Most painful of all was an article in a rock magazine that a castle maid brought back from the nearby resort town of St. Ives. It claimed to tell the “inside story” of Lance’s latest sizzling romance and informed its avid readers that the American girl detective, Nancy Drew, had fallen head over heels in love with the rock king in New York and had pursued him across the Atlantic, hoping to wangle a proposal of marriage!
Almost as bad in Nancy’s eyes was the way her stay at Penvellyn Castle was played up and sensationalized. The Golden Mab was dragged in, to hype her detective role. One tabloid even hinted that Lord and Lady Penvellyn might be mixed up in a high-society criminal ring suspected of dealing in stolen art objects!
Another news story, even more startling to Nancy, suggested that she had come to the castle to investigate sordid rumors of a satanic witch cult!
Several press photographers had already made vain trips to the castle. As the day wore on, the phone rang incessantly until Hugh ordered it left off the hook.
There was little doubt in Nancy’s mind who was responsible for the flood of publicity. Hadn’t Lance himself said that Jane Royce was the best press agent in the business? Got a sixth sense for what’ll make the headlines, that girl—she knows how to squeeze every drop of press coverage out of any angle that comes along!
Nancy had to squeeze her eyes shut tight to keep from crying whenever she thought of that night on the town with Lance and the tender way their lips had melted together. Obviously he’d been using her from the very first!
“Nancy dear, you mustn’t let this business about Lance Warrick upset you so,” Lisa crooned. “It’ll blow over as quickly as it started.”
Nancy squeezed her friend’s hand gratefully. At least it was a step in the right direction, she reflected, for Lisa to forget her own troubles.
At one point, Lisa even suggested calling in Ethel Bosinny to give Nancy a soothing massage. “It’s really relaxing, Nancy. Ethel learned physical therapy while she was teaching sports.”
Nancy smiled wanly. “I don’t think so, Lisa, but thanks.”
“All right then, suit yourself,” she said with a playful smile to offset her crisp tone, as if chiding a stubborn child. “But I want you in tip-top shape for my dinner party tonight.”
“Tonight? Good grief, Lisa, why didn’t you warn me! Who’s coming?”
“You might say my only friends in Polpenny. Ethel, for one, and Dr. Carradine, plus the local business tycoon, Ivor Roscoe—‘Squire’ Roscoe, they call him—and his wife, Diane.”
Nancy promptly snapped out of her downbeat mood. The upstairs maid helped her do her hair and laid out her chic black party dress.
Ethel Bosinny, who arrived shortly before seven, evidently had also done her best to dress for the occasion. Gone were her tweed suit and stout brogues, replaced by a livid purple gown almost indecently low cut and a jangly copper necklace. She had even applied lipstick.
Next to appear was Dr. Carradine. Nancy found him easy to talk to and learned that he was a widower.
Ivor and Diane Roscoe arrived last. Diane, a quiet brunette, was younger than her husband and attractive enough to have been a movie star. The squire himself was a heavyset man of forty, with a leonine mane and trim pointed beard.
As they chatted at the candlelit dinner table, the talk turned to Cornwall and its traditions of seafaring and mining. “Ivor, by the way, owns the Polpenny tin mine,” Hugh remarked to Nancy.
“How interesting!” She told the others what she had learned from Colonel Tremayne.
Squire Roscoe nodded. “It was Cornish tin and copper that brought the Bronze Age to Britain. Not much ore being taken out nowadays, though. We exported many of our best miners to America. My father was the last owner to operate the Polpenny mine full-time. Now it’s shut down.”
“Which doesn’t mean Ivor’s retired,” Hugh added with a chuckle. “He runs a London ad agency, along with several other businesses.”
“He’s also active in the arts,” Ethel beamed approvingly. “You must get him or Diane to show you around their private gallery, dear.”
“I’d love that.” The guests had politely avoided any reference to the embarrassing news stories about Nancy. But now she boldly decided to bring up one aspect of those stories herself. Ethel had just given her an opening. “I suppose you’ve seen the Golden Mab at the Tate?” she asked Roscoe. “I’m told she was the Goddess of the Witches.”
A jarring silence ensued. It was broken by Diane hastily murmuring, “I, er, imagine everyone in England’s seen it by now, with all the press and television coverage it’s received.”
“Do you think it’s possible a mate to it could have turned up here in Cornwall?” Nancy persisted.
Roscoe shrugged curtly. “ ’Fraid that’s beyond my expertise.”
“A man named Ian Purcell claims to have seen such a statuette,” Nancy went on, “and I understand he stayed here in Polpenny when he was getting over his drug habit. Was he a patient of yours, Doctor?”
Dr. Carradine nodded. “The rock musician? Yes, he came to me for treatment, but I couldn’t persuade him to take the full cure. Still, he seemed to be recovering.”
When dinner was over, the ladies adjourned to the drawing room while the men lingered for cigars. Nancy was startled when Diane drew her aside.
“I can’t explain just now, Miss Drew,” she whispered with a nervous glance over her shoulder, “but please be careful! Polpenny’s a very ingrown community. You may stir up a great deal of trouble!”
Was this intended as a tactful hint, Nancy wondered . . . or a veiled warning?
Next morning she decided to venture again into the village, despite the flood of publicity. She felt she would be taking the cowardly way out to hide her face at the castle. A stroll would also enable her to pay another visit to Dr. Carradine.
“How nice to see you again, Miss Drew,” the medic greeted her in his consulting room.
“I was wondering if you might have had any report yet on that herbal elixir?”
“Yes, the chemist called just a short time ago. He said it seems to be composed of harmless vegetable ingredients, though of course that still leaves the possibility of an allergic reaction.”
Nancy walked away thoughtfully from the doctor’s house. On the village high street, she stopped short, her heart thumping. A sleek red sports car had just pulled up near the harbor. A lean, sardonically handsome young man with spiky blond hair jumped out and came striding toward her.
It’s Lance! Nancy realized in sudden panic.
The rock star flashed a brilliant smile and reached out to embrace her. “Nancy, luv!”
His arms dropped as he saw how she froze.
“Darling, what’s wrong?”
“Do you need to ask after all that sleazy publicity your talented press agent stirred up?”
Lance looked genuinely astonished. “What difference does that make? Have you any idea how many birds would give their eye teeth to bask in the limelight as Lance Warrick’s newest sweetheart?!”
“Not this bird!” Nancy retorted, stung that he should dare to offer such justification.
She turned to walk away. Lance started after her, reaching out for her arm. “Look, my sweet, I took this gig in Cornwall even though the rest of the group wasn’t too keen on the idea just to be near you! Can you blame me if the press draws the obvious conclusions?!”
Nancy shook off his hand scornfully. “Am I supposed to believe Jane Royce dreamed all this up without your full approval? Please understand once and for all, Lance—I am not one of your groupies!”
14
Night Sight
This time the rock king did not follow her as she hurried off down the high street. Nancy’s cheeks were flaming. She felt as if the whole village of Polpenny must have overheard their quarrel. Why on earth did I have to go and lose my temper?! she asked herself regretfully.
In her wretched, almost tearful mood, Nancy was momentarily tongue-tied when Alan Tr
evor stepped out into her path. “Come with me, Miss Drew,” he said softly. “There’s a tearoom just round the corner. I promise not to ask any questions.”
Almost numbly Nancy let herself be led away.
“That was very kind of you, Mr. Trevor,” she said once they were seated and she had regained her composure. “Now I’m doubly in your debt. I’m sorry I was so short with you the other day.”
“Don’t be silly, I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve probably seen too many loudmouthed reporters in films. I’m not like that at all—really, cross my heart.”
Nancy was able to smile. “What are you like?”
“Just a typical thick-headed Cornishman.” They both laughed. “Which reminds me, if I could tempt you into having lunch, they do a very nice line in Cornish pasties here.”
Nancy discovered that these were delicious dollops of meat and potatoes baked in dough, which Cornish housewives used to pack in their miner-husbands’ lunch pails. As she sampled one, Nancy also discovered that she was hungry.
“Be honest, Mr. Trevor—” she said presently.
“Alan, please,” he interrupted.
“All right. Alan. You must have spent some time asking questions around Polpenny, trying to dig up material for a story about me.”
He looked sheepish. “That’s how I earn my living, Miss Drew.”
“Nancy, please. I only wanted to ask if you have any idea why the villagers won’t speak to Lady Penvellyn?”
The reporter looked startled, then thoughtful. “Is that a fact? I didn’t realize it.”
“Are you enough of a native for them to trust you and tell you why?”
Alan Trevor chuckled. “Hard to say in Cornwall. I was born and raised in Mousehole, where they say the last Cornish-speaker was born, which is not exactly the same as being a native of Polpenny. But I’ll see what I can find out.”
Nancy decided to press her luck. “While you’re at it, perhaps you’d be kind enough to check out a crazy story that ran in a tabloid called The U.K. Flash. It hinted at a local witch cult. Could you find out who wrote that, and why?”
Trevor’s eyes glinted with interest. She knew he was mentally connecting her question with what had happened at the engine house. “To quote a Yank phrase, you’ve got it, Nancy!”
When she returned to Penvellyn Castle, Nancy saw a sightseeing bus parked in the courtyard. A uniformed guide was herding a group of tourists into the castle. On the spur of the moment she joined them.
The tour guide’s memorized spiel contained enough facts to hold her interest, but Nancy had something else in mind. As he droned on, she found an opportunity to slip away from the group.
Scurrying down a branching corridor, she headed for the locked room. As part of her detective skills, Nancy had learned a good deal about locksmithing, and in an emergency, she could pick the average lock.
The one on the stout, iron-bound oak door, however, resisted all her efforts. It was obviously too massive and unique in design to yield to an ordinary picklock. But as she was about to replace the lockpicking device in her handbag, something about it caught Nancy’s eye.
The pick was glistening with fresh oil!
“Well, well, well!” she muttered. “Somebody must have gone in here recently!”
As she walked into the great hall of the castle, Landreth the butler hailed her. “Ah, Miss Drew, you’ve arrived just in time! A gentleman wishes to speak to you on the phone.”
“Did he say who he is?”
“A Mr. Lance Warrick, ma’am. This is the third time he’s called.”
Nancy’s chin shot up and her sapphire eyes turned icy. “Please ask him not to call again.”
“Very good, Miss Drew.”
Lisa had overheard them. She caught up with Nancy on the stairs. “Don’t be upset, Nan,” she begged, slipping an arm around the teenager’s waist.
“I’m not. I just saw him in the village, Lisa, and . . . it was rather unpleasant. My own fault probably.”
“Never mind. Ethel Bosinny’s coming over this evening. She’s promised to give us a séance.”
“A séance!” Nancy looked at her friend in surprise. “You mean she’s a—a psychic medium?”
“Good question. All I can say is, she goes into trances, and she’s told both Hugh and me some rather odd things. Anyhow, it should be fun.”
Nancy was skeptical. Nevertheless, she joined in the experiment, and the Penvellyns and their two guests joined hands around a small table in the drawing room after dinner.
All lights had been extinguished, except for twin candles glowing on the mantel. Miss Bosinny had brought a special mood record to play on the castle’s old-fashioned phonograph. It featured a soprano vocalist singing in a sweet, reedy voice to the music of a Welsh harp. Nancy found the overall effect distinctly eerie.
Presently a faint moan came from Ethel Bosinny’s lips. This was followed by a woman’s voice quite unlike her own hoarse, hearty tones:
“Nay, I am not a witch! . . . You lie, ye black-hearted rogue! . . . Torture me if ye like, but I’ll never confess to such foul lies!”
Nancy felt the skin of her arms prickling into gooseflesh. Her eyes met Lisa’s. Even in the semi-darkness, she noticed that her friend was looking pale and uneasy. Both girls gave a nervous start as the voice issuing from Ethel’s throat suddenly broke into a shrill, long-drawn-out scream!
Hugh leaped to his feet. The music had ceased playing, and the needle was clicking soundlessly in the groove. He lifted the phonograph arm and switched on the lights.
Ethel Bosinny had opened her eyes. Lisa and Nancy were holding her hands and stroking her.
“What happened, Ethel?” Hugh inquired gently.
“I—I’m not sure,” she croaked in a hoarse, terrified voice. “I had the most ghastly vision!”
“Of what?”
“I saw a black horned devil figure! It was shooting arrows of fire—at me and—and Nancy!”
Lisa gasped. Nancy’s throat had gone dry, as she thought of the elf-bolt she had found in the lavender envelope.
Nancy lay awake that night, unable to sleep. At last she got out of bed and tiptoed toward the window. The faint sound of a boat engine had just reached her ears through the night air. She pressed her face to the pane, peering out into the moonlit darkness.
To her amazement, a boat was gliding in toward the foot of the headland on which the castle stood! Presently it passed out of view, too far below to be glimpsed beneath the steep rocky slope.
Nancy waited for ten long minutes, but the craft failed to reappear. She was about to withdraw from the window when she saw something else that made her freeze in amazement.
A slender gowned figure with flowing blond hair was walking slowly out toward the point of the headland.
“It’s Lisa!” Nancy gasped, half aloud. “She’s sleepwalking again!”
15
Undine
The sudden realization of her friend’s danger convulsed Nancy into action. In frantic haste, she pulled on her jeans, sweater and moccasins, then ran out into the corridor, screaming for Hugh.
He appeared in the doorway before she reached their suite. “Lisa’s heading for the cliffs!” Nancy cried.
Seconds later they were running out of the courtyard. Lisa’s wraithlike figure was visible in the distance. Hugh lengthened his stride, his long legs pumping like pistons, and soon left Nancy far behind. Her heart gave a lurch of fear. Lisa would soon reach the brink of the cliff!
Nancy breathed a silent prayer. As if in answer, her friend paused, then raised a hand to her forehead in a gesture of perplexity. Within seconds Hugh had caught up with her and enfolded her tightly in his arms.
“Wh-where am I? . . . What are we doing out here?” Lisa was muttering as Nancy joined them.
“We decided to take a midnight stroll, don’t you remember?” Hugh joked tenderly. In her dazed state Lisa seemed to accept this far-fetched explanation.
Nancy was thoughtful
as they returned to the castle. Was it possible that Lisa had faked both her sleepwalking episodes to arouse her husband’s sympathy? The idea seemed hateful to Nancy, and none too plausible. Surely her friend was not that skillful an actress to stage such terrifying and utterly convincing scenes!
During the night, another idea came to Nancy’s mind. It had to do with the “connecting link” idea she had been groping for. Rising early, Nancy went to the castle library and looked up Hypnosis and Suggestion in the encyclopedia.
Afterward she used the telephone. Alan Trevor had told her he roomed in Penzance. Nancy called the nearest office of the Western Sun, which turned out to be in Plymouth, and learned his phone number. Then she called him.
“Nancy! What a pleasant surprise!” the reporter crowed. “Good thing you called—I have some information for you.”
“I have something to tell you too, Alan.”
“Good! Then meet me at the tearoom in Polpenny at 10:30 sharp and we’ll swap news!”
Nancy was impatient for the meeting. As they ate breakfast, the reporter began, “You asked me to check out that witch bit in The U.K. Flash. Well, it was written by a bloke named Coburn, an old Fleet Street hand. My boss knows him, so he called and asked where he got the yarn.”
“What did he find out?”
“Coburn claimed there actually were such rumors floating around a couple of years ago.”
“About Penvellyn Castle?”
“Not exactly. They involved the old Lord Penvellyn, Hugh Penvellyn’s uncle. Apparently he was rather an old troublemaker. Rumors were circulating among his London pals that he was into witchcraft and devil worship. Coburn admitted to my editor that he was just trying to rework that old gossip.”
“I see.” Nancy pondered a moment. “That’s very interesting, Alan. Thanks.”
“There’s more to come. My boss suggested I check out the local history angle to see if there’s any tradition of witchcraft in Polpenny, so I went to the library in Penzance.”
The Bluebeard Room Page 8