The Bluebeard Room (2 page)

“You’re serious?” Nancy asked as they left their glasses at the table and started across the lawn.

“Absolutely! I’m one of the people who persuaded him to come here today. I thought it might help ticket sales—he’s promised to preside over the raffle, you see.”

“You know Lance Warrick?” Nancy asked in surprise.

“My son-in-law does. I suppose you could call that one of the fringe benefits that go with a titled English connection.”

Many of the guests were now clustering around the pavilion. Evidently word had spread that the British rock star was among the dancing couples. Although two other members of his group were also on hand, he was the focus of all eyes.

The music of the garden party orchestra was tame and conventional compared to the rock group’s. Yet Lance seemed to fit in and dominate the scene naturally. In his white silk suit, with his lavender shirt and tie and spiky blond hair, he was instantly recognizable—an impish mixture of Mick Jagger, Billy Idol and David Bowie.

At the same time, Lance Warrick was, as always, uniquely himself—and outrageously handsome!

Nancy was suddenly annoyed at herself for thinking so. Her attitude toward the rock star had abruptly changed. He was acting too much like the lord of the manor, she felt—dancing with one girl after another, while all the rest stood oohing and aahing around the fringes, eagerly hoping to catch Lance’s eye.

George was right, thought Nancy—they
are
idiots! Do I really want to be one of them?

Lance had just noticed Mrs. Harwood and was blowing her a kiss. She waved her fingers gently
and put an arm around Nancy, to draw his attention to the titian-haired teen.

Lance winked at her and smiled back at the older woman. “Be right with you, Olive darling!”

Nancy blushed as a dozen girls looked daggers at her. She could imagine their envious thoughts, wondering why she should be favored with the rock king’s attention ahead of them.

Lance swung his current partner carelessly away into the waiting arms of his drummer, Bobo Evans. Then he started jauntily toward Mrs. Harwood and her attractive young companion.

Nancy abruptly turned away from the pavilion.

Mrs. Harwood called out, “Nancy dear, where are you going? Lance wants to dance with you!”

“No, thanks. Tell him I appreciate the honor, but I’d rather have another glass of punch.”

Eloise Drew lived in a charming old Victorian apartment building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. With its turrets and gargoyles and crenelated ramparts, it looked like something out of a Gothic horror movie, but Nancy loved its spacious, high-ceilinged rooms and romantic atmosphere.

“Well, I hear you put the King of Rock in his place yesterday,” her aunt joked as Nancy emerged from the guest room next morning.

Bess and George had already beaten her to the breakfast table.

“Something tells me a couple of gossipy little tongues have been wagging,” said Nancy, grinning at her two chums.

“No, actually it was Olive Harwood who told me.”

“Oh, my! I hope I didn’t embarrass her.” Nancy looked contrite as she took a chair.

“Not to worry, my dear. She thought you showed a splendidly independent spirit.”

“She did! You should have seen her, Miss Drew,” put in George Fayne. “Here were all these swooning females ready to fling themselves at Lance Warrick’s feet, and Nancy gives him the brush-off!”

“But what a waste!” Bess lamented. “The chance of a lifetime and she passes it up!”

“And was he ever surprised!” George chuckled. “The poor guy was stunned. He couldn’t
believe
that any girl would actually decline the thrill of dancing in his glamorous embrace!”

Nancy winced. “I
was
a bit rude.”

“Baloney! It did him good. He was really getting too arrogant for words, the way he was carrying on there in the dance pavilion!”

“He’d have to be pretty unusual
not
to have his head turned by all that attention.” Nancy helped herself to a slice of toast. “I must say he seemed nice enough when we talked later on.”

In fact, Nancy felt ashamed of her display of temper. Lance had come upon her later in the evening in their host’s mansion and had insisted on escorting her through the food line. Not only had he proven himself a charming conversationalist—he’d refrained from even mentioning the abrupt way Nancy had turned her back on him in the pavilion.

Aunt Eloise smiled and poured herself more coffee. “Well, at any rate, he sounds like a very interesting young man. By the way, Nancy, Olive Harwood asked me to remind you to call her about what you discussed yesterday.”

“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!”

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

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!”