The Witchmaster's Key (6 page)

“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!”

“T
HE
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 headsman'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!”

F
RANK
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.

“My basketball set shot,” Joe whispered.

“Quiet!” Frank warned. “Someone's coming.”

A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and the locksmith lumbered into the room. The boys' eyes followed him as he searched around. Paying no attention to the suits of armor, he halted a few feet from the Hardys.

Frank held his breath. Joe wrinkled his nose and just managed to stifle a sneeze.

The locksmith looked up at the shattered window, a stunned expression on his face. Then
he rushed out and they heard the tinkle of the bell on the front door.

“He's gone!” Frank exclaimed, “Come on! We've got to move fast!”

Climbing out of his suit of armor, Frank headed for the door. Joe called urgently after him.

“Wait a minute! I'm stuck!” Joe could not get his foot past the greave on the left leg. Frank ran back and held it, while his brother struggled to work himself loose.

“Wiggle your toes,” Frank advised. “Hurry!”

Joe finally eased his foot free. “Boy! Am I glad to be out of that iron overcoat!”

They ran into the front room of the locksmith's establishment and out the door. At the corner they peeked around to the rear of the building, where a crowd was gathered.

People were milling about and pointing toward the smashed window. The owner stood holding the spiked ball in his hand and scratching his head in disbelief.

“Let him try to figure it out,” Frank said.

“My guess is he never will.” Joe chuckled. “His suspects are two suits of armor. And they ain't talking.”

“Well, how about some refreshments? I'm starved.”

“Good thinking.”

They went into a teashop and ordered tea and
cakes. When the last of the food had vanished, Joe said, “Any idea what our pal the locksmith really had in mind?”

“He may be in cahoots with Matthew Hopkins,” Frank theorized. “Hopkins may be the guy who's wearing the black hat. He could have called ahead and ordered the locksmith to take care of–oh–for Pete's sake!”

“What's the matter?”

“I left the cast of the key!”

“There goes our clue!”

“If it was a clue, the locksmith will have smashed it by this time,” Frank said.

Joe nodded. “No use to go back. We might as well concentrate on our next project. Let's go see the Soho witch collection.”

They paid their bill and walked down the block, mingling with the throngs who were out for the afternoon. A tout tried to sell the Hardys some black-market money, and quickly moved on when Frank said they were not interested. A sailor, who looked as if he had just jumped ship, followed them and stepped into a pub when he realized that they had noticed him.

“In Soho, there's no telling who's keeping you under surveillance,” Frank noted.

“That's a good enough reason to hurry up and get out,” Joe said.

They passed the Medmenham Book Store again and came to a window filled with amulets,
such as bronze necklaces designed to save the wearer from the evil eye. A sign on the door read:
WITCHCRAFT EXHIBITION
.

Joe followed Frank through the revolving door. A number of rooms extended before them crowded with shelves and display cases laden with objects similar to those described in Professor Rowbotham's Witch Museum catalog.

An old woman was seated at a small table near the door opposite an empty chair. She had a craggy face, piercing black eyes, and a long crooked nose. The boys noticed she wore a bronze bracelet on her left arm, a red comb in her black hair, and a silk robe studded with shooting stars.