The tower of Craighead Castle appeared over the crest of a hill. Joe coasted down the grade, up the driveway, and across a drawbridge into the castle courtyard.
Goodman and his wife came out to greet them. He was short, they noticed, and she very thin. Cordially the couple escorted the visitors inside.
“Milton Craighead is in London,” Mrs. Goodman confided. “So there’s no fear of disturbing him. But first we will have tea in the drawing room.”
She rang a silver bell. Two servants wheeled a cart in. They placed cups and a large teapot on the table along with a tray of cakes.
Joe noticed that the housekeeper had piercing black eyes. She kept glancing at him even while talking to the others. He felt very uncomfortable under her gaze, but decided to forget it and down his share of tea and cakes.
After refreshments the tour of the castle began. First they went into the dungeon. A small round window let in just enough light to reveal a dismal sight. There were torture instruments in the middle of the floor–thumbscrews, racks, and braziers for heating pincers. Irons for holding wrists and ankles dangled from a rafter. Cowhide whips were stacked in a wooden cask.
“Of course we don’t use this room any more,” Mrs. Goodman informed the Hardys. “But it had quite a bit of use in the olden times.”
The boys were glad when the butler led the way up again into the living quarters. They went along corridors and saw rooms that still spoke of elegance and splendor, even though a time-worn shabbiness prevailed. Finally they reached the battlements. The embrasures once manned by archers were empty. The openings for pouring boiling oil on besieging armies were covered over.
“I guess Craighead Castle hasn’t been in a scrap for a long time,” Frank said.
“There hasn’t been a battle for over three hundred years,” Goodman replied.
The group ascended to the top of the tower, where a flag flew in the breeze. It bore a picture of a griffin carrying off a knight. Joe made out the legend: Avoir la Serre Bonne.
“The Griffinmoor emblem!” he exclaimed.
Mrs. Goodman fixed her black eyes on him. “You are right–this time,” was her cryptic response.
Before he could ask what she meant, the woman urged the group down the stairs from the tower and into the turret at the rear of the castle. The top room of the turret had no window. Explaining that the electricity had never been extended to the turret, Goodman lit a large candle and held it up high.
The flickering light fell upon an array of old armor. There was a Norman suit made of tiny bits of metal linked together. Behind it stood a French type, made of metal plates.
In one corner gleamed a suit of jet black armor holding a sword in one hand.
Frank patted the helmet. “So that’s what the well-dressed knight wore.”
“I hope he didn’t feel itchy,” Joe quipped. “How’d you like to try scratching your back through that tin outfit?”
The candle sputtered out. Goodman led them into the corridor. They descended into the courtyard and walked around the castle.
One thing struck Joe. Sunlight once more glinted off a window in the turret, but he could not remember seeing the window from within.
While pondering his oversight, they came to a wide stone staircase. Mrs. Goodman asked Frank to lead the way down. He did.
Zip! His feet skidded out from under him, and he plunged head over heels, bouncing from one step to another till he hit bottom. Joe rushed to help him up.
“What a terrible fall!” the housekeeper cried. “How did it happen?”
“I slipped on something!”
The Hardys and Sears examined the step and found a broad, dark, oozy discoloration.
“That’s oil!” Sears exclaimed, rubbing some between his fingers.
“Goodness, how did it get there?” the woman asked.
Goodman insisted that he had no explanation for the oil. He promised to look into the matter and see if anyone in the castle was responsible, and begged Frank to accept his apologies.
“It’s okay,” Frank said. “I banged a knee and skinned an elbow. But I’m still operational.”
The visit over, Joe drove back to Griffinmoor. Passing the tearoom in town, they were startled to see a figure in a polka-dot bandanna run out and jump in front of the car. Joe braked to a jarring stop.
“Mary Ellerbee!” he exclaimed.
The old crone pointed a bony finger at them.
“The witch’s curse!” she shrieked. “The day will come when it is done! The deed is nigh, the witch’s cry is heard on high. To you I say, avaunt!”
Gathering her robe about her, she strode back into her tearoom. The black cat leaped into her arms, and Mary Ellerbee stood in the doorway, stroking the pet and leering.
“What was that all about?” Frank wondered as Joe drove on.
“She’s harmless,” Sears said. “Pay no attention to her.”
“Witches are great on curses,” Joe murmured.
Mary’s action bothered the Hardys, even though they kept telling each other that superstition was ridiculous.
Next morning they bade the professor good-by and took the train to London, where a taxi whisked them to the airport. With their baggage safely on the conveyor belt, Frank and Joe stopped at a lunch counter for coffee and doughnuts.
Frank looked at his watch. “We’ve got an hour till flight time. What say we phone home? It’s noon here, so it’s morning in Bayport.”
“Good idea,” Joe said. “Won’t they be surprised!”
The call went through quickly, and their mother answered. She was delighted to hear their voices. “Professor Rowbotham must be a nice man.” She sighed in relief after listening to their story of events in Griffinmoor.
Neither Frank nor Joe wanted to worry Mrs. Hardy by mentioning their suspicions about their host. Fenton Hardy came to the phone. His sons gave him a rapid rundown of their investigation.
“It’s a bigger mystery than I thought,” the Bayport sleuth confessed. “But Sam Radley has made a discovery at this end that might help you crack the case.”
Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s operative. He had helped Frank and Joe solve a number of crimes. They knew they could depend on him.
“What is it?” Frank urged.
“We could use an assist in this ball game,” added Joe, who had his ear next to the receiver.
“Sam has been casing New York shops that specialize in the occult. He checked some items against the inventory you sent. They’re from Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum!”
“Holy catfish!” Joe exploded. “No wonder we couldn’t find more of the stuff over here!”
“We thought this might be an international gang,” Frank declared. “I guess our hunch wasn’t far off.”
“It was right on the money,” Fenton Hardy said approvingly. He admired the way his sons handled difficult cases.
“Keep investigating on your side of the Atlantic,” he said. “Sam will try to find out who peddled the stuff. I’ll say good-by, but Aunt Gertrude wants to tell you something.”
Gertrude Hardy, Fenton’s sister, was a spinster with a sharp tongue. She frequently criticized the boys, but was secretly proud of them.
“I hear you’re mixed up with witches,” she sniffed. “Is that true?”
“It’s true, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank admitted.
“Well, be careful,” she continued in a worried tone. “Just remember, witches often don’t appear to be what they really are.”
“We’ll be careful,” Joe promised. “Good-by, Aunty.”
Frank hung up and they went to the departure gate where the Dublin flight would originate. Suddenly three men ran past. The sound of pistol shots rang out. Bullets whined through the airport!
CHAPTER XV
SOS in the Irish Sea
“HIT the deck!” Joe yelled.
He and Frank plunged headlong onto the airport floor. People ran helter-skelter. A number of policemen surged through the frightened crowd, captured
the gunmen, and took them off.
“They’re terrorists from abroad, shooting at each other,” said a bobby. “But we got ’em all. Nobody’s been hurt.”
“Thank goodness those guys didn’t kill anyone,” Joe said. “Frank, isn’t it a thrill to live in today’s world?” he added sarcastically.
“Not that bad, Joe. How about centuries ago, when people were accused of riding broomsticks–and burned? I’m glad to be away from spooky Griffinmoor for a while.”
They boarded their plane, which quickly became airborne. England vanished beneath their wings and they were over the Irish Sea. The plane bounced in the turbulence of air currents and down drafts. The stewardesses went down the aisle, calming the passengers.
“Pretty rough for an hour’s flight,” Frank grumbled.
“Any rougher and we’ll end up in the drink,” Joe agreed.
After landing at Dublin Airport, they caught a taxi to Tara Lodge. The driver took them down O’Connell Street, Dublin’s broad main avenue, across the Liffey River, and out past Phoenix Park. Tara Lodge was situated in the middle of a lawn that looked like a great green carpet.
Colonel Melvin Stewart was a tall man with a mane of white hair. When he heard that the Hardys were friends of Professor Rowbotham’s in Griffinmoor and working on his case, he gave them a warm welcome. He introduced his grandson Pat, a genial Irish youth of Joe’s age, who was staying with the colonel for a few days.
The boys told him they were interested in Lord Craighead’s disappearance and asked if he could give them any information.
“I’ll be glad to tell you all I know,” the old gentleman said, “but you’ll have to wait a while. I have an appointment with my solicitor in half an hour.”
Pat spoke. “Maybe you’d like to come with me in the meantime. I’m off to Phoenix Park for a game of rugby. We could use a couple of half- backs. How about it? You Yanks know how to play rugby, don’t you?”
The Hardys confessed they had played only once in an exhibition at Bayport High School. They would like to play again.
“Well then, off you go,” the colonel said.
The three boys walked to the field house and joined the rest of the team. Uniforms were found for Frank and Joe. They all ran out onto the field and the game began.
The ball bounced crazily across the ground.
“Take it, Frank!” Pat bellowed.
Frank grabbed the ball, ran a few steps, and was tackled. He passed off to another player. The ball moved down the field. Pat got hold of it.
“Go for the goal!” Frank shouted.
Pat scored. Then the players gathered around the ball in a scrum. They kicked and shoved until Joe managed to work the ball loose. He turned sharply and suddenly slumped to the ground. Pat ran up.
“I say, are you hurt, Joe?”
“It’s my trick knee. I twisted it in a football game at Bayport High.”
Pat and Frank helped Joe to the sideline. Another player took his place and the game went on, with Pat scoring the winning goal.
Joe needed assistance to limp back to Tara Lodge, where Colonel Stewart inspected his knee.
“Painful but not dangerous,” the old soldier diagnosed. “Here, I’ll tape it for you. Your knee will be as good as new if you stay off it a day or so.”
He offered the Hardys the hospitality of his home, which they gratefully accepted.
After dinner, Pat put a couple of logs on the irons in the fireplace and built a roaring blaze. Colonel Stewart drew his chair close to the hearth and invited his guests to join him.
“So you want to know about Lord Craighead? It was just five years ago. I expected him to arrive here at Tara Lodge. When he failed to appear, I got in touch with Craighead Castle. Goodman said he had left Craighead, ostensibly on his way to Dublin. Apparently he vanished!”
An idea struck Frank. “Maybe he had an attack of amnesia. Lost his memory.”
“Possibly,” Stewart said. “When I knew him in the army, he often acted strangely. He was a loner, introspective–always seemed to be thinking about something he didn’t care to divulge to anybody else.”
Excitement gripped Joe. “Lord Craighead might have been hiding a mysterious secret!”
“That’s also possible,” his host replied. “But my guess at the time was that he was worried about financial problems.”
“I’ve heard,” Pat interjected, “that the castle is loaded with debts.”
Frank looked doubtful. “I thought Lord Craighead was rich. Didn’t he have zillions of pounds?”
Stewart shook his head. “The aristocracy is burdened by taxes. And it costs a fortune to run a castle. That’s why so many people are selling. By the way, was the Craighead land sale ever completed?”
The question made the Hardys gape in total amazement.
“That’s new to us, Colonel,” Frank conceded. “Can you tell us about it?”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to now. You see, Lord Craighead was trying to sell all his property to a London syndicate. One thing was holding the deal up. The syndicate demanded a package transaction, including the Craighead estate and Eagleton Green. But the craftsmen at the artisan village threw a spanner into the works. They refused to sell.”
“So the deal fell through?” Frank asked.
“As far as I know.” The colonel offered no more on the subject, and the session broke up.
In their room, the Hardys discussed the possibility that Milton Craighead was still attempting to arrange the land sale.
“Maybe the syndicate is trying to drive Eagleton Green out of business by means of sabotage,” Frank speculated.
“And perhaps Matthew Hopkins has something to do with it,” Joe said. “He’s in real estate, remember? He could be connected with the same syndicate.”
Joe spent the next day in Colonel Stewart’s spacious walnut-paneled library, reading and resting his leg on a leather hassock. Frank and Pat, meanwhile, went to the Dublin Library to see what they could find about the genealogy of the Hardy family.
They ordered several enormous tomes at the desk, took them into the reading room, and leafed through the material. They spent an hour in hushed concentration.
“Lots of Hardys still in Ireland,” Pat said.
“Sorry to say we lost track of the old timers,” Frank confessed. “Look, here’s a note. It seems our ancestors emigrated to America in 1800. Fenton is an old family name among the Hardys of Ireland. So that’s where my father’s first name comes from. He’ll be interested to hear that.”
“You chaps are a distinguished clan,” Pat complimented him.
Frank returned the compliment. “Not so distinguished as the Stewarts. They used to be kings of England.”
“It was a different branch of the family,” Pat responded with a grin. “I can’t claim succession to the throne!”
They deposited the volumes at the desk, left the library, and walked to a bus stop. Dublin was alive with crowds and traffic. Motorcycles whizzed past Trinity College, where the statues of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith stood. Men raised tankards and sang drinking songs in pubs. Pedestrians waited for the lights to change at the tall pillar on O’Connell Street.
Frank and Pat caught a bus to Phoenix Park and walked to Tara Lodge. Joe’s knee was nearly back to normal. He told them he had been reading a book on witchcraft.
“It’s about witches on the Isle of Man. There are two covens, one good and one bad. Good witches practice white magic. They’re out to help humanity.”
Frank chuckled. “I guess the black witches wear black hats.”
“Well, they practice black magic,” Joe said. “And specialize in curses. They stick pins in dolls and hex people.”
Pat had been listening, amused at Joe’s enthusiasm. “The Isle of Man is famous for its two covens,” he said. “Also for the Hall of Magic, the museum. But why are you chaps so interested in witchcraft?”
“Ever since we started working on the professor’s case in Griffinmoor we’
re plenty interested,” Frank replied.
“And we were hoping to go to the Isle of Man, anyway,” Joe explained, “to follow a clue.” He told Pat about the striped cap they found at Stonehenge.
“There’s a ferry that runs every day,” Pat told them.
Frank nodded. “I think we should go tomorrow.”
Colonel Stewart agreed when he heard about their plans. The next morning, Frank and Joe downed a stack of pancakes, thanked Colonel Stewart, and said good-by to Pat. A taxi took them to the dock, where they boarded the ferry for the Isle of Man.
Soon it edged away from the pier and headed downriver into the Irish Sea. Passengers lined the rails, facing a rising wind. The engines pulsated rhythmically as the vessel churned beyond sight of land.
Frank and Joe went into the lounge, where they ordered soda pop and sat down to talk over their situation.
“What do we do first?” Joe asked.
“Check out the cap. Then we’ll try to find out as much as we can about the covens and visit the Hall of Magic.”
They finished their drinks and went out on deck. The ferry was beginning to pitch and roll in stormy weather. Foaming waves broke over the bow. Sea spray swept across the deck and everybody on it.
The sky darkened as banks of clouds massed overhead. A bolt of lightning streaked toward the horizon and the wind rose to gale force.
“We’re heading into an honest to goodness nor’easter,” Frank predicted.
“Or whatever they call ’em in the Irish Sea,” Joe added. “The crew had better batten down the hatches!”
As rain began to fall, crewmen appeared in boots and oilskins and prepared for the storm. They gathered deck chairs; then they coiled ropes and made sure the portholes were securely closed and bolted.
The Hardys moved toward the lounge with the other passengers when Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed to the crest of an approaching wave.
“That monster’s going to hit us, Frank!”
The wave came on, cresting higher by the second. It crashed into the ferry amidships. The vessel staggered under the impact of tons of water, and began listing to starboard.
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