Secret of the Underground Room Read online

  ... And the night rack came rolling in ragged and brown.

  For men must work, and women must weep

  Though storms be sudden and waters be deep

  And the harbor bar be moaning....

  "You have great taste in songs," said the professor sarcastically. "How long do you think this blasted storm is going to last?"

  Humphrey shrugged. "Search me. Sometimes they go on for days in these parts. It's sea weather, because we're so close to the coast. If it's storming this hard when we reach Ilfracombe, the ferry may not be able to take us to Lundy today."

  "Peachy," grumbled the professor. "So what do we do in that case?"

  "We wait—that's all we can do. But there is one good thing—if we can't get to Lundy, then neither can Masterman—unless of course he's out there already."

  Johnny shivered and looked out at the pouring rain. "Do you think he's waiting for us somewhere, professor?" he asked in a quavering voice.

  "Anything's possible," put in Humphrey. "Especially when you're dealing with the ghost of a sorcerer. But I hope I'll be equal to the old buzzard, whatever he tries to pull. As I said, I have some knowledge of magic arts, though I certainly am not a wizard."

  The car crawled up and down hills, as the rain fell steadily and the car's yellow fog lamps sent their beams out into the dark. After another hour the Bentley came rolling into the pleasant little fishing port of Ilfracombe—except that it didn't look all that pleasant, with a driving rain falling and wind whipping the harbor water into a fury of white froth. Carefully Humphrey nosed the car into a narrow, winding street and pulled up in front of a respectable-looking red-brick hotel. Two gas lamps burned outside the door, and a wooden sign creaked and swung in the wind. On the sign was a picture of a stuffy-looking British navy officer in a cocked hat, blue uniform, and gold epaulets, and the name of the hotel—the Admiral Hood Inn.

  Humphrey turned off the engine and sat staring at the raindrops that danced on the hood of the car. "Well, here we are," he said wearily. "This is a very nice hotel—I've stayed here before. We can't get to Lundy tonight. God only knows when this awful weather will let up."

  The professor patted his brother on the arm. "What can't be helped can't be helped," he said gently. "You've done all you could, Humphrey, and more besides. Let's hope tomorrow we'll wake up to clear skies and a quiet sea. In the meantime, let's go in and find some rooms. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm good for dinner and not much more."

  The boys followed the two men into the inn. As it turned out, there were two adjoining rooms available— one for the boys and one for the professor and his brother. After the four of them had gotten checked in, Humphrey led the way down the street to a restaurant. By eight in the evening everyone was sitting around in the hotel's lounge, watching television or leafing through magazines. And by ten they were all sound asleep.

  Johnny and Fergie shared a low-ceilinged room with framed engravings of hunting dogs on the walls. The windows were half open, so they fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering in the courtyard behind the inn. Afterward Johnny never could figure out what it was that awoke him. But around 3 A.M. he came awake with a start and sat upright in his bed, glancing around and wondering what was the matter. A few feet away Fergie snored on. Carefully, Johnny put his glasses on. He could not shake off the feeling that there was something very wrong. With a worried frown on his face, he got up and padded across the rug to the door that led to the room where Humphrey and the professor were sleeping. As quietly as he could, Johnny twisted the knob and peered inside. The room wasn't completely dark, with light from a streetlamp filtering in. Johnny could see two empty beds covered with rumpled sheets. And the door leading to the hall was ajar. The men had gone! But where to, and why?

  Johnny felt cold all over, but he managed to pull himself together. Stiffly he marched back into the other room and started shaking Fergie.

  "Wha... what the... " mumbled Fergie thickly. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and then sat up. "What's goin' on?" he grumbled irritably. "Is the hotel on fire?"

  "They're gone!" whispered Johnny. "Humphrey and the professor are gone! They're not in their room!"

  Fergie yawned. "Maybe they couldn't sleep, so they went out to catch a late movie."

  Johnny shook his head. "No, no, that's not possible!" he said. "Everything in these English towns shuts down early—you know that as well as I do. And the weather outside is terrible. They didn't go for a walk. Fergie, I'm scared—I mean it!"

  Wearily, Fergie peeled back the sheet and swung his legs out of the bed. He sat there with his hands on his knees, staring glumly up at Johnny. "Well, what are we supposed to do?" he asked. "Run around the streets hollering for them? They might've just wanted to have a private talk somewhere. I think you're pushin' the panic button a little early, big John!"

  Johnny folded his arms and frowned stubbornly. "Look, Fergie," he said, "if you don't want to come with me to look for them, I'll go by myself!"

  Fergie sighed. Johnny usually was pretty timid, but when he got stubborn, he was impossible to move. "Oh, all right!" Fergie growled. "I'll come with you. Just let me get some clothes on, okay?"

  A few minutes later Fergie and Johnny were standing in the doorway of the old inn, staring out at the falling rain. Both were wearing raincoats, and Johnny was carrying the professor's large black umbrella.

  "He didn't take this with him, either," muttered Johnny, tapping the fabric of the umbrella with his finger. "That's not like the professor—you know he hates to get his head wet!"

  Fergie shrugged. "Okay, okay, you made your point! Something funny is going on. So which way do we go to look for 'em?"

  Johnny paused. With a strange look on his face, he unbuttoned the front of his raincoat and reached in under his shirt to touch the silver crucifix that hung from a chain around his neck. Then he pulled out his hand, buttoned the raincoat again, and pointed off to the right. "This way," he said.

  Fergie gave Johnny one of his you-must-be-out-of-your-mind looks. But he followed his friend down the street. Johnny put up the umbrella, and the rain made a steady noise on the stiff cloth. They walked past dark, closed-up shops. In the distance the boys saw a lighted storefront.

  "Hey, whaddaya make of that?" whispered Fergie, pointing. "Somebody must be cleanin' their store or something like that."

  Johnny said nothing and plodded onward. They crossed a small intersection and felt rough cobblestones under their feet. Soon they were close to the lighted store and could see shelves full of bottles behind the plate-glass window. All kinds of bottles—short ones, fat ones, tall skinny ones, whiskey bottles, medicine bottles, and tiny ointment bottles. They came in all colors, mauve and blood red, dark blue and green and purple. All were covered with cobwebs. The light inside the store cast varied patterns of color on the sidewalk outside. As he paused in front of the shop, Johnny looked up, and his blood froze. The weathered wooden sign over the door said MASTERMAN'S BOTTLE SHOP.

  After swallowing hard a couple of times, Johnny forced himself to move closer. Fergie was right beside him. They saw a hand-printed cardboard sign taped to the oblong window of the door. It said SPECIAL TODAY, PESTS IN SMALL CONTAINERS.

  For a long time the two boys paused outside the dusty door. Then, with a sudden motion, Johnny moved boldly forward and twisted the knob, and they stepped inside. The place looked deserted. Shadowy bundles lay scattered on the bare boards of the floor, and in the air was a sickening smell of mold. Light came from two bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling by knotted black cords, and at the back of the shop was a counter made of rough, unvarnished planks. Two bottles stood on the counter, and there seemed to be something inside them. Suddenly a figure stepped forward from the deep shadows behind the counter. It was Dr. Masterman, and his long, horsy face was lit by a pale, trembling light. He grinned evilly and motioned for the boys to come toward him. They obeyed—they had to. It was as if there were collars around their necks and someone was tuggin
g at them. Fergie and Johnny stood before the counter, and they saw what was in the bottles. The wide, distorted face of the professor looked out from one; from the other Humphrey stared. On each face was a look of despair and fear.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rooted to the spot, frozen in place by fear, Johnny and Fergie stared at the two bottles. The face of Dr. Masterman floated in the darkness like something seen in a dream. Then thunder burst inside the heads of the boys, and they fell unconscious to the floor.

  How long they lay there neither of them knew. But when they awoke, they found the shop dark and deserted. The front door was open and banged gently in the damp, salty-smelling breeze. Moonlight streamed in through the dusty windows, and it was clear that the storm was over. As their eyes got used to the darkness, the boys saw that a thick layer of dust lay over the warped boards of the floor. The counter was bare, and the shelves where bottles had stood were bare also. The shadowy shapes they had seen earlier turned out to be piles of junk. With a great effort Johnny pulled himself to his feet. He felt light-headed and nauseated, like someone who has just gotten out of bed after a long illness. Stooping, he tugged gently at Fergie's arm, and at last his friend got up too. Fergie looked pale and groggy, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. But he soon pulled himself together and clenched his fists. He looked angry.

  "That rotten thing!" he said. "I'm gonna make him pay if it's the last thing I do!" But then he realized that his words were foolish, and tears came to his eyes. "What are we gonna do now?" he asked in a quavering voice. "Why didn't he just kill us and get it over with? He tried to kill us back at the bridge, didn't he? So why did he let us go this time?"

  Johnny thought a bit. "I think that even evil spirits can change their minds," he said slowly. "He must've decided that we weren't worth bothering with. Besides, it probably gave him a big thrill to have us see what had happened to our friends. Especially since he knows darned well that we can't do a thing about it."

  Fergie looked bewildered. "Do you really think the prof and Humphrey are still alive?"

  Johnny frowned stubbornly. "Yes. I really do. They're off in some other dimension, and God knows what Masterman is doing to them. For a sadistic creep like that, it'd be more fun to torture people than to kill them. But the game isn't over yet! We've got to try to rescue them!"

  Fergie laughed scornfully. "Rescue them! That's a good one! We'll be lucky if we get back home in one piece! How're we gonna rescue them?"

  Johnny bit his lip. "I don't know yet how we're gonna do that," he said after a short pause. "But the professor always says that you can solve a lot of mysteries just by using what you know. We have those weird notes that were sent to Father Higgins, and we have all that stuff that Humphrey told us. So I think we should pack up and go out to the isle of Lundy as soon as we can."

  Fergie was totally flabbergasted. He always thought of Johnny as a scaredy-cat, and he kidded him about this often. But here was his friend suggesting that the two of them go out and finish the work that the men had started. It seemed absolutely crazy.

  For a while Fergie couldn't think of anything to say. He sighed and shook his head. Then he walked over to the counter and began drawing circles in the dust with his finger. "I wanta get those two old guys back just as much as you do," he said slowly. "Humphrey and the prof know a lot more than we do, and maybe they could have figured out some way to settle Masterman's hash once we got out to that dumb island. But we're just a couple of kids. If Masterman figures out that we're after him, we're liable to wind up in a couple of bottles ourselves. And then what'll we do?"

  Johnny's face had frozen into a mask of grim determination. "Okay, Fergie, thanks a lot," he said, through his teeth. "I'll go out there by myself."

  That did it. Fergie looked at Johnny for a few seconds, and then he turned and pounded his fists on the counter. "Oh, all right!" he exclaimed in desperation. "I'll go out there with you, but if you get me killed, I'm gonna hate you!"

  Johnny grinned, and tears came to his eyes. He knew that his stouthearted friend would not let him down. "Come on!" he whispered, motioning toward the door. "We'd better get back to the hotel. Do you know what time it is?"

  Fergie peered at the luminous dial of his watch. "It's a little after four in the morning," he said. "Do you know when the ferryboat leaves?"

  Johnny shook his head. "No. But the professor had a timetable—it's probably in his room somewhere. Let's just hope that the weather stays good for us!"

  When the boys got back to the hotel, they went straight up to their room and started packing. Fergie stuffed things into the backpack that he used for a suitcase, and Johnny found the ferryboat schedule on the professor's bed. It said that a small steamboat named The Duke of Clarence would leave at 6:10 A.M. from Fanshawe's Pier, whatever that was. Finally, when their own things were packed, the boys rooted through the professor's suitcase to see if they could find anything useful. Luckily, the professor carried cash and not traveler's checks, and the boys found a big wad of five- and ten-pound notes tucked in under some of his shirts. Johnny found a book called History of England lying open on the bedside table. The chapter heading in heavy black print, "The Funeral of King Charles the First," caught his eye. For a moment Johnny was puzzled, but then he remembered one of the mysterious notes that had been sent to Father Higgins: Remember the funeral of King Charles the First. So he threw the book into his suitcase, along with the typewritten sheet that contained the whole list of mysterious messages.

  "Well, I guess that's about it, John baby," said Fergie as he glanced around the room. "We've got our passports and some money, an' maybe we better go out to the car and get a couple of flashlights and some rope. The prof said this was a rocky island with a lot of steep cliffs, so maybe we will have to do some climbing."

  Johnny felt his stomach turn over. He was scared of heights, and he had never done any kind of rock climbing in his life. But if he had to climb, then he would. After a quick look around the room the boys left, closing the door softly behind them. Quietly they padded down the carpeted staircase of the inn and out the front door. The air outside felt chilly and fresh, and the sun was just beginning to rise. Fergie had a good sense of direction, and he remembered the route they had taken when they entered the town.

  "I think the docks must be off that way," he said, pointing to the left. "But first we have to go to the car. It'll just take a minute."

  Fergie dug Humphrey's keys out of his pocket—he had found them on a bedside table. He opened the trunk and pulled out the professor's black leather satchel. From it he took a coil of rope, two nickel-plated flashlights, and a tire iron that he might be able to use as a crowbar. After stuffing these things into his backpack, Fergie locked the trunk and marched briskly down the sidewalk, with Johnny beside him. They crossed the street and found a dirt path bordered by whitewashed stones, which led to a dock with a little wooden shed next to it. The sign on the shed's roof said FANSHAWE'S PIER. A small ticket window at one end of the shed was open, and behind it sat a bored-looking old man in a blue shirt.

  "What'll it be, lads?" he asked in a thick Scottish accent. "Off to the islands, eh?"

  Johnny pulled out his wallet and asked for two round-trip tickets to Lundy. They were a pound apiece, so he peeled off two green pound notes and gave them to the man. In return the boys got four pink tickets, and they were told to wait on the dock. The steamer would be along very soon.

  Fergie and Johnny walked farther along the path and out onto the weathered boards of the dock. They saw that three other people were waiting for the ferry to Lundy. There were two women in cloth coats and scarves, and a man in a tweed suit. The boys were very relieved to see that Dr. Masterman was not there, though they had a pretty good idea that he would show up eventually to perform some black magic on Lundy to set those evil ghostly knights free. The boys paced impatiently back and forth. Fergie glanced at his watch every few minutes, and he began wondering if the boat would ever come. Finally, at a little
after six, the boys heard the loud hooting of a steam whistle, and a small white steamship with a single black smokestack came chugging into the harbor. It pulled up next to the dock, and sailors fastened it in place with ropes wound around posts. Then a gangplank came clattering down, and the passengers filed on board.

  The trip took a little over an hour. Johnny spent most of the time sitting on a bench and reading History of England, which he had brought along. Fergie just sat humming tunelessly and staring off into space.

  "You know what, Fergie?" said Johnny suddenly. "King Charles's funeral was kind of interesting. He got his head cut off, and his friends put him in a coffin and took him to an ancient church to bury him. They wanted to put him in the burial vault under the church's floor, only they didn't know where it was. So they stomped on the floor until they heard a hollow sound. Then they pried up the stone, and sure enough, there was this underground room. Do you think we're gonna have to do something like that to find out where those knights are buried?"

  Fergie pursed his lips. "I guess so. But I wish one of those handy-dandy clues would tell us what we're supposed to do to stop Masterman. I mean, suppose we get into this hidden room—then what? I don't know any magic spells, and neither do you. What can we really do?"