The Vengeance of the Witch-Finder Page 8

  He had not had time to examine the thin book he had brought down from the lumber room. When Cousin Pelly had told him to get ready for dinner, Lewis had hastily thrust the slim volume under his pillow. Now Lewis set the candle on the small desk at the head of his bed, and in its subdued illumination he got undressed. He donned his favorite pajamas, the maroon pair with bright-red buttons and trim. Then he took the flickering candle to the bathroom down the hall, where he brushed his teeth. That done, Lewis returned to his bedroom, locked the door behind him, and got into bed. The wind still whistled against the windows, and spatters of rain clashed against the panes with fitful violence. Lewis shivered and reached beneath his pillow. The book was still there, right beside the trusty flashlight. Although he had replaced the worn-out batteries, Lewis decided not to use the flashlight for reading. The candle would do, and he wanted to save the flashlight in case of emergency.

  Lewis had never tried to read by candlelight, and at first he found it difficult. The illumination was dim and yellow and wavering, making the letters on the page dance slowly before his eyes. The book proved to be a handwritten diary, and the writing was very old-fashioned and hard to read. The letters looped and scrawled and squiggled across the page, and the ink had faded to a rusty brown. Since the brittle old paper had taken on a deep tan color with age, the writing on the pages looked dim and faint. The cover of the book bore no title, so Lewis studied the flyleaf of the diary for a long time before he was really sure what the writing said:

  The Persecution, for Witch-Craft,

  of Martin Christian Barnavelt

  Writ by Himself,

  Anno 1688

  Lewis struggled through the first few pages, and gradually he learned how to interpret the old-fashioned handwriting more easily. His eyes grew round as he read old Martin Barnavelt’s story, “writ by himself.” The book began, “I, Martin Christian Barnavelt, finding myself growing old and infirm, am determin’d to set this Account down for Posterity, that in future Years, my Descendants may understand and know the Truth behind the false, vicious, and wicked Accusations brought against me.” The sentences were all like that, long and rambling and swimming with commas like schools of little black tadpoles. Still, the story told by the antique writing was a version of the tale different from the others Lewis had heard or read. It even differed very widely from the privately printed book done by Martin Barnavelt’s own son.

  Lewis gathered from the book that Malachiah Pruitt’s witch-finding had hurt a good many people, not just Lewis’s ancestor. Martin wrote that he had witnessed Witch-finder Pruitt’s persecution of “two poore harmless Women of the County, both Widows, and both doubtless innocent of any Evil whatever.” The fact that old Pruitt had taken over Barnavelt Manor and held his witchcraft trials there especially irritated Martin. “If these poor Souls confess’d the practice of the Black Arts, then who among us would not, if tormented by the devilish Machines, that Witch-finder Pruitt had install’d in my Cellars?” Martin asked at one point.

  Then the book took a sinister turn. At first Martin merely explained what had happened to the two poor women: How Pruitt had brought them to trial for conjuring and for having “familiar spirits” in the form of a cat and a toad. But Pruitt was not both judge and jury. A panel of “sober and decorous Men” sat as the jury, and before they would condemn the women to death, these jurors insisted on convincing evidence. This they got, Martin wrote, when “Signs and Wonders, of undoubted Magick, did appear; viz., the Moving of Objects, without any visible Hand, the Cuffing and Scratching of certain of the Men, by an invisible Animal or Sprite, and divers other Marvels.”

  At first the scary events took even Martin in, and he was ready to believe that the women were witches, even though they wept and protested their innocence. Then a darker explanation occurred to him. “Once when the Confusion reign’d, of some invisible Spirit groaning and trampling and making other Sounds, I kept a close Watch upon the Witch-finder. I saw him make certain Gestures and Movements of a mystical Significance; and so I came to understand, that Witch-finder Pruitt was himself the Wizard. But he did become aware that I watch’d him, and so he determin’d to make me his next Victim, and so gain a Hold on Barnavelt Manor forever.”

  Lewis frowned as he read the next few pages. They made one thing very clear: Martin Barnavelt was far from ignorant of magic and enchantment. He wrote that Malachiah Pruitt used a spell called “The Summoning of Invisible Servants,” a true act of evil sorcery. “The Villain then sent forth these airy and insubstantial Spirits,” wrote Martin, “to deceive Witnesses into the Belief, that the poor innocent Women he accus’d, did work those Wonders that the Jury took as Proof.” However, Martin had no way of proving that, and soon Pruitt ordered Martin himself imprisoned under a charge of witchcraft. Pruitt had him locked up in a cellar room of the Manor, where Martin came close to despair. Fortunately, one of Martin’s servants brought him his meals. The accused wizard sounded out this man, and he found that the servant still felt a great loyalty to him. “I ventur’d then to ask this good Fellow,” wrote Martin, “to bring unto me a Charm of great goodness and power, viz., the Amulet of Constantine. He found Occasion to take it from my Study, and to convey it privily to my Cell. There I perform’d the necessary Incantations—”

  Lewis blinked. Old Martin Barnavelt had been a wizard, after all! But then, Jonathan Barnavelt was a wizard, and his magic had always been harmless and good. Somehow Lewis felt that Martin had been the same kind of magician, and not a servant of evil. He read on. The Amulet of Constantine, whatever that was, had the power to undo evil enchantments and to break malevolent spells. Martin was too late to save the lives of the poor women, whom Pruitt had hanged, but he did accomplish something. On the morning of his trial, Martin had used the Amulet to cast a spell that would “break off Witch-finder Pruitt’s hold on the evil Spirit, which aided him, and to lock that Spirit away in a close, secret Place.” That morning, Malachiah Pruitt appeared at the trial ailing and weak. And when he had tried some of his magical gestures and passes, he fell to the floor in a dead faint, from which he never recovered.

  “Speechless and helpless he remain’d from that Day,” wrote Martin. “Bereft of his dire Enchantments, Witch-finder Pruitt aged at an ungodly rate, changing from a Man of five-and-forty to one of five Score in two short Years. And so at last he died and pass’d away, and the World was rid of a very wicked Scoundrel.”

  The last pages of the account were extremely terse. Martin briefly explained that Charles II, the new King who ascended the throne in 1660, had betrayed him. “It pleas’d certain Members of the Court, to whisper to his Majesty that I was one of the detested Pruitt’s Helpers and Friends. The King chose to believe them, and the Crown prevented me from regaining Barnavelt Manor for long, weary years.” Angry at what the new King had done, Martin felt justified in keeping for himself “one of that malefactor Pruitt’s gaudy Toys, giv’n him for his Part in the ignoble Slaughter of King Charles I.” He added that, “Now growing old, I fear for the Security of the Place where I immur’d that evil Spirit. And so, I have caus’d a Tomb of Brick to be rais’d above that spot, and with my own Hands I have fix’d the Amulet, with its Chain wrapp’d about that wicked Pruitt’s most priz’d Toy, in the Lid of this Tomb. There may its righteous Power keep the corrupt Spirit captive forever.”

  Lewis caught his breath. So that was what he had released from the brick vault! No wonder it had frightened him and Bertie so badly—if the book told the story correctly, the invisible creature was a spirit of darkest malice. And maybe Martin Barnavelt’s diary had given him a way of fighting that spirit. Lewis shivered. His candle had burned to a drippy stump, and the wind and rain had died down. Lewis came to a decision. He would have to tell Uncle Jonathan about what he had discovered. He did not want to admit what he had done, but neither could he bear to face the idea of fighting this terrible thing alone. He got out of bed and reached for the candle.

  A terrific blast of lightning and an immedi
ate explosion of thunder made him cry out. He dropped the candle, and the fall snuffed out the flame. Lewis stood in darkness, his ears ringing and his heart thudding painfully. He was looking toward one of the bedroom windows, but he could see only a lingering blob of greenish light.

  Then the formless blob took on a shape. Lewis gasped. It was not just an after-image. A face floated eerily outside the window, looking in at him. A lean, leering face with deep-set eyes. A face that looked like the awful skull-moon that had glared down on him in the maze. The man in black was floating in air just outside his window!

  Lewis opened his mouth to shout. He dimly saw two long, bony hands weaving an intricate gesture in the air. The book in his hand grew hot. A cloud of black smoke suddenly gushed from it, choking and evil smelling. He threw the book away from him, and in midair it burst into flame. It burned to nothing in a poof, and Lewis heard triumphant laughter ringing in his mind. Lewis’s head spun, and he fell to the floor unconscious.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Thin morning sunlight woke Lewis. He lay on the floor with his cheek against the frayed carpet of his bedroom. He felt cold and achy, and for a few puzzled moments he could not understand why he lay on the floor and not in bed. Then the terrifying memory of that spectral, grinning face came back to him, and he jumped up. Lewis looked wildly around for the diary of Martin Barnavelt—and then remembered that it had exploded into some kind of supernatural flame. He could not even see any ashes. Then he steeled himself and looked out the window.

  Everything appeared perfectly normal. The morning sun shone through a high, hazy layer of milky-white clouds. Scattered across the side lawn lay sodden twigs and leaves, ripped off the trees by the previous evening’s storm. Lewis opened the window, put his head out, and looked down. The drop from his casement to the ground was sheer, without even a ledge for anyone to stand on. The face at his window had belonged to someone—or something—that could float in midair. Lewis remembered a line from a play that he, Jonathan, Rose Rita, and Mrs. Zimmermann had attended in Ann Arbor one evening back in the spring:

  Fair is foul, and foul is fair:

  Hover through the fog

  and filthy air.

  The play had been Macbeth, and the characters speaking the lines were the three hideous witches. Lewis thought that William Shakespeare had such creatures sized up about right.

  He knew he had to do something. The best course would have been to show the diary to his uncle and to confess what he and Bertie had accidentally done out in the maze. With the diary gone, he could only hope that Jonathan would believe him. Lewis had to admit that in the light of day, the story sounded pretty wild, even to him. Still, Uncle Jonathan had learned a certain kind of magic himself, and he was the current treasurer of the Capharnaum County Magicians Society, so maybe it would not be impossible to convince him that some diabolic enchantment was at work. Lewis dressed himself and went to the door that opened into his uncle’s bedroom. He tapped very softly on the door. Then when no one answered, he knocked louder.

  Still no answer. Lewis tried the doorknob, and the door swung inward. He went into his uncle’s room. Everything was just as Jonathan had left it: The nightstand held his pipe and pipe cleaners, embroidered tobacco pouch, wallet, pocket watch with its paper-clip chain, fat black fountain pen, and flashlight. Jonathan’s big, battered suitcase rested on a stand at the foot of the bed. The closet door stood open, and Lewis could see Jonathan’s clothes hanging there. The bedclothes were rumpled, as if the bed had been slept in, and the pillow still held the impression of Jonathan’s head.

  But Jonathan Barnavelt was nowhere to be found.

  Growing uneasy, Lewis went downstairs. Perhaps Uncle Jonathan and Cousin Pelly were having breakfast. No, the dining room was quiet and empty. Lewis forced himself to look out the windows at the front lawn. The hedge maze was not stirring, but the pale morning light made it grim and dark, with deep green shadows under the overgrown branches. Lewis went back toward the kitchen. He noticed that he was walking on tiptoe. The hallway lay in darkness, but when he touched a light switch, nothing happened. The power was still out.

  Lewis timidly opened the kitchen door. Mrs. Goodring sat immobile at the table, with her hands folded in her lap. She was staring straight ahead at the stove. As Lewis came in, her head slowly turned toward him. The movement struck Lewis as weird, because her shoulders did not change position at all. Her head simply came around, like a mechanical doll’s. “What do you want?” she asked him. Her eyes were distant and cold.

  Lewis swallowed. “I—I was looking for my uncle,” he murmured.

  For a moment Mrs. Goodring simply stared. Then, with absolutely no expression in her face or voice, she said, “Mr. Barnavelt and your uncle have gone away on a short trip. You are to be in my care until they return.”

  “Oh,” said Lewis. “Uh—is Bertie anywhere around?”

  “Bertie?” snapped Mrs. Goodring, as if she had never heard the name before. She was quiet for another moment, and then she said, “My son cannot play with you today. Why not go outside? There is a funny maze you can play in all by yourself.” She smiled at him, but her smile looked all wrong. It looked like the snarl an angry dog turns on an enemy, with nothing friendly in it.

  No one had to tell Lewis that something was terribly wrong with Mrs. Goodring. He tried to return her smile, but his face felt frozen. “Uh, no, thanks. It’s, uh, probably still too wet from all the rain. I think I’ll just read in my room.” When Mrs. Goodring did not reply, Lewis asked, “Do you think I can have some breakfast, please?”

  Her head swiveled back around in that weird way, and she stood up from the table. She marched stiffly over to a cabinet. She opened this door and that, as if she had no idea where the food could be. She found a loaf of home-baked bread and put that on the table. Then she wandered to the icebox, which she had some trouble opening. She took out a pitcher of milk and put it on the table beside the bread. Then she sat down again, staring straight ahead.

  “Uh, thanks,” Lewis said. He found the silverware in a drawer and got a plate and glass for himself from a shelf above the icebox. Although he had almost no appetite, he cut himself a slice of bread, buttered it, and ate it, washing it down with a glass of milk. Then he put the food and milk away and rinsed the dishes in the sink. Mrs. Goodring did not even look his way as he left the kitchen.

  Lewis hurried back up to his uncle’s bedroom. He opened the suitcase and looked at the clothes there. Then he checked the closet. The shirt and trousers that his uncle had worn the day before lay on the floor of the closet. The red vest and tweed jacket hung neatly on the rack, along with clean trousers and shirts. As far as Lewis could tell, Jonathan had not dressed to go out. Something was very much amiss.

  He went back to his room and burrowed through his suitcase until he came up with the little pocket notebook where he had written Constable Dwiggins’s address. He carried this downstairs. The telephone rested on a tall round table at the foot of the stairs. It was the old-fashioned kind called a candlestick phone, the type whose tall mouthpiece you hold in one hand and the earpiece in the other. It did not even have a dial. Lewis picked it up and clattered the earpiece hook up and down three or four times, the way he had seen people do in movies. An operator answered.

  Speaking softly, Lewis said, “I have to get in touch with Police Constable Henry Dwiggins, in London. I don’t know his telephone number, but this is his address.” And he read off the street and number.

  “I will try to reach him,” said the operator. For a few seconds the line buzzed and crackled. Then Lewis heard the phone ringing on the other end. It was a funny sound, not like an American phone at all. This made a noise more like a small robot gargling.

  “Hello, yes?” said a woman’s pleasant, elderly voice.

  “Uh, I’m calling Police Constable Henry Dwiggins,” said Lewis.

  “What? Henry? He is my son, but he is on duty just now. May I tell him who called?”

  “Yes,” sa
id Lewis. “This is Lewis Barnavelt. I need help. Please tell him I am at Barnavelt Manor, near the village of Dinsdale in West Sussex. Should I repeat that?”

  No one answered. The line sounded dead. Lewis clicked the receiver hook up and down several times, but no one responded. He had no idea how much of his message had gotten through, or if any at all had. He had the creepy feeling that someone knew he was trying to telephone the police and was playing with him, the way a cat might play with a mouse.

  “I gotta go for help,” Lewis told himself. He went outside. The sun had not yet risen very high, and the day was cool and damp. Lewis hesitated for a few moments, but then he strode off down the driveway. He figured he could walk to the village in less than an hour. Surely there would be a policeman in Dinsdale who would listen to him. He carefully kept as far away from the hedge maze as he could, but when the gatekeeper’s cottage came in sight, Lewis stopped as if paralyzed. A figure dressed in black stopped beside one of the gateposts, bent over, and fooled with something. Then the figure straightened up. With a gasp of relief, Lewis recognized the bald dome of old Jenkins.

  He hurried on down. What was Jenkins doing? As he got closer, Lewis saw that the manservant had looped a heavy chain around one of the gateposts and had secured it with a padlock. Now he stretched the chain across the drive and fastened it around the other post with a small steel hook. The chain clanked and clattered as it swung back and forth. Jenkins was sealing off the drive!

  The servant turned suddenly and stared at Lewis. His eyes had that same awful emptiness that Lewis had seen in Mrs. Goodring’s vacant gaze. Lewis edged on toward the road. He could duck under the chain and run toward town—

  Jenkins lifted his right hand and pointed his finger at Lewis. “Nay, thou sprout of a cursed Barnavelt,” he said in a strange voice. “Thou’lt not flee by this path. Get thee back to the place of judgment! Thy doom waits for thee!”