The Bluebeard Room (8 page)

The young policeman nodded and smiled politely. “Yes, ma’am, I know. I’m Constable Kenyon.”

Nancy was surprised but went on diffidently, “Then maybe you also know I’m an amateur detective?”

“Yes, Miss. I’ve read about some of your cases.”

“Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

“Of course not. Please have a chair.”

“Thank you.” Nancy sat down. “There’s a rock musician, Ian Purcell, who stayed in Polpenny while he was getting over his drug habit.”

Constable Kenyon nodded again, somewhat tight-lipped. “Yes, ma’am, I know him.”

“Have you any idea how recently he was here?”

“In Polpenny? Couldn’t say for sure, ma’am. He just camps out, like some of the tourists do, and he often goes back and forth to London.”

Nancy explained what had happened to Ian Purcell and asked, “Could he have been here just before he turned up at his rooming house in London?”

The policeman frowned thoughtfully. “Hard to say, ma’am. All I can tell you is I haven’t seen him around this past week.”

“What about drugs?” Nancy asked. “Are they
much of a problem locally? Does any dealing go on?”

Kenyon shrugged. “It’s the tourists who give us headaches more than the locals. There was a pusher arrested in Penzance the other day. That’s the only recent case. Mind you, there are rumors that dealing goes on at the old tin-mine engine house.”

“Where is that?”

“West of the headland, out near the edge of the moor. You can see the smokestack from the castle. The mine’s closed, you see, so the engine house area is all deserted. I’ve staked it out once or twice at night but I never caught anyone.”

Nancy pondered a bit before asking, “One last question, Constable. This may sound silly, but have you ever heard talk of a local witch cult?”

Just for a moment she thought Kenyon’s glance flickered. Then his jaw clamped grimly. “There’s always gossip of that sort, I reckon, especially here in Cornwall, but there’s no such goings-on in Polpenny that I know of.”

Nancy thanked him, rose and walked out thoughtfully into the summer sunshine. She was puzzled by the fact that he had known of her sleuthing. How had he found out? From a castle servant?

She wandered about, gazing in shop windows and exploring the byways. The villagers smiled at her and their lilting accents were pleasant to hear. But everyone seemed to know that she was Lady Penvellyn’s
American friend, and her attempts at conversation were politely rebuffed.

Nancy felt frustrated and annoyed. What on earth could they have against Lisa, and why should such resentment brush off on her?

Finally she turned back toward the harbor. The breeze carried a refreshing tang of salt air. A young man in a tweed sports jacket was chatting with fishermen as they mended their nets. Seeing Nancy, he broke off and came walking toward her.

“Excuse me. You’re Nancy Drew, aren’t you?”

“Why, yes.” Nancy smiled, pleased that someone had finally spoken to her. “How did you know?”

“It’s my business to know, you might say. I’m Alan Trevor, a reporter for the
Western Sun.”

Nancy recognized the name of one of England’s larger West Country newspapers, having seen it on railway newsstands. “But surely I’m not that well known on this side of the Atlantic.”

“You are now.” The reporter, husky and clean-shaven, had a brash, smart-alecky manner that nettled Nancy. “In the States you may be a famous girl detective, but over here you’re Lance Warrick’s latest bird. Warrick’s scheduled a gig in Cornwall, so you’ve come to be near him, right? Officially, of course, you’re hunting drug pushers and a gold statuette.”

Nancy was breathless with shock and outrage. “I b-b-beg your pardon!” she stuttered angrily.

Trevor grinned. “If it’s the bit about Lance
Warrick that upsets you, Miss Drew, don’t blame me. It’s all in the tabloids. All I want to know is whether you’ve dug up any mystery at the castle?”

“Why not read your trashy tabloids and find out!” Nancy retorted, then turned and walked away.

Angry as she was, Nancy simply had to find out if there was any truth in Alan Trevor’s remarks, so she bought a couple of London papers at a village sweet shop. It took only a moment of leafing through the pages to confirm her fears.

Simmering, she trudged back up the road to Penvellyn Castle. Questions were rising in her mind, none of them pleasant to dwell on. Partly to distract herself, Nancy decided to look for the letter that Ethel Bosinny had lost the night before.

From her and the butler’s remarks, Nancy knew the bicycle had overturned near a huge old oak tree and clump of shrubbery just to the right of the path leading up to the castle gateway.

To her surprise, she quickly sighted a lavender envelope. It bore the Crowned Heads monogram and was addressed to her at Penvellyn Castle in Lance’s handwriting.

Nancy was eager to read the letter in private. Luckily she managed to get up to her room without encountering Lisa or Hugh. To her annoyance, her hands trembled as she opened the envelope.

But there was no letter inside!

Nancy could feel something else, however, small
and hard. She shook it out into the palm of her hand—and caught her breath.

It was a tiny, glassy stone arrowhead . . .
another elf-bolt!

Surely Lance hadn’t sent her this! But if not, who had? Some other member of his group?

Another explanation was possible, Nancy realized. The spook might have filched the envelope after Ethel Bosinny was helped indoors, then removed the letter and inserted the elf-bolt before putting the envelope back during the night.

But why? As a warning to this young American busybody to leave Polpenny Castle and not pry into matters of witchcraft that didn’t concern her?

Despite her normal commonsensical outlook, Nancy couldn’t shake off a chill of fear that trickled down her spine. Slumping in her chair, she let the elf-bolt and envelope fall into her lap and clasped her hands to keep them from trembling.

What I need, Nancy told herself sternly, is to get so mad that I won’t have room to be frightened!

Which was easy enough once she opened those London tabloids and read the leering accounts of her friendship with Lance. One paper ran a photo of them in his sports car escaping the fans outside her hotel. The implication was clear . . . that the American sleuth was the latest addition to Lance Warrick’s harem of groupies!

Nancy was furious. What if those reports were to
filter back to America and be read by her dad and Hannah and all her friends in River Heights?

Nancy felt a need to work off her churning emotional energy. Yet she didn’t want to be seen by the servants or risk facing Lisa or Hugh in her upset state. To calm herself, she began walking down the corridor, her thoughts in turmoil. No wonder Constable Kenyon knew all about her! Those hateful news stories might even partly explain the villagers’ coolness toward her!

She slowed her steps as angry voices drifted toward her. Nancy realized that she was near the Penvellyns’ private suite.

“I’ve told you before—what’s in that room is none of your business!” Hugh was saying stormily.

“But why not, if I’m your wife?” Lisa pleaded.

“Because I say so, and I’m your husband! What kind of a marriage do we have if you can’t trust me that far?”

“Doesn’t trust work both ways? Oh, Hugh, I felt so foolish and ashamed, having to admit to Nancy that you wouldn’t even tell
me
why you keep that room shut up and locked!”

“Nancy’s here as our guest, not as a detective!” Lord Penvellyn retorted. “Why I choose to keep that room closed is none of her business, either!”

“I’m not a child! You’ve no right to treat me like one!” Lisa’s voice rose and quavered; she sounded on the verge of tears. “What can possibly be in
there that’s so terrible you can’t even confide in me, your wife?!”

“Just take my word, that’s all! That room must remain locked to protect my family name and our happiness, do you understand?!” Hugh’s hot-tempered words turned cold and grim as he ended, “I want you and your friend to stay away from that room, is that clear?! From now on, I don’t even want to hear it mentioned!”

Nancy’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. It was bad enough to feel like a snoop whose prying had caused trouble between a couple she was so fond of. But to learn of this by eavesdropping, even unintentionally, seemed to make it all the worse!

The teenager turned and fled down the corridor, fearful that the Penvellyns’ door might open at any moment.

Back in her own room, Nancy brooded over the mystery. Was the dispute she had just overheard bitter enough and important enough to have caused Lisa’s unhappiness and loss of health? Surely her friend’s trouble went deeper than mere resentment over her husband’s secrecy, but if so, what was the real cause?

Neither Lisa nor Hugh appeared at lunch, so
Nancy was left to pick at her salad and cutlet alone. She had just finished her tea and risen from the table when the butler announced Ethel Bosinny.

“I have explained that her ladyship is not feeling well and that Lord Penvellyn is busy in the library working on his book,” Landreth told Nancy. “Do you wish to see her, Miss?”

“Yes, of course. Please show her in.”

Miss Bosinny’s manner by daylight was bluff and hearty. Nancy could well imagine that she might prove slightly overwhelming as a constant companion. “What’s wrong with Lisa, my dear?” she demanded. “Another of those deuced headaches?”

“I’m afraid so,” Nancy said. “She didn’t feel well enough to eat. I imagine she’s lying down.”

“Then I must go and see her! I know just how to massage her neck and temples to relieve her muscular tensions. And luckily,” the elderly woman added, producing a bottle from her shoulder bag, “I’ve brought along some of my herbal restorative. It always does the poor dear so much good!”

Before Nancy could object or stop her, Ethel Bosinny went striding up the staircase from the great hall and along the upper-floor gallery toward the Penvellyns’ private suite.

Lisa was resting on a chaise longue. But she seemed glad to see her visitor and was soon relaxing under the ex-games mistress’s skilled touch.

“Would you be kind enough to fetch a glass from
the bathroom, dear,” Ethel said to Nancy, “so she can sip some of my herb cordial?”

A thought occurred to the teen sleuth. Could something in the herbal concoction be affecting Lisa’s health? Nancy glanced through the medicine cabinet and picked out a small bottle of aspirin. She removed the tablets and rinsed out the bottle, then poured in some of the cordial, capped the bottle again and slipped it into her pocket.

When Nancy returned, Ethel was crooning gently as she massaged Lisa’s head. From the latter’s contented smile, it appeared that Miss Bosinny’s ministrations were having the desired effect. Ethel took the glass of cordial but before she could hold it to her patient’s lips, Lisa’s head sagged forward and her eyelids closed in slumber.

“Let her sleep, poor lamb,” Ethel murmured, “but when she wakes up, be sure she drinks some of this.”

After Ethel left, Nancy poured out the concoction.

At dinner, Lisa appeared more cheerful and in better spirits. Hugh, however, was grim-faced and taciturn. Nancy did her best to keep up a flow of conversation, but she was still so depressed over the tabloid news stories that it was hard to maintain a smiling front.

Nancy wrote several letters home that evening, then read a novel until she drifted off to sleep. Her
dreams were troubled and she tossed and turned. Suddenly her eyes opened and she sat upright.

A creaking noise echoed from the corridor. What on earth is that? Nancy wondered. Her bedside travel clock showed 1:17
A.M
. She threw back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, and pulled on a robe and slippers. Then she peered out of her room down the hall.

At a bend in the corridor, a door stood ajar. Nancy could feel a faint cold draft coming through it. That’s the tower door! she reflected. Its creaking hinges indicated it was seldom used. Why would anyone be going up there now?

Curious, Nancy snatched a penlight from her bag and hurried down the hall. Beyond the door, ancient stone steps spiraled upward. She mounted them silently.

Suddenly Nancy stopped short, wide-eyed as she glimpsed a gowned, bare-footed figure above her.
It was Lisa!
Nancy called out to her softly but got no response.

“Lisa—?” she repeated in a louder voice. Her friend continued up the tower stairs.
She’s walking in her sleep!
Nancy realized. Her own skin chilled to gooseflesh at the eerie sight.

More curious than ever, and uncertain whether or not to wake her friend, Nancy followed step by step. The climb was exhausting, yet Lisa showed no sign of awakening. She passed a door which, Nancy
could see through a window in the tower wall, led out onto a walkway along the battlements. Evidently she was heading for the very top of the tower!

At last she emerged onto the stone roof. Nancy, following her, could see the notched stone parapet surrounding them in the moonlight. Lisa walked straight toward one of the notches.

A gasp of horror rose in Nancy’s throat as she suddenly sensed her friend’s intention. Nancy choked off the sound before it reached her lips, for fear of waking and startling Lisa into losing her balance. Already Lisa was climbing up into the embrasure or opening in the parapet! Another moment and the sleepwalker would be poised to step off into empty air!

Nancy’s heart was thudding in panic. What to do?! There was no time to reason out the wisest course. Acting on blind instinct, she rushed forward and grabbed Lisa around the waist. For a second both girls tottered perilously as Nancy struggled to restrain her friend! Then Lisa seemed to go limp and the two girls sagged backward to safety, collapsing on the stone roof of the tower!

Footsteps were pounding toward them. As the mist of terror cleared from Nancy’s eyes, she became aware of a man bending over them. It was Hugh, clad in pajamas and robe, his face still aghast at the heart-stopping drama that had just taken place. “Lisa! Lisa, darling!” he exclaimed in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Thank God you’re all right!”