The Witchmaster's Key

by Franklin W. Dixon

  CHAPTER VI

  The Missing Marquis

  NIP galloped up, grabbed the bridle of Milton’s mount, and forced it to swing wide, brushing Frank and knocking him over. Both horses halted.

  Milton Craighead mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I lost control,” he said in a shaky voice. “I hope you’re not hurt.”

  Frank scrambled to his feet. “Only a few bruises,” he reported.

  “That’s fortunate.” Craighead seemed relieved. “Nip, let’s get after Midnight.”

  The pursuers cornered the runaway in an angle of the stone wall. Nip threw a rope over its neck and led it back to the corral. While Milton made sure the gate was fastened, Frank and Joe had a quick conversation with Nip Hadley.

  “Thanks for the assist,” Frank said.

  Joe stressed the point. “You probably saved Frank’s life, Nip. We’ll do anything we can to help you. Just tell us what you know about the fire-bombing in Eagleton Green.”

  “I can’t talk now,” Nip replied uneasily. “I’ll see you later and bring those things you need.”

  Milton finished with the gate and walked toward them. “It’s securely fastened now,” he said. “If that horse escapes again, I’ll want to know the reason why. Nip, keep an eye on all strangers.”

  Frank and Joe inferred that this was an invitation for them to leave the Craighead estate. They went back to the professor’s, where they discussed their visit.

  Why was Milton Craighead hostile toward them? Had he really lost control of his mount? Or was he trying to run Frank down?

  The Hardys wondered. The case was becoming more and more mysterious.

  Nip rode up later with the ingredients for the plaster cast in his saddle bags. Saying he couldn’t wait because Craighead wanted him to break in a new horse, he emptied the bags quickly and rode off.

  Frank and Joe went to the Witch Museum, made their way to the sub-basement with a container of water and got ready to make a cast of the hollowed-out part of the wall. They had often lifted impressions of footprints and tire tracks. In fact, they had devised the Hardy Plaster-Cast Kit, made up of the items they had asked Nip to bring.

  Joe covered the break in the wall with plastic spray to firm up the dust and broken particles. He poured some water into the plaster of Paris, and stirred the paste to the proper consistency.

  Then he pressed some into the depression with the stick. When it became firm enough, Frank inserted small bits of wood to fortify the cast as it solidified. Then he added the remaining plaster.

  When it had dried sufficiently, Frank pried out the cast with his pocketknife and laid it on the floor. They now had an impression of the object that had been concealed in the wall. It seemed to be a straight cylindrical object about eight inches long and half an inch wide.

  “Could have been an iron bar,” Frank said. “But there’s a loop at one end and a wedge at the other. Professor Rowbotham might be able to identify it.”

  They took the plaster cast to the house. Rowbotham inspected it carefully.

  “Ah–ah, this appears to be the impression of a key. A very old, very ornate, very large key.”

  “A key to what?” Joe asked.

  “As to that, I cannot say. But such keys were used in English castles long ago.”

  “Craighead Castle!” Frank blurted. “It may open a door in Craighead Castle!”

  “Possibly,” Rowbotham agreed. “However, you cannot get in there. Milton Craighead does not like strangers.”

  “We know,” Joe said with a dry chuckle.

  “Ah–ah, besides, a mystery hangs over the place.”

  “What mystery, Professor?” Joe asked.

  “The mystery of the missing marquis!”

  Frank and Joe each felt tingles of excitement. Eagerly they urged Rowbotham to go on.

  The professor said that the missing marquis, Lord Craighead, had been a distinguished soldier.

  “Five years ago he announced his intention of visiting his old mates in Dublin. His servants helped him pack. His son, Milton, bade him farewell and he rode away in his car.”

  Rowbotham paused for breath. The Hardys sat motionless, waiting for him to continue.

  “The marquis hasn’t been seen since!”

  “Not a sign of him?” Joe asked.

  “In five years?” Frank exclaimed.

  “Just so,” the professor assured them.

  A shuffling sound outside the door broke into their thoughts. Frank put his finger to his lips. Getting up, he tiptoed across the room, silently turned the knob, and jerked the door open.

  A tall, stooped man with white hair stood outside. He was Sears, Rowbotham’s butler.

  “Were you listening at the door?” Frank demanded.

  “Not at all, sir. I was bringing in the tea.” He lifted a large pot from a tea wagon and placed it on the table.

  Joe, suspicious, questioned Sears closely. “Did you let the thieves into the Witch Museum?”

  “No sir. The robbery took place on my night off.”

  “That’s why I went out to dinner with an old friend,” Rowbotham confirmed.

  After Sears had left, Frank said, “He could have doubled back and met a gang of confederates.”

  “Impossible!” the professor said forcefully. “I trust Sears implicitly.”

  They broke up after tea and the Hardys devised a new strategy. Frank had the first idea.

  “We must have a key made from our plaster cast.”

  “Let’s try Eagleton Green,” Joe suggested. “There must be a locksmith among the artisans.”

  In the village, they walked along the main street and stopped at a gunsmith’s for information.

  He told them to go to the shop of Lance McKnight, the locksmith.

  McKnight was a rough-looking character with a heavy growth of beard. His shop was cluttered and dusty. Swords, daggers, and other weapons hung on the walls and a pile of keys lay on the counter.

  McKnight claimed he could make keys from plaster casts. But when the boys produced theirs, his demeanor changed. He became evasive. “That’s a tough job,” he grumbled.

  “You do tough jobs, don’t you?” Frank asked.

  “Sure. But not that tough. The plaster isn’t right.”

  “It’s the best East Anglia plaster.”

  “Well, the cast is too big.”

  “Why is it too big?” Joe pressured him.

  The keymaker became surly. “Because I say it is. I don’t want the job.”

  They asked if he knew someone else who could do the job.

  “Not here,” McKnight replied. “Possibly in London. See Matthew Hopkins at the East Anglia Inn. He’s a wealthy, well-informed man who knows just about everyone in the city.”

  As they walked back through Eagleton Green, Frank said, “McKnight wasn’t very friendly.”

  “He sure changed his tune when he saw our plaster cast. I can’t figure out why.”

  At the East Anglia Inn, Matthew Hopkins was having dinner. His greeting was friendly, and he listened with interest to the story of how they had made their cast.

  “Yes,” he said, fingering the watch chain across his vest. “I know just the place in London where you can have a key made. It’s in Soho Square. Here, let me write the address on my card.”

  Joe took the card, and the boys thanked him.

  “Don’t mention it,” Hopkins replied in a hearty tone. “I’m always glad to be of any service to our American friends.” He went back to his dinner.

  Frank and Joe returned to the lobby. They saw that one side of the card bore the printed legend: Matthew Hopkins, Real Estate, Berkeley Square, London. On the other side, Hopkins had written: “Marshall Street, Soho, opposite the Medmenham Book Store.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow,” Frank said.

  They took the short route across a wide meadow. Night had fallen, and the sky was cloudy. Leaves rustled as trees bent in the wind.

  The Hardys were in the middle of the field when they
heard a long drawn-out howl that drew rapidly nearer. The howl changed to a ferocious snarl.

  An immense black dog with snapping fangs hurled itself at Joe. The younger Hardy hit the turf. The dog sailed over him, landed on the ground, and vanished into the darkness.

  “Let’s get out of here, fast!” Joe grated as he got up.

  Frank gulped. “I’d just as soon not have another brush with the Hound of the Baskervilles! I guess we’re lucky that he’s obviously trained to frighten only and not to attack!”

  They hastened out of the meadow and back to Rowbotham’s house, where they recounted their adventures in Eagleton Green. When they got to the incident of the dog in the meadow, the professor gasped.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked. “Do you by any chance know who owns the dog?”

  “He didn’t bite Joe,” Frank added. “On the other hand. I doubt that he tried to jump us without being told.”

  The professor nodded. His stammer became more pronounced. “Ah–ah, your tale is–ah–what I might term incredible. A witch dog, the black hound of Norfolk, used to be seen in this part of East Anglia!”

  CHAPTER VII

  Curious Yanks

  “THE Black Hound of Norfolk prowled by night,” Rowbotham explained. “Anybody he bit turned into a witch!”

  Joe shuddered. “Looks as if I had a closer call than we thought. If I hadn’t ducked, I might be a witch right now!”

  Rowbotham smiled wryly. “However,” he went on, “there is genuine history about the witchcraft of East Anglia. And I must tell you that the name Matthew Hopkins is ominous.”

  Frank frowned and protested that he hadn’t noticed anything ominous about the real-estate man from London. Joe agreed.

  “Ah–ah, the point is that there was a man named Matthew Hopkins in the seventeenth century, who called himself the Witch-finder of East Anglia. He investigated those who were suspected of witchcraft. He used what you Americans call the ‘third degree’ to force confessions. And he executed many. You came through Chelmsford on the way to Griffinmoor?”

  “Yes,” Frank answered.

  “Exactly. Well, in the year 1645 Matthew Hopkins hanged nineteen witches in one day at Chelmsford. But that’s not all. When the Witchfinder General died, it came to light that he was a witch himself!”

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “The guy covered himself by pretending he hated witches!”

  Rowbotham chuckled and said that the people of East Anglia were shocked when they learned Hopkins was a witch.

  The Hardys noted that the Matthew Hopkins they were dealing with didn’t look like a witch.

  Rowbotham held up a hand. “Ah–ah, that’s what they thought of the Witchfinder General in Cromwell’s time. You must admit there’s a strange coincidence in the two men having the same name. I would advise you to be careful in dealing with any man called Matthew Hopkins.”

  They were preparing for bed when they heard a scratching sound on the window pane. It was Nip Hadley, who motioned to them to let him in. When Frank threw the window up, Nip slipped over the sill into the room.

  Hurriedly he told them of more sabotage at the Eagleton Green artisan village. He was afraid he might be accused of setting more fires.

  “And I didn’t even set the one at the saddle shop,” he said.

  “Maybe you were framed,” Joe said.

  Nip groaned. “Framed! That’s it! Will you blokes help me?”

  Frank and Joe said they would do what they could to prove his innocence. A sudden thought struck Joe. “Nip, are there any other witch collections around here? The stolen items might have been sold to them.”

  “There ain’t none in East Anglia,” the boy replied. “But there’s one in London. The most famous is the Hall of Magic on the Isle of Man. Well, I’d better be off.”

  Climbing out the window, Nip disappeared.

  “What do you make of that?” Joe asked his brother.

  “I don’t know. Why would anyone want to frame a boy like Nip? Unless it’s just to distract attention from himself.”

  “But why would anyone try to make all this trouble in the artisan village? Whoever it is, he goes through quite a bit of effort with fire bombs and other equipment. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Perhaps it’s a crackpot who gets his kicks out of setting fires,” Frank said.

  At breakfast the next morning, Frank and Joe questioned Professor Rowbotham about the witch collection in London. He told them it was in Soho Square, not far from the Medmenham Book Store, so they could visit both the locksmith and the witch collection on one trip.

  They decided to detour to the train station by way of Doctor Burelli’s office so he could examine Joe’s gum. The dentist reported that everything looked fine.

  “Doc, I’m glad I have your vote of confidence,” Joe declared. “We’re going to London and I’d hate to get a toothache in the big city.”

  “I’ve something you might like to have,” the dentist replied. Opening the trap door behind the dental chair, he climbed down into his workshop. A moment later he reappeared with a couple of masks. The dentist had a droll expression on his face.

  “I detect you detectives are mystified. Well, the Gravesend Players wore these masks onstage last night. I have no further use for them. You might wear them next Halloween, back in the United States.”

  He handed one each to Frank and Joe. They were stretch-type rubber masks with a skin-tight fit. The features were those of two freckle-faced youths.

  “The actors portrayed Scottish boys of about your age,” Burelli explained.

  The Hardys slipped the masks on and stared at the dentist.

  “A perfect fit,” he said. “You could fool your own mother, not to mention the criminals you keep under surveillance.”

  The boys pulled the masks off and pocketed them.

  “Thanks,” Joe said. “Could we fool a witch?”

  Burelli became serious. “I don’t know about a witch. But there’s talk about what you’re up to in Griffinmoor. The Gravesend Players were discussing you backstage last night. They know you were at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral and are investigating the burglary at the Witch Museum.”

  “What do you think?” Frank queried.

  Burelli grinned. “I think you two cover a lot of ground in one big hurry. Better be cautious.”

  Another patient needed attention, so they left the office and caught the London train.

  On arriving, they quickly located Soho Square, the international district of the city. They heard languages from French to Arabic. Chinese merchants peered out of dingy windows. Spanish sailors sauntered past. North African gold speculators conversed among themselves, and sleazy-looking characters buttonholed easy marks.

  “Frank, I have a notion we could buy anything illegal in Soho,” Joe remarked. “Stolen gems, hijacked TV sets—”

  “Forged passports,” Frank finished the sentence. “But there’s Marshall Street and the Medmenham Book Store, and a sign that says ‘Locksmith.’ That’s what we want.”

  A small bell over the door tinkled as they stepped inside. The locksmith was a large, heavyset, jolly man, who guffawed when they showed him their plaster cast.

  “That’s no key! It must have been a piece of scrap the masons dropped into the concrete when it was poured. And even if it was a key, the cast is too rough to work with.”

  Frank and Joe could not convince him to try to make a key. But they did peek into his workshop because the door was ajar. They were fascinated by a suit of armor.

  The locksmith noticed their interest. He said jovially, “Boys, how about minding the shop for me? I have to step out for a minute. Be my guests and look around.”

  They eagerly agreed. As soon as he left, they pushed the door open and went into the workshop. A remarkable sight met their eyes.

  There were several suits of medieval armor. A pair of crossed swords hung on the wall. A crossbow stood in a corner, cocked and ready to fire a steel-tipped arrow. A heads
man’s ax lay on the floor, its wicked blade gleaming in the dim light of a small window overhead. A battleax was balanced in a vise with a file beside it. Darts and daggers littered the workbench.

  Joe stood spellbound. “Frank, this guy must be hipped on medieval weapons!”

  “I’d say he knows as much about them as Richard the Lion-Hearted. He should have been a crusader. Isn’t there anything besides weapons in this room?”

  Just then a noise made them stiffen. Click! The door snapped into place behind them. Whirling, Joe seized the knob and strove to wrestle the lock open. It refused to budge.

  “Frank!” he exclaimed. “We’re locked in! We’re trapped!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Fortuneteller

  FRANK placed the plaster cast for the key on the workbench and tried the door. Like Joe, he failed to get it open.

  “What’s up?” he wondered.

  “Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a joke,” Joe said.

  Frank looked worried. “I think the locksmith is trying to scare us, or something worse.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like keep us prisoners!”

  Joe whistled. “How do we get out of here?”

  They inspected the room. The only exit besides the door was the overhead window.

  “A bat couldn’t get through that,” Joe grumbled.

  “Right,” Frank said. “But I’ve got an idea!” Rapidly he explained his plan. “I hope it works,” he concluded.

  “Might as well give it a try, Frank.”

  They quietly slipped into two suits of armor. The metal felt cold, and the joints creaked as they pushed their hands down the arms into the gauntlets. Now they were completely covered, from the helmets on their heads down to the greaves on their legs and the iron shoes on their feet.

  Joe picked up a spiked ball of the type used in medieval battles.

  “Ready, Frank?”

  “All set!”

  Joe lobbed the ball up in the air and sent it through the window with a crash, showering broken glass and chips of splintered wood.

  They heard it bounce on the pavement outside. There was a sound of rushing feet and a loud buzz of voices.