The Bluebeard Room

by Carolyn Keene

  “Oh, yes! I’m glad you did, Aunt Eloise.” Nancy suddenly turned serious. “Which reminds me of something else. What’s the name of that bookstore in Greenwich Village . . . ?”

  “Which bookstore, dear?”

  “The occult one, where you got me that book about the lore of the mandrake root. Afterward, when I was trying to find more information, the proprietor went to all sorts of trouble to help me.”

  “Nigel Murgatroyd, you mean, and his shop’s called Merlin’s Den. He’s an elderly Englishman—worked as an archeologist, I understand. A really interesting fellow! But why do you ask, dear?”

  “I’d like to go see him today and . . . look around his shop,” Nancy ended vaguely.

  “Don’t tell us you’re onto another mystery case?”

  The teen sleuth smiled and shrugged off George’s question. “Not exactly . . . or not yet, anyhow.”

  “But I thought we were going shopping,” Bess protested.

  “You two go ahead and I’ll join you for lunch at Bloomie’s at noon. We’ll still have the whole afternoon.”

  The three girls caught a southbound Broadway-Seventh Avenue subway train. Bess and George got off at 50th Street, within walking distance of Rockefeller Center and the glamorous Fifth Avenue window-shopping milieu. Nancy rode on downtown to the Village.

  Merlin’s Den was a dark hole-in-the-wall shop with little hint outside of the mysterious treasures within.

  Unlike some of Manhattan’s trendier occult bookstores, this one offered no tarot cards, Ouija boards or herbal displays. But its shelves were stocked with a vast array of arcane volumes, many of them rare and long out of print.

  An immensely fat man with a gray mustache and goatee came forward. “May I help you, Miss?” His lively amber eyes narrowed in a frown of puzzled interest. “I say, have we met before?”

  Nancy’s own sapphire-blue eyes twinkled back at him. “No, but we’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Nancy Drew.”

  “Ah! Hello Miss Drew! How wonderful finally to meet you.”

  As he squeezed her hand warmly, she went on, “I happen to be in New York and need some more information, so I thought I’d stop in and avail myself again of your vast knowledge of the occult.”

  Nancy’s formal little speech seemed to strike just the right note.

  “How charming, how delightful!” the fat bookman beamed. “I can’t imagine anything that would delight me more on this lovely summer’s day!”

  He insisted on drawing her back into the dim, cool recesses of his crowded store, toward a corner containing his littered rolltop desk, office chair and an ancient, chintz-covered rocker.

  He sat Nancy down on the rocker, made some tea, then said, “Now, tell me your problem!”

  The titian-haired teenager opened her shoulder bag and fished out the tiny arrowhead that had fallen from Mrs. Harwood’s airmail letter.

  The effect on Nigel Murgatroyd was striking. His eyes widened and he caught his breath sharply. He picked up the small object from Nancy’s open palm, grasping it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were some live, poisonous specimen.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “I think so. It was sent to a friend of mine.”

  “From England? . . . But yes, of course—it must have been. . . . Well, my dear, as you’ve doubtless guessed, this is what’s called an elf-dart or elf-bolt. A peculiarly British witch-weapon.”

  “Meant to do harm? . . . Psychological harm?”

  “Oh, definitely! But not just psychological. These deadly little toys have been known to kill.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Murgatroyd shrugged. “If one believes in them, at any rate. Even if one doesn’t, they often lead to dire results, it would seem. For instance, Mary, Queen of Scots’ foreign lover, Rizzio, and her second husband, Lord Darnley, were both targets of elf-darts shortly before they were murdered.”

  Nancy shivered in spite of her common sense.

  The bookshop owner went on, “Any way you look at it, my dear, this little stone arrowhead is a nasty bit of work. You may take it from me—someone wishes your friend evil.”

  Nancy was silent a moment as she returned it to her handbag. “And who might have sent my friend such a thing? . . . A modern witch?”

  He nodded, frowning. “That’s the likeliest answer. In olden times, it was the faerie folk—the little people—who supposedly zinged them at anyone they didn’t like. The victim was said to be elfshot. But later on it was usually witches who were accused of using elf-bolts. You’ll find them mentioned again and again in accounts of the witch trials.”

  “What can you tell me about witches, Mr. Murgatroyd?”

  “Well, even today, historians and anthropologists aren’t quite sure what to make of witchcraft. Some say it’s what’s left of the old religion that the early peoples of Europe believed in before they were converted to Christianity. Wicca is what the witches themselves call their craft. They believe they’re making use of the forces of nature to help or harm people. The good ones practice ‘white magic.’ Elf-darts, needless to say, are examples of ‘black magic.’ ”

  “You believe witchcraft still exists?” Nancy asked.

  “No doubt about that, my dear. I’ve personally witnessed witchcraft rites. And in the British Isles, I can assure you there are witch covens that have existed secretly for hundreds of years, even during times when belonging to one might result in being burned at the stake.”

  The fat man rose and fetched a book from one of the shelves. “Here, read this. It should answer any questions you may have on the subject.”

  Nancy glanced at the book’s spine curiously and turned to the title page. Wicca: The Way of Wisdom. It had been printed at Oxford in 1907.

  “How much do I owe you for this?”

  Nigel Murgatroyd looked hurt. He raised a pudgy hand. “My dear Miss Drew, how can you ask? It’s my very great pleasure to assist America’s most attractive young mystery-solver!”

  Bess and George were both flushed with excitement when Nancy joined them for lunch at Bloomingdale’s.

  “Ohmigosh, Nan! You should see the goodies they have on display here!” Bess exclaimed.

  “Out of this world!” George confirmed. “I can easily imagine shoppers having a mental breakdown trying to decide what to buy!”

  “In that case,” Nancy laughed, “save your money and avoid the risk.”

  By the time the trio returned to Aunt Eloise’s apartment, all three were laden with parcels.

  Nancy giggled as her aunt cocked an amused eyebrow at their purchases. “Bawl them out for extravagance, Aunt Ellie—I have an excuse.”

  “Indeed? You must tell me about it—but later, please, after I’ve fortified myself with a sip of the homemade blackberry cordial Hannah sent me.”

  Hannah Gruen was the Drews’ housekeeper, who had cared for Nancy devotedly ever since the untimely death of Mrs. Drew when Nancy was only three.

  “In the meantime,” Eloise Drew said as she picked up a plain brown envelope, “here’s something that came for you this afternoon.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Nancy. “What’s in it?”

  “Haven’t the vaguest idea. It came by messenger.”

  Nancy was puzzled as she saw the writing on the envelope. One address had been crossed out and another substituted. “How odd. This was first sent to that house on Long Island where the party was held, and then re-directed here, Aunt Eloise.”

  “Yes, so I noticed.”

  There was, however, no return address. Nancy opened the envelope and plucked out the contents.

  “Well, come on! Don’t keep us in suspense!” begged Bess, intrigued by the astonished look on her friend’s face. “What is it?”

  “Three tickets to the Crowned Heads farewell concert at Madison Square Garden!”

  4

  Rock Idol

  “The Crowned Heads concert!” Bess’s plump cheeks were suddenly pink with fresh excitem
ent.

  Nancy nodded, trying not to betray the fact that her own pulse had quickened. “Don’t ask me how good the seats are, though. I’m not too sure what these letters and numbers stand for.”

  “May I see?” asked George, who knew the Garden seating plan from a previous rock concert. “Hey! These are front row center!”

  She stared breathlessly at her titian-haired chum. “Nancy dear, do I get a teeny-weeny impression that three seats mean Bess and I are included in the invitation?”

  “Certainly looks that way. Unless Aunt El—”

  Miss Drew thrust out her hands in protest. “Don’t look at me, you all! My darling niece knows very well I’m no rock fan!”

  “Wow!” cried Bess. “Do you realize Crowned Heads tickets for seats nowhere near as good are being scalped for a hundred bucks apiece?! I heard it on the TV news!”

  “May I ask where these tickets come from,” Aunt Eloise inquired, “if I’m not being too naive?”

  “Three guesses!” laughed Bess, causing Nancy to dimple and blush slightly.

  Her aunt smiled. “Well! You must have made quite an impression on young Mr. Warrick.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know one thing,” said Nancy, eager to change the subject.

  “Oh yeah? Like what?” asked George.

  “The concert’s tonight, which means we have about half an hour to eat dinner, shower and get dressed!”

  Frantic activity followed, with the three girls squirming past each other as they ran back and forth between guest room and bathroom.

  “How on earth do you youngsters do it?” Miss Drew wondered aloud. “If I’d just come back from a day’s shopping, I’d be ready for an early bedtime or several hours snoozing in an armchair!”

  “I think Bess must be snoozing in the tub,” complained George. She rapped sharply on the bathroom door. “For heaven’s sake, Bess, please hurry up. You’ve been soaking for ages!”

  “Look who’s talking!” Bess’s voice echoed off the tiled walls. “At least I don’t spend hours admiring myself in the bathroom mirror!”

  “Naturally,” George retorted, “since you have so little to admire!”

  Nancy giggled, knowing their insults were all in fun.

  Later, Nancy had just finished putting on her earrings and touching up her lip gloss when she remembered about Mrs. Harwood. “Oh dear, I must call Mrs. Harwood before we go!”

  Bess glanced fretfully at her watch. “Must you, Nancy? We haven’t much time if we want to be on time for the concert!”

  “It’ll be too late to phone by the time we get back. Don’t worry, I’ll make it brief. Only I must call Daddy, too.”

  “Why?” asked George.

  “To let him know I may be going to England.”

  There were gasps of surprise.

  “And that’s another reason why you two should try to get along,” Nancy added with a teasing grin. “You may have only each other’s company on the plane home tomorrow!”

  Turning to her aunt, the teenager asked, “Okay if I use the phone, Aunt Eloise?”

  “Of course, my dear. So this was your excuse for all the clothes-shopping this afternoon?”

  “You’ve guessed it,” Nancy twinkled.

  The Drews’ housekeeper answered Nancy’s call to River Heights. “Oh, Nancy, how good to hear from you! Are you having fun in New York?”

  “Loads, Hannah! And I found one of those woks in the size you wanted, in Chinatown. It’s being shipped out right from the store.”

  After a further fond exchange between the two, Nancy’s father, the distinguished attorney Carson Drew, came on the line.

  “How was the law seminar, Dad?” Nancy asked.

  “Stuffy, but I dare say we all learned a few things. What’s going on in Manhattan?”

  “A rock concert tonight, as a matter of fact, so I must make this quick. You may not be seeing me at dinner tomorrow, Daddy.” Nancy told him about Mrs. Harwood’s unusual request. “I wasn’t keen on going at first, but now I think I will.”

  “By all means do, honey. It should be a real summer treat. I know how much you like London, and Cornwall’s the loveliest corner of England.”

  “What bothers me is not telling Lisa my real reason for coming. I hate the thought of snooping on her and her husband.”

  “If she herself invites you to Cornwall for a visit, I think your conscience can be clear.”

  “I hope so. Daddy, you’ve known Mrs. Harwood for years. What’s your opinion of her?”

  “Very level-headed, or so she always seemed to me. Takes after her father, old Sam Austin. He was a banker here in River Heights, you know. As a matter of fact, I helped draw up the terms of the trust fund when he left most of his fortune to Lisa.”

  “Really? Mrs. Harwood says if anything happened to Lisa, all her money would go to Hugh Penvellyn. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I assume so, now that she’s twenty-one, unless—Hmm . . .” Mr. Drew’s voice trailed off.

  “Are you there, Dad?”

  “Yes, I was just racking my memory . . . Seems to me there might be some special clause in the terms of the trust that could prevent it, but I’m hanged if I can remember what it was, at the moment.”

  “Never mind, you can let me know later, Daddy. Thanks for the information. We’re in kind of a hurry, so I’d better sign off now. Lots of love!”

  Next, Nancy called Olive Harwood and told her she was prepared to go to England.

  “Oh Nancy, I’m so glad to hear that! How soon?”

  “Whenever you like. Tomorrow even, if it’s possible to get a flight on such short notice.”

  “I’m sure it is. My travel agent’s marvelous,” Mrs. Harwood replied. “She seems to have a sixth sense for ferreting out cancellations.”

  “Great! I’ll be standing by.”

  “I’ll have her book you a room at Claridge’s in London, so Lisa will know where to reach you. Incidentally, I called her yesterday, right after we talked. I wanted to let her know as soon as possible that you might be coming.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She was delighted! She’s just dying to see someone from back home, especially an old friend like you. She thinks so much of you, Nancy!”

  “Well, I feel the same way about Lisa, so I’ll look forward to seeing her again, Mrs. Harwood.”

  Nancy hung up, excited by the thought of her upcoming trip abroad and hoping she’d made the right decision. George and Bess were waiting to whisk her out the door.

  The girls had no trouble flagging a cab and were soon whizzing down Broadway. At Times Square in the glittering heart of the theater district, the taxi turned onto Seventh Avenue. Traffic was already very heavy. By the time their driver turned right toward the round, glowing modernistic bulk of Madison Square Garden, everything had slowed to a crawl.

  “Good grief! Is it always like this on a concert night?” Bess gulped as they got out and paid the driver.

  “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, Miss,” he said. “Wait’ll you try to get in!”

  The streets were flooded with a surging, boisterous sea of humanity. Policemen struggled to keep order, while vendors hawked their wares from the curb or mingled with the crowd, peddling T-shirts, programs, posters, photos, lapel pins, dolls, and a variety of other souvenirs.

  Amazingly, everyone was in good humor. Even back in placid River Heights, Nancy would have expected an occasional outburst of temper from an overflow crowd. But here the rock fans seemed as patient and cheerful as if they were all old friends.

  Patience was certainly needed. The lines inched their way into the auditorium as attendants stationed at half a dozen points checked tickets.

  For the first time since receiving the complimentary tickets, Nancy had time to think about what they implied. The eager, keyed-up fans all around her showed how much excitement Lance Warrick and his group generated. The rock king was besieged by girls whenever he appeared in public.

  Was it rea
lly possible that she had attracted the star’s interest just by their brief encounter at the garden party? The thought was certainly flattering!

  An Australian backup group, the Didgeridoo, performed first to warm up the audience. Not that any warmup was needed. When the curtains finally rose on the Crowned Heads amid a blaze of psychedelic strobe lights, the whole auditorium seemed to explode!

  The storm of applause sank to a pregnant hush as the music came on with a soul-haunted beat. Lance seemed content at first to stand in one spot and pluck his guitar delicately, as though deep in meditation.

  But gradually he began to slink back and forth across the stage, twanging more insistently, putting a harder, funkier edge on the music. He was dressed like a futuristic highwayman, in a cocked hat and glittering blue metallic tights, with pistol bandoliers across his bare chest and his legs encased in silver boots.

  Sweat beaded his forehead as the music grew louder and his voice rose to a hoarse shout. At times he seemed to be threatening or sneering at the audience, at others, cajoling or making love to it.

  When not playing his guitar or taking a quick turn at the synthesizer, he would clutch a portable mike with manic intensity and yell out fresh choruses, all the while prancing, stomping or pirouetting about the stage, occasionally leaping and twirling high in the air.

  Barely ten minutes into the concert, the audience was clapping and stamping its feet. And the Crowned Heads gave them no chance to relax. They segued from number to number with scarcely a pause.

  But it was Lance Warrick who held the audience mesmerized. He seemed to play on his fans’ emotions as easily as he twanged out chords on his guitar. At times Nancy felt certain he was playing and singing especially to her.

  From the corner of her eye, she stole a swift glance at her girl friends. Both Bess and George were staring at the rock king entranced, their eyes wide open, lips slightly parted.

  With a shock, Nancy realized that she had been doing the same thing herself!

  Snap out of it! she chided herself jokingly. The guy’s a mere human. He’s just putting on a show.

  But what a show! Dazzling costume changes—highwayman to Indian chief to starship trooper to medieval troubadour—combined with special effects left the audience gasping. Camera crews could be seen taping the show for a rock video.