand, looking left, looking right, and then glared at Dooley. “I’ve got an idea. I know who committed this murder.”

  “You do?”

  “Not really! But as soon as the constable gets here–because I’m sure he’s with that crowd–you’re going to tell him exactly what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Which is?”

  “First things first,” Farnsworth said, clenching his fist. He slugged Dooley square in the jaw, sending him sailing across the road and stumbling over a tree root. Dooley wiped away some blood from his lip as Farnsworth helped him up.

  “What’d you hit me for?”

  “I didn’t hit you,” Farnsworth said. “Nicholas Raven did!”

  “Huh?”

  “Shut up and listen!” he ordered. “You tell everyone that Nicholas Raven broke into your house tonight while Arthur Weeks was visiting you. Nicholas tried to attack Arthur, so you intervened. Nicholas then punched you, and by the time you got up, Arthur had already been stabbed and was dying. Got that so far?”

  “Yeah... I think.”

  “Then you and Nicholas fought in the house, causing all the mess, but he pushed you down and fled before you could stop him. That’s when you screamed for help.”

  “But why would Nicholas come here?”

  “For revenge, you idiot! He wanted to get back at Arthur for accusing him of being at the gristmill on the night of the robbery.”

  “Oh.”

  “And whatever you do, don’t mention a thing about the key. Got it? This was simply revenge and murder, not robbery.”

  “Okay. And what are you going to say?”

  “Nothing, because I can’t be seen with you,” Farnsworth said. “I’ll wander down here after the others arrive, saying I heard a commotion. Now I’ve got to leave!” he insisted, rushing up the street toward his house. “And stick to the story!”

  A few moments later, a crowd of people turned the corner and hurried toward Dooley’s house, their path through the deep night lit with a host of torches and oil lamps that illuminated the trees with a demonic orange glow as if they were on fire. Dooley swallowed hard, awaiting their arrival with dizzying thoughts.

  With a trembling hand, Katherine shook Nicholas’ shoulder. “Wake up! You have to get out of here right away.” She held a flickering candle in her other hand which cast ghostly shadows in the ice cellar.

  “Huh?” Nicholas opened his eyes, momentarily forgetting where he was. “Katherine? What’s the matter?”

  “You have to leave, Nicholas. Now! You’re not safe here.”

  He sat up in the cold gloom and stretched, his head swimming with uneasy sleep. He only now realized the toll that exhaustion had taken on his body. “How long have I been out? I only wanted to close my eyes for a minute. I was so tired.”

  “You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours. And as much as I hate to send you away, Nicholas, I’m afraid I must for your own sake.”

  He noted the fear in Katherine’s eyes and the strain in her voice. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  She knelt in front of him, the candle unsteady in her quivering hand. “Word is all over town, Nicholas. There’s been a murder about half an hour ago inside Dooley Kramer’s house.”

  A sickening chill shot up his back. “Dooley Kramer is dead? I can’t believe it.”

  “Dooley wasn’t murdered, Nicholas. Arthur Weeks was. He was stabbed while visiting with Dooley. At least that’s the latest rumor floating around upstairs.” Katherine brushed some hair out of her eyes. “There’s a search party looking everywhere in the village for the culprit.”

  Nicholas couldn’t believe what he was hearing as he tried to shake the last bits of sleep out of his head. “Who did it, Katherine? Who killed Arthur?”

  She gently touched his hand. “You, Nicholas. They think you did it.”

  “Me!” He jumped to his feet. “Why, I’ve been down here for hours. How could I have killed him?”

  “You couldn’t have,” she said. “I know so, but Dooley claims that you attacked Arthur in revenge for implicating you in the gristmill robbery.”

&
nbsp; Nicholas rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I seem to be getting all sorts of crimes blamed on me tonight. What a Harvest Festival this turned out to be.”

  Katherine explained the details of what she had heard while Nicholas listened in stunned silence. A few hours ago he thought his world had come crashing down upon him, sending him to the lowest point possible. And now this. Could it get any worse?

  He paced uneasily after Katherine finished and then leaned his arms on a stack of ice, burying his head between them. He remained silent for a few moments as Katherine looked on. “Why is this happening to me? I only wanted a little adventure in my life, not–this.” He turned to Katherine. “A while ago I could have strangled Arthur Weeks for lying about me, but now he’s dead. And now Dooley is lying about me too, accusing me of the murder. What’s going on?” he asked, almost pleading with Katherine to provide him with the truth that neither one could possibly know.

  “I wish I had an answer, Nicholas, but I don’t. I’m as puzzled as you are.”

  He looked about in the swirl of shadows, trying to collect his thoughts. “I was thinking about turning myself in, figuring that Constable Brindle would find out who really robbed the gristmill. That would be the right thing to do, Katherine. But now…”

  Katherine set the candle down and grabbed Nicholas by the shoulders. “But now we’re talking about murder. We both know you’re innocent, Nicholas, but proving it is another thing. Someone is framing you, and Dooley and Arthur are involved.”

  “Arthur’s dead now.”

  “Exactly. And I don’t want you to be next!” She held Nicholas’s face and looked directly into his eyes. “Forget about what you should do, Nicholas, and think about your life. I don’t want you to end up a corpse like Arthur Weeks. You may not be able to think straight right now, but I can. Let me think for you.”

  He nodded. Katherine took his hands and they both knelt in the shadows. “I think you should leave Kanesbury,” she whispered. “For your own good.” Nicholas was about to protest, but she placed a finger to his lips. “I know you think you’re running away, but I’m trying to save your life.”