"I didn't do it," muttered Fergie, and he turned to see what had made the noise. A book had fallen off one of the piles. Curious, Fergie ambled over and picked it up. It was a small, square book bound in watered blue silk. The gold letters on the spine said Budge's Heraldry. Fergie flipped the cover back, and on the flyleaf he saw a name and a date: Zebulon Windrow July 5, 1897.
"Hey, professor!" Fergie said loudly. "This's a book about heraldry, an' it used to belong to Zebulon Windrow—you know, the old nutcake that built this place?"
"Well, isn't that charming!" said the professor sourly. "Bring the book along, and you can read yourself to sleep with it when we get back to the hotel tonight. Come on. As you can see, there is a large window at the far end of the room, but it's as black as pitch. I had forgotten that you need sunlight or moonlight to see the details—stupid of me, eh? Let's get going."
Fergie tucked the book under his arm and moved toward the door. He watched as the professor flicked the switch and the room was plunged into darkness again. But just as they were about to turn on their flashlights, something happened. A faint glow of moonlight suddenly spread over the window, and it revealed the picture of a young man in an old-fashioned naval uniform with a double row of buttons and fringed epaulets. He had a cocked hat under his arm, and he looked very stiff and pompous. Around the picture was a wide oval border, and in the border was an inscription: ENSIGN FRENCH IS THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELER. The picture glowed for only a few seconds, and then it went dark.
"Hmph!" said the professor as he snapped his flashlight on. "If that doesn't just beat everything! You know, Byron, while you were looking at that heraldry book, I was leafing through a couple of books on one stack. Both were copies of The Unfortunate Traveler, a book by an old writer named Thomas Nashe. So you see, there really is a pattern of U.T. clues leading to the Urim and the Thummim. It's not just a lot of folderol invented by Charley Coote and me."
Silently, Fergie added that U.T. might stand for Ugly Twerp. But he didn't argue—he turned on his light and followed the professor out the door. A stiff wind was blowing, and the fog was starting to break up. Tattered shreds of mist swirled around the church's pinnacles and tall steeple. Fergie and the professor left the driveway and padded across the wet grass toward the small stone porch that was stuck onto one side of the church. Inside the porch they found a large wooden door with a twisted ring of wrought iron hanging from it. This one's gotta be locked! thought Fergie, but when the professor twisted the ring to the right, a hidden latch clicked and the door swung inward. For a couple of seconds the professor paused, with his hand on the iron ring. Fergie heard him muttering, and he thought that he was saying a prayer. Then the old man gave the door a hard shove, and they went inside.
CHAPTER NINE
Fergie played the strong beam of his red searchlight around the enormous, dark church. Above them was a vaulted stone ceiling, and two rows of pointed arches marched down the nave toward the altar at the eastern end. Several tall scaffolds made of iron pipes and boards stood throughout the room. And there were whitewash buckets, bags of cement, and tool chests, signs that work had been going on. Fergie looked around in awe, but the professor was in a brisk and businesslike mood. Handing the tool bag to Fergie, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a dog-eared booklet—it was the guide to the Windrow estate.
"Now then!" barked the professor as he trained the beam of his flashlight on the book. "It seems that this church is not an exact replica of Salisbury Cathedral. There is no crypt in the original church, but there's one in this building, and as you well know, that's where we're going. Hrumph! The entrance to the crypt is behind the main altar at the eastern end of the church. Come on!"
They walked down the middle of the dark church and up a short flight of steps to the altar, which consisted of an oblong block of stone with a bronze cross and two candlesticks on it. Behind the altar Fergie and the professor found a gaping hole in the floor. Near it lay a stone slab and the crowbar that had been used to pry the stone out.
The professor chuckled grimly as he swung the flashlight's beam down into the blackness. "Well, well, well!" he said. "These workmen have been extremely helpful to us, so far. Maybe they had work to do down there. There are stone steps too! How very convenient! Look out below, you ghosts and goblins! We're coming down!"
Fergie glanced skeptically at the professor. He knew why his friend was being so loud and joking. He was scared. But Fergie said nothing. He just got a firm grip on the handle of his searchlight and followed the professor down into the blackness. Fergie counted thirty-nine steps until they reached the bottom and walked onto a slippery marble floor. It was very dark, but the searchlight showed a long whitewashed tunnel that stretched away into the distance. Slowly they began to move along. After every few steps the professor would stop and play the beam of his small flashlight over the walls on both sides of them. Fergie saw that there were white marble tablets set in the walls. Each one was about three feet square and had a name carved on it. Fergie didn't need to be told that there was probably a coffin behind each slab. He read some of the names: ULYSSES THEODORE WINDROW l858-l9l0; SYMPHOROSA WINDROW l882-l920; UTHER TINTAGEL WINDROW 1858-1900.
"Here they all sleep, the members of the nasty and sinister Windrow clan," muttered the professor. "As you can see, some of them died before this church was built, sometime between 1900 and 1909. Old Zeb must've dug the bodies up out of whatever cemetery they were planted in, so he could bury them here. Yuck! What a weird old patootie he must've been! I wonder where his tomb is. . . ."
The professor's voice trailed off. He had stopped before a black doorway that was set in one of the side walls of the tunnel. The arch that framed the doorway was made of veined reddish marble, and on the lintel was a carving that showed a jawless skull between two hourglasses. Below the skull was a stone banner with some Latin words on it: PENETRANS AD INTERIORA MORTIS.
"Heavenly days!" exclaimed the professor, taking a step backward. "I knew Zeb was an odd duck, but this really takes the cake! Can you imagine anyone putting up a doorway like this in a family tomb? The Latin phrase means penetrating to the heart of death. It's not the sort of thing you normally find inscribed in a crypt. I wonder . . ."
Again his voice died away. He moved the light a bit to the left, and saw a greenish bronze plaque with a fancy scrolled border. The plaque said:
In the Lower Crypt are interred
the remains of
Ensign U. T. French
Mr. Elijah Rehoboam Windrow
Miss Ursula Tench Windrow
Rev. Zimri K. H. Windrow
"Hey!" Fergie exclaimed. "There he is! Ensign French!"
The professor shivered a little. An icy draft was coming from the black doorway, and it made him feel uneasy. Actually, he was more than just uneasy—a strange panic was rising inside him. He did not want to step down into that freezing darkness—but he knew that he was going to. The thought of Johnny lying still and cold under a white sheet made him summon up all his cranky courage. He had to go down there, if all the legions of hell were blocking the way.
"Well, Byron," he said in a voice that trembled, "are you . . . ready?"
Fergie grinned and shrugged carelessly. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready if you are. But the way the air feels, this's more like a walk-in cooler than a burial vault. Maybe it's the place where the workmen keep their beer cold."
The professor said nothing. He strode forward boldly and flashed his light into the yawning black pit. Broad, worn steps stretched away before them. After a brief hesitation they started down. The flight of stairs began to curve to the left almost immediately, and it turned into a spiral that wound around and around endlessly. The farther down they went, the colder it got, but there was something more than cold here—there was an evil, brooding stillness that weighed on their hearts, filling them with despair. Fergie wanted to say clever, witty things, but they stuck in his throat. The professor just stumped doggedly on, moving his flashlight mechan
ically back and forth. After many turns and countless steps, they passed under a low arch and came out onto a flat, gravelly surface. A dark, empty space opened up all around them, and the searchlight's beam moved over a forest of white pillars. Fergie gaped, and so did the professor—these pillars did not seem to be hand hewn; they were more like stalagmites in a cave, and they sparkled like snow. Fergie moved the beam up, and he saw that the pillars widened out at the top and merged with the ceiling, which was made of the same white, glittery stuff as the pillars.
"My Lord!" said the professor in an awestruck voice. He stepped forward, moving his light over the rough floor they were standing on. Glimmering patches of ice lay among the columns. "Byron," he went on in a wary, nervous voice, "there's something very wrong here. This is not a crypt. It's a cave, and . . ." He paused and stepped forward, wet his finger, and swept it across one of the columns. Then—to Fergie's amazement—he put the tip of his finger in his mouth.
"Hmm . . . hah!" said the professor as he licked his lips. "Exactly as I thought! These are pillars of salt!. And that ceiling overhead is a salt dome. We're surrounded by tons and tons of good old sodium chloride! How about that?"
Fergie was utterly dumbfounded. "Then ... then how come that sign said this was a crypt? What the heck's goin' on, anyway?"
"I'd really love to know, my friend," said the professor quietly. As he spoke, his breath spewed out in clouds—it was cold, bitterly cold. "I do know one thing, though," he added, turning to Fergie. "This place has a very evil feel, and if we are smart, we will just turn around and skedaddle as fast as we can."
Fergie nodded—he didn't need to be persuaded. Together they started back up the steps. As they climbed, Fergie was amazed at how tired he was getting. Sweat streamed down his face and he was gasping for breath. It shouldn't be all this hard, he thought, it really shouldn't! I'm in pretty good shape. Maybe it's the air or something. . . .
Fergie stopped. He had to, or he was going to collapse.
"How're . . . you doing?" gasped the professor as he struggled up to the step that Fergie was standing on.
"Don't . . . even . . . ask!" muttered Fergie. He set down the tool bag and wiped his face with his sleeve. "How . . . how much farther is it . . . anyway?"
The professor shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I think we must be almost there. I mean, we really didn't come down that many . . ."
The professor's voice died away, and he looked at his flashlight. To his horror, he saw that the light was slowly fading, the bright glare dwindling to a yellow pinpoint. Fergie's light was going out too. They stood dead still in the darkness. Suddenly they heard a rushing, booming sound that came from far above. The sound grew steadily louder—it was like a violent wind roaring through the staircase tunnel. Something hurtled past Fergie and the professor, flinging them against the tunnel wall. Fergie's searchlight flew out of his hands and clattered against the rough stone. The tool bag and the professor's flashlight went rolling noisily along with it. The booming sound faded out into the distance and was gone. Then silence fell, and two figures lay still on the cold steps.
CHAPTER TEN
It was a long time before either Fergie or the professor moved. Finally Fergie dragged himself to his feet. His legs felt wobbly, but his head was clear. The professor was struggling to stand up. Fergie heard him snort and swear under his breath. That was a good sign—if he was in a lousy temper, that meant he was okay.
"By the old Harry!" the professor growled. "Something came past us like an express train, but . . . but what on earth was it? And where are our flashlights?"
Fergie knelt down and groped on the hard, flinty steps. Finally his hands closed around the old sealed-beam searchlight. He fumbled for the switch, and after jerking it back and forth several times, he got the light to come on. But it was a pale, yellowish glow, not the usual dazzling-white ray.
"Hey, what's wrong?" muttered Fergie. "It's not workin' the way it's s'posed to!"
"This is an evil place, that's what's wrong!" snapped the professor. "I think that the sooner we clear out, the better, so if you can help me locate my flashlight and the tool bag, we'll be on our way."
A few steps farther down they found the tool bag, lying on its side. Near it was the professor's flashlight. After banging it a bit, he got it to come on, but it cast only a weak beam. Up the winding steps the two of them slogged, and after a few more turns they finally made it to the top. The vault with its square tomb slabs was not a terribly cheery place, but Fergie and the professor were very glad to see it. And they were delighted when—quite suddenly—their lights began to burn more brightly again.
"What . . . what d'we do now?" Fergie gasped as he stumbled out into the long, cool tunnel.
The professor set down his tool bag and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. "I wish I knew," he said wearily. "Ensign French's tomb was supposed to be down in that evil hole, but it is clear now that that sign was set up to deceive us. It's a blasted lie!" The professor began to grow tense and angry, but he forced himself to calm down. There was still a chance that Ensign French's tomb might be here somewhere, and if it was, they had to find it. Fergie and the professor plodded down the length of the tunnel, flashing the beams of their lights over the ghostly white marble tomb slabs. At the far end they stopped before a slab that stood about two feet above the level of the floor. It read:
ENS. ULYSSES THEODORE FRENCH
1873-1909
Ensign French Is the Boss
"Crowbar, please," said the professor grimly as he held out his hand.
Fergie dug his hand into the satchel and came up with the small crowbar. With a muttered curse, the professor snatched it from him and began prying at one side of the slab. Almost immediately it began to move. The professor slid the bar up and pried a little more, and the slab fell forward out of its niche. Springing nimbly backward, the professor let the slab crash on the tunnel floor. He raised his flashlight and looked. There was nothing behind the slab but gray granite blocks, firmly mortared together. The tomb slab had been a fake.
"Well, that's about it, isn't it?" said the professor bitterly as he turned and started walking back toward the entrance to the vault. "There's nothing to do but go back to that wretched hotel and while away the rest of the evening. Tomorrow I suppose I'll have to call up Johnny's grandparents and . . . and see how he is." The professor's voice was beginning to crack, and he seemed to be on the verge of crying. Fergie glanced at him sympathetically. He liked to pretend that he was tough, but he felt awful right now.
"It's okay, professor," he said in a choked-up voice. "I mean, we tried, didn't we?"
"It's not okay!" muttered the professor through his teeth. "And if you don't mind, I don't want to talk right now. Let's just clear out."
They went up the steps and down the length of the dark, echoing church. When they opened the side door and stepped out, they saw that the fog had all blown away, and the stars were out. The cold air felt good after the clammy closeness of the church's crypt, but fresh cold air couldn't revive the spirits of Fergie and the professor. They felt miserable and defeated. They got into the car and drove off, and neither one of them said a word until they pulled into a parking place in the Van Twiller town square. Gloom hung over them like a mantle of fog.
Back up in their hotel room, Fergie and the professor did what they could to cheer themselves up. They felt very dirty, and decided to bathe. Since they couldn't agree who'd go first, they flipped a coin, and the professor won. While the old man scrubbed and sang bits of Latin hymns, Fergie stripped off his clothes and put on his bathrobe. He went to the tool bag, unzipped the top, and took out the book on heraldry that he had removed from Zebulon Windrow's library. Sitting down on his bed, he turned on the lamp and began to leaf through the pages. The book turned out to be fairly interesting. Fergie was nuts about history, and he had always been fascinated by the strange designs that medieval knights wore on their shields. The book had pages of full-color illustrations showi
ng many different designs and naming each one. Some of the names were pretty silly: There was cheeky and gyronny, paly wavy, and barry dancetty. Fergie couldn't help laughing at these names, and he began to wonder if there were designs called jumpy-bumpy or dipsy-doodly.
Finally the bathroom door opened and the professor came out. He was amused to see that Fergie was reading the heraldry book, and he sat down on the bed for a second to peer over his friend's shoulder. In one corner of a page the professor noticed a shield that was quite famous: It showed three silver lilies on a dark-blue field. This was the shield that the kings of France had used at one time. But there was an older shield, that French kings had carried into battle way back in the Middle Ages. What was it called? The professor tried to remember, but the name wouldn't come. And just as he was about to open his mouth to ask Fergie if he knew, Fergie slammed the book shut and made a beeline for the bathroom.
When Fergie lowered himself into the tub, the hot water felt wonderful. He soaped himself and hummed, and closed his eyes and tried to imagine that everything was all right. But then he thought of Johnny, and gloom descended on him again. Their great mission had failed, and now Johnny was probably going to die. Fergie felt absolutely helpless. What could he do? What could anyone do? He thought about the dead dog, and the nightmarish salt caves, and the fake tomb of Ensign French. There was something evil out at the Windrow estate, something that seemed to be lurking in the shadows and laughing at them. Was there a ghost? He didn't know, but he did know that every clue they had followed had led them to a dead end. They had lost, and they might as well pack up and go home.
After he had finished his bath, Fergie put his terry-cloth robe on and padded back to the bedroom. The professor was in his pajamas, sitting at the oval table near the window. He had set up his peg chess set, and he had pulled up a chair for Fergie.
Revenge of the Wizard's Ghost Page 6