The Vengeance of the Witch-Finder Page 2

  Lewis’s father and mother had both died several years before in an automobile accident. Ever since, Lewis had lived with his uncle in New Zebedee. In a way, he had become used to his parents’ being gone. Still, it always hurt when something or someone suddenly reminded Lewis of his mom and dad. “Uh, no, he never mentioned it,” Lewis said in a low voice, trying not to look upset.

  Jonathan appeared not to notice Lewis’s discomfort. Gazing out the window, he said, “I’m not surprised. Charlie was an optimist, always looking ahead. The past never interested him much. Still, it is true that we have English roots. On your grandmother’s side of the family we are Dutch. She was a van Olden before she met your grandfather. I don’t know what the Barnavelts were back in the very old days—that name sounds Germanic to me, but I’ve never researched it. However, for ages and ages the Barnavelts lived in Merrie Olde England. In fact, one of our ancestors came across the English Channel with William the Conqueror in the year 1066. Many of our later forefathers were knights serving British kings. My great-great-great-grandfather, Tobias Barnavelt, was the younger son of one of those Sir Something-or-Other Barnavelts. Since Tobias’s father willed everything to the older brother, Great-Great-Great-Grandpa Tobias emigrated to America, way back in 1795. He landed in Boston, where he founded our branch of the family. Eventually his son moved his family west, to New Zebedee, in the 1840’s.”

  The train was out of the city now, and it picked up speed as it passed lush woods and green fields. “I still don’t know what all that has to do with where we’re going,” said Lewis.

  “Ah. I’m getting to that. The British branch of the family has a manor house in West Sussex, not very far from Dinsdale village. That is where we are going—to visit our umpteenth cousin, who-knows-how-many times removed. His name is Arthur Pelham Barnavelt. He got to know your father back during the war, when Charlie was in the Army Air Corps and was stationed at an airfield not far from Dinsdale. Now Cousin Pelham is eager to meet us.”

  “And he lives in a real manor house?” Lewis asked, his tone excited. “You mean one like Baskerville Hall, in The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

  “Right,” said Jonathan with a smile and a nod. “Only the name of this one is Barnavelt Manor. We’re going to spend tonight and tomorrow there, getting to know Cousin Pelham.” Jonathan paused, his expression thoughtful. After a moment he added, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, Lewis. It’s true that Cousin Pelham is the owner of a genuine manor house. Unfortunately, he is not rich. The British branch of the family suffered financial losses during both world wars, and taxes are extremely high right now. Very little remains of Cousin Pelham’s family fortune, except the estate and a modest income. What I am trying to say is that we will have to be tactful.”

  “Sure,” said Lewis. “Only why can’t we, well, help out with the expenses?”

  Jonathan smiled. “We will, as much as we can without hurting Cousin Pelham’s pride.” He tapped a bulky, brown-paper-wrapped parcel that they had brought all the way from New York. Lewis knew it contained two tinned hams, a package of sugar, containers of coffee and tea and cocoa, and other goodies. “For instance, I know that Cousin Pelly won’t mind us bringing him a CARE package, because he always complains in his letters about the rationing that is still in force over here. But remember, in British eyes we are American upstarts—even if I did inherit a pile of money from my grandfather. I’ve been writing to Pelham for some years, and I’ve sort of gotten to know him. I am sure he would resent anything that seriously smacked of charity.”

  Lewis said he understood. The ride took a long time, but at last the train jolted and hissed to a halt at a small station in the country village of Dinsdale. Jonathan and Lewis got off the train and collected their suitcases. For a few minutes they stood there on the platform, and then an Austin Seven, a tiny, black, old-fashioned open automobile, came chugging and backfiring along. It creaked to a halt, and a spidery man sprang out. His hair was a silvery explosion, his face was lean and long, and his body was all elbows and knees. He wore dark-gray tweed trousers and a rather shabby jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and he sported a bright-red tie.

  The second he saw Jonathan, the man’s pale-gray eyes lit up. “Cousin!” he called in a crickety voice. “I say, Cousin Jonathan! You’re just like a larger, expanded edition of your younger brother, with a beard added. I’d know you anywhere. Welcome! And you must be young Lewis. Come along, come along! We’ll nip right out to the Manor and give you something to nibble on. I’m sure Mrs. Goodring—she’s my housekeeper, quite a treasure—will have something delicious.” He helped them load their bags into the cramped auto, which proved to be something like assembling a jigsaw puzzle. They got in, making the boxy little car groan on its springs. Finally Cousin Pelham climbed back behind the steering wheel, which was on the right side rather than the left. “All set? Hold on! Here we go!”

  The poor old car strained its engine and chugged away from the station at fifteen miles an hour. “Tell me if I go too fast for you,” said Pelham in an anxious tone. Lewis could hardly feel a breeze, even in the open car, but Pelham Barnavelt seemed to think they were barreling right along. Lewis liked this distant cousin at once. The lean old man spoke and moved more like a boy than an adult, and his cheery enthusiasm was infectious. For a while they puttered along a narrow road between hilly, green pastures dotted white with grazing sheep. Then they turned into a long, winding drive. “Here we are,” said Pelham. He nodded toward a tiny brick cottage. “That used to be the gatekeeper’s house, when we had someone to keep the gate. And now, just around this turn is my ancestral home, and yours as well. Jonathan and Lewis, welcome to Barnavelt Manor!”

  The car rounded an overgrown, untidy mass of hedges, and Lewis gasped.

  Ahead of them sprawled a huge, gray stone house with leaded windows, two turrets, what seemed a dozen bay windows, numerous gables, and intricate, steeply pitched roofs shingled with shiny black slate. The late-morning sun shone on the old house, and yet its dark, gloomy walls gave the dismal impression of being in deep shade.

  It looks evil, Lewis thought. He immediately wondered why the notion had come to him. After all, as Cousin Pelham had said, it was his ancestral home. And surely Sherlock Holmes would scoff at the very idea of a baleful haunted house. He was just being a worrywart again.

  And yet—

  Too much of the house was obviously empty. Too many windows stared out at the world with the hollow expression of a skull’s vacant eye sockets. Within a curving drive the grass lay neatly trimmed, but outside that border the lawn and hedges had grown rank and thick. On the tallest chimney perched a gaunt black bird, a rook, with hunched shoulders and lowered head. Everything had a distinct and oppressive air of decay and decline. The house almost looked as if it were giving them a fleshless, threatening grin of sinister welcome.

  Lewis felt his heart sink. Cousin Pelham was chattering away. Uncle Jonathan was smiling and relaxed. Neither of them appeared to notice anything unusual. And yet, Lewis thought again, it looks so evil.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The antique car wheezed to a halt on a curving drive just before the main entrance of the Manor. Cousin Pelham clambered out. The tall front doors of the manor house swung open, and an old man slowly emerged from within. He was somewhat stout, almost completely bald, and a little stooped, and he wore a rusty-looking black suit. “There’s Jenkins,” said Pelham. “My man of all work. I say, Jenkins, give our guests a hand with their bags, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jenkins in a sorrowful, slow voice. He took two of the suitcases from Uncle Jonathan. Lewis noticed that Jonathan kindly gave the old fellow the two smallest ones. Jonathan and Lewis lugged one heavy suitcase apiece, and Jonathan also managed to hold the parcel of food under his free arm.

  “This way, sirs,” Jenkins said. He tottered inside the house, and Jonathan followed. Lewis swallowed hard and started into the gloom after him. From behind, Cousin Pe
lham called cheerfully, “I’ll just put the car away. I’ll be right in.”

  Dark wood paneling made the entry hall dusky and cool. Jenkins turned right, and Jonathan and Lewis followed him down a long hall, past six or eight closed doors. Jenkins led them up a stairway to the second floor. Then he turned to the left and down another hall. He set one of the small suitcases down to open a door. “This will be your room, sir,” he said to Jonathan. “And young Master Barnavelt will have the one adjoining.”

  Lewis breathed easier when he saw his room. It was light and airy, with waist-high oak wainscoting and, above that, faded but cheerful wallpaper in pale-blue and white stripes. Two tall, narrow windows spilled sunlight across a worn dark-blue carpet. A quilted sky-blue comforter covered the sturdy bed. Best of all, the wall at the foot of the bed had a stone fireplace dominating it, and above the mantle was a shield with two crossed swords beneath it. A tall oak wardrobe, an oak desk and chair, and a squat chest of drawers made of the same wood completed the furnishings. Lewis set his suitcase down and sighed in relief. He went to the window and gazed out. He could see the curving drive here too. He realized that it was circular and went all the way around the house. On the far side of the drive a grove of enormous old trees spread their leaves in the sun. When Lewis pressed his face close to the window, he could just make out a vegetable garden with a shed off to his left, behind the Manor.

  “Well,” boomed Jonathan from behind him, “how do you like it?”

  “Oh boy!” said Lewis, pretending more enthusiasm than he felt. “It’s like being in a real castle, Uncle Jonathan. Could I take down the swords?”

  Jonathan laughed. “Maybe you’d better wait and ask Cousin Pelham about that. He’s put the car away and is waiting downstairs to introduce us to the rest of the household. Come with me.”

  Still carrying the package of food, Jonathan led Lewis down to a small dining room, where a table bore tea, cups and saucers, and a platter of little sandwiches and what looked like biscuits. A plump, red-haired woman in a dark dress and a white apron waited there. At her elbow stood a boy of about twelve who was even fatter than Lewis. He had red hair and wore a red sweater, dark-blue trousers, and a pair of round, steel-rimmed sunglasses. The lenses were so darkly green that Lewis could not even see the boy’s eyes. Cousin Pelham came into the room, rubbing his hands together. “Ah, here we all are. Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Goodring, my excellent cook and housekeeper, and her son, Bertram. Mrs. Goodring, these are our guests, my American cousins, Mr. Jonathan Barnavelt and Master Lewis. Shake hands with Lewis, Bertie.”

  Lewis put his hand out. Bertie did the same. But Bertie held out his hand far off to Lewis’s left. Lewis realized with a shock that Bertie was blind. He quickly grabbed Bertie’s hand and gave it one brief shake. “Pleased to meet you,” said Bertie. “Are there Apaches where you live?”

  “Uh, no,” said Lewis.

  “Oh.” Bertie sounded a little disappointed. He added, “Any cowboys, then?”

  “No cowboys, either,” replied Lewis. “We’re from Michigan.”

  “Oh. What do they have in Michigan?”

  “Well, farmers and auto workers and—and just people,” said Lewis.

  Cousin Pelham had busied himself pouring tea. “Splendid, splendid. You two will get on famously. But let the travelers have a spot of refreshment now, Bertie, and then the two of you can dash along, what?”

  “Of course, sir,” said Mrs. Goodring. “Will you need anything else, Mr. Barnavelt?”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Goodring would like to see what we’ve brought you,” Jonathan said, setting the parcel down.

  “Oh, I say,” protested Cousin Pelham. “Really, you shouldn’t have—but as long as you did, let’s have a quick look, eh?” He rubbed his hands together and ripped the paper off the parcel with the air of a six-year-old on Christmas morning. Everyone “oohed” and “aahed” at the contents of the package, and Cousin Pelham positively beamed when he saw the tea. “Absolutely first-rate!” he pronounced. “This is too kind of you, cousin, but I shan’t say it isn’t welcome! We have been on thin rations in England for rather a long time. Thank you very much indeed. Mrs. Goodring, perhaps you will be so kind as to take these splendid morsels to the kitchen.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Goodring with a broad, indulgent smile. “And do you have anything else for me to do, then?”

  “No, no, not at all, thank you, Mrs. Goodring.”

  Mrs. Goodring put her hand on Bertie’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “’Bye, Lewis,” said Bertie.

  “I’ll see you later,” said Lewis, and then he blushed. Would Bertie be upset or offended by his saying the word see? To his relief the blind boy did not react as he and his mother left the room, Mrs. Goodring bearing the box of food before her as if she were carrying the Holy Grail.

  “Bit early for lunch, but we’ll call this elevenses, what?” Cousin Pelham said. “Here you are, Lewis. Try the scones. Mrs. Goodring is wonderful at making them.”

  The scones were good—toasty and warm and served with jam. For a few moments Pelham and Jonathan chatted about other members of the family. When the conversation lagged, Lewis gathered his courage and said, “Cousin Pelham—”

  “Eh?” said Pelham. “Oh, dear me, please don’t call me Pelham. Nobody does, you know. I’ve been Pelly to everyone for nearly seventy years. Sounds much more friendly, don’t you know?” His long face folded itself into a smile.

  Lewis could not help smiling back. “Uh, Pelly, what is wrong with Bertie’s eyes?” he asked.

  Pelly’s face took on a sad expression. “Ah. Terrible thing, that. It happened in the last months of the war, when he was just a little chap. One of those dreadful German rockets exploded close to where he was living with his mother. Mrs. Goodring escaped uninjured, but Bertie lost his eyesight. And not long after that his father died in combat. Now, Bertie’s grandfather had once worked for my father, so when I learned what had happened, I took on Mrs. Goodring as my housekeeper. And a treasure she has been, I must say.”

  Lewis swallowed. He knew how tragic it was to lose your father.

  In a quiet, serious voice, Jonathan asked, “Can’t anything be done for him, Pelly?”

  Cousin Pelly sighed. “Well, the doctors don’t hold out much hope. I’m afraid Bertie has almost resigned himself to a life of blindness. But he’s a splendid little chap. I’m sure you and he will get along, Lewis.”

  “Sure,” said Lewis. He felt ashamed of himself. He had been worrying about how gloomy Barnavelt Manor looked from the outside. Now he realized that the house’s appearance had deceived him. The people inside the Manor—warmhearted Cousin Pelly, motherly Mrs. Goodring, friendly Bertie, and even helpful old Jenkins—kept it from being as desolate as it looked. If he were really as keen as Sherlock Holmes, Lewis thought, he would have seen past the misleading appearance of the house.

  Cousin Pelly rambled on while they demolished the sandwiches and scones. He told Lewis and Jonathan that he had closed off most of the Manor. “Dreadfully expensive to run the whole house, you know,” he explained. He and the two servants lived in this small wing. “But if you want to explore the old pile, Lewis, go right ahead,” said Pelly. “Bertie knows his way about, and I’m sure he’ll be pleased to guide you.”

  Lewis was happy enough to leave Pelly and Jonathan, who had begun a discussion of Lewis’s two aunts. He followed Pelly’s directions and found Bertie sitting in a kitchen chair while his mother busied herself washing dishes. “Hello,” said Lewis in a timid voice. “Can we play now?”

  “Mum?” asked Bertie.

  “Go ahead, love. Mind you be careful.”

  “We will, Mum,” said Bertie cheerfully. He slipped out of the chair. “What do you want to do, Lewis?” he asked.

  “Well, I’d like to—I mean, could we sort of tour around the Manor?”

  “Sure,” said Bertie. “I can show you lots of things.”

  They spent some time exploring the closed-off part of
the house. Lewis especially liked the library, where dust covers shrouded the table and chairs and thousands of old books stood in ceiling-to-floor shelves lining three of the walls. Windows filled almost all of the fourth wall, giving a view of gently rolling green hills. “This is Master Martin’s study,” Bertie explained.

  “Who’s Master Martin?” asked Lewis.

  “Oh, he’s been dead for ages,” replied Bertie. “Back in the days of the Civil War Martin Barnavelt was quite famous. People said he was a witch.”

  Lewis blinked. “A witch?”

  “Yes. In fact, they took this house away from him for the longest time. He had to defend himself against charges of witchcraft, and even then the Roundheads took over the Manor. Later he had still more trouble getting the house back after the Restoration, but he finally did in 1668.”

  Lewis had not realized at first that Bertie was talking about the English Civil War. He had read books about British history, and he knew that in 1642 a group of British Puritans had risen up against King Charles I. People called the Puritans “Roundheads” because of the way they cut their hair. Eventually, the Roundheads won the war and beheaded the King. Then for some time the Roundheads ruled England, under Oliver Cromwell. After Cromwell’s death the English people restored the monarchy in 1660. It felt sort of weird to be standing in the library of a man who had been involved in a war three hundred years earlier.

  “Was Martin Barnavelt really a witch?” asked Lewis.

  Bertie laughed. “Don’t be silly. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There aren’t really any such things as witches.”

  Lewis smiled to himself, but he said nothing. They went up to a turret, where Lewis looked out a narrow window like an arrow slot, imagining himself a sturdy British archer defending the keep. After a little while the two new friends went outside. Lewis noticed that Bertie shaded his eyes when they first came into the sunlight. “Does the light bother you?” Lewis asked.