Chessmen of Doom (12 page)

For the first time the old woman noticed the two men lying side by side in their coffins. She went to Professor Childermass, knelt down, and pressed two fingers of her right hand to his forehead. Then in a singsong voice she said:

 

Life return, potions fade

Dwell no longer in the shade
 

Blood of bat, howlet's wing
 

Come awake, these slumbers fling!

 

At first nothing happened, but soon the color came flooding back into the professor's cheeks. He coughed and blinked, and then with a jerk he sat up.

"My gosh, she really
is
a witch!" gasped Fergie.

After giving Fergie a dirty look the old woman moved over to Dr. Coote and began using the spell on him. Meanwhile the professor glanced with astonishment at the boys, adjusted his glasses and began studying the old woman. Suddenly a light came on in his brain. He was guessing wildly, but he was convinced that his guess was right.

"Crazy Annie!"
he exclaimed.
"You're
the one we're supposed to be looking for!"

The woman turned and wrinkled up her nose disdainfully. "I'll thank you not to use that nickname," she said coldly. "Mean children and your worthless brother have called me that, but I find the name offensive. My name is Anna Louisa Thripp—Mrs. Thripp to you!" She went back to the job of reviving Dr. Coote.

The professor climbed out of the coffin and stood there brushing dirt off his coat. A look of astonishment was on his face. "How the devil do you know that I'm Perry Childermass's brother?" he asked. "As far as I know, I've never met you in my life!"

"I guessed who you were," snapped Mrs. Thripp without looking up. "All you Childermasses are alike: short and cranky and opinionated, and you don't know how to comb your hair. Perry mentioned to me once or twice that he had some rather disagreeable brothers, but I never expected to meet them. By the way, what is all this nonsense about looking for me? Are you?"

"Yes!" said the professor excitedly. "My brother—or rather, his ghost—said that you could help us fight an evil wizard who is at the old mansion right now, trying to do something indescribably awful!"

Dr. Coote groaned and began to stir. Mrs. Thripp helped him sit up and then got to her feet. "Do you mean that Englishman with the mustache and the surly attitude? I passed him on the street one day, and I felt his power. So what is he trying to do?"

While Dr. Coote rubbed circulation back into his arms and legs, the professor explained about the comets, the chessmen, and the skulls. As he talked, Mrs. Thripp's stare grew hard, and the set of her mouth got grimmer.

"So
that's
his game!" she said indignantly. "I should have known he was up to no good!" Then her manner changed, and she looked sad. "But I can't imagine why your brother sent you to me," she went on gloomily. "I'm really not very powerful. If you want me to cure the sniffles or make someone fall in love, I can probably help. But it sounds as if this Englishman is a big-league heavy hitter, and I'm afraid I'm not. Sorry!"

The professor was getting exasperated. But he fought down his crabbiness and smiled as politely as possible. "But, madam!" he began, in a pleading tone. "My brother
must
be right! About your being able to help, I mean. His ghost spoke to John here and said that you had the key. Those were his words!"

Mrs. Thripp laughed heartily. "The key!" she exclaimed. "I'll say I have the key! I have bushels of keys." She added, in a sheepish voice, "If you want to know, I also save string."

"But you do have keys!" exclaimed the professor as he clutched at the woman's arm. "Are any of them magic?"

The woman gazed at him blankly. "Not that I know of."

The professor was getting more anxious. "See here, madam," he began, "we may not have a lot of time, but . . . well, could you take us to your house and show us these keys?"

Mrs. Thripp hesitated and then she smiled. "Well, if you think it will help, I'll—"

"Thanks a million!" snapped the professor, cutting her off. He turned to Dr. Coote and the two boys, who were staring at him with their mouths open. "Come on, everybody!" he said with a wave of his arm. "We're going over to Mrs. Thripp's house."

The professor grabbed Mrs. Thripp's lantern and led the way out of the gloomy, cold crypt into the churchyard. Even though the air was bitingly cold, Johnny and Fergie sucked it into their lungs—they had never been so glad to get out of a place in their lives. It was an odd little procession that wound its way past the snow-covered headstones, with the professor and his bobbing lantern in the lead. As it turned out, Mrs. Thripp's house was just across the road and down a little wooded lane. She lived in a squat, shabby bungalow with a gambrel roof and a screened porch. Nailed to a tree next to the house were red taillight reflectors and old license plates; a small straw doll hung from the handle of the screen door. As the visitors walked into the house, they noticed that it smelled strongly of beef stew and wood smoke. A dusky oil painting of a bird dog hung above the mantel of the fieldstone fireplace, and overstuffed chairs stood on the threadbare rug. The window shades were ragged and patched with old newspaper comic strips, and by the refrigerator a black cat was lapping milk from a cracked willow ware saucer. Without a word Mrs. Thripp led her guests to the tiny kitchen, and there on a table stood a large cardboard carton that had once held boxes of laundry soap. In it were heaps and heaps of keys. Keys of all kinds and sizes and shapes, wired together or tied in bunches with twine, or just thrown loose into the box.

The professor's heart sank. How would he ever manage to figure out which of these keys was the right one? And then, after he found it—
if
he found it—he would have to go racing over to the mansion and—and do what? He didn't have the slightest idea. Not the faintest ghost of one. As he stared at the unholy mess of rusting keys, the professor felt real despair. How much time did they have? He didn't know that either. After scooping up a handful of keys he flung them down in disgust and gazed about distractedly. He really had to find out how late it was. When Mr. Stallybrass made his first attempt with the chessmen, the climax of the sorcery came at midnight. So they had to get over to the mansion before then. But the professor had left his watch in his car, so he had to consult a clock. Every kitchen had a clock, so where was Mrs. Thripp's?

Suddenly the professor stopped and stared. An iron bracket was bolted to the wall above the table, and from it hung three or four flower-print dresses on hangers. They were nothing special—strictly Salvation Army stuff—but a small piece of costume jewelry was pinned to the one that hung on the outside. It was covered with twinkling rhinestones and was shaped like a key.

The professor let out a bloodcurdling screech and pointed with a trembling finger at the key.
"That's it!"
he yelled. Whirling around, the professor grabbed Mrs. Thripp by the arm. "Tell me quick!" he barked. "Is that piece of jewelry magic?
Is it?"

Mrs. Thripp looked startled, but then she smiled vaguely. "Well, no. Or maybe I should say yes, it is . . . in a way. I mean, it's one of the things I tried to enchant once upon a time, long ago." She paused and then went on slowly. "You see, when I was starting out as a witch I tried a lot of spells, just for practice. I enchanted flatirons and geraniums and all sorts of silly things. I don't recall what sort of spell I put on that pin, but whatever it was, it seems to have failed. I can assure you that the pin is about as magical as your grandma's nightie."

The professor bit his lip impatiently. Then suddenly he snapped his fingers. "We'll have to try it," he said grimly. "It's our only chance! Will you put on that pin and come with us to Perry's old mansion?"

Mrs. Thripp looked confused, but she nodded. "Yes, of course, if you think it will help," she said. "By the way," she went on, "you seemed to be looking around for a clock a few minutes ago. Mine's broken, but my old Benrus says that it's half past eleven."

"So we still have time!" exclaimed the professor. "Great! But how do we get to that dratted estate from here? Do you know the way?"

"Certainly," Mrs. Thripp answered. "I used to go there a lot and talk with Perry . . . usually about magic. I'd say the place is about four miles from here. We can use my car."

The professor, Johnny, Fergie, and Dr. Coote all cheered. This was better than any of them had expected. With a lot of fumbling Mrs. Thripp got the rhinestone pin off the blouse on the hanger and pinned it to the one she was wearing. Then she led her visitors out through a back door and down a narrow walkway to her very untidy garage, which smelled of paint and engine oil. There stood a rusty 1947 Nash, which looked a bit like an upside-down bathtub with windows. Reaching up onto a shelf, Mrs. Thripp brought down a key ring from which a small plastic skull hung. With a little bow she handed the keys to the professor.

"I don't actually drive myself," she said, "because I have poor eyesight. My brother lives near here, and he usually comes over to cart me around when I need to go someplace."

"Thank you, madam," said the professor brusquely. "Byron, will you see if you can open the garage doors, while I get this rust bucket started? The rest of you climb in and cross your fingers."

Mrs. Thripp looked offended when the professor called her car a rust bucket, but she got into the front seat next to him, while Johnny and Dr. Coote climbed into the back. Meanwhile Fergie struggled with the old-fashioned folding doors of the garage. At first the professor got nothing but a halfhearted whine from the car's ignition system. But he tried again and again, and finally the engine turned over. He nosed the rattly old car onto the snowy road, while Mrs. Thripp gave him directions. The two-lane blacktop was not very well plowed, and a layer of hard-packed snow lay under them. The car steered awkwardly, and it skidded and fishtailed as the professor rounded the curves. But no one complained about the old man's driving—they all knew this was an emergency.

As they drove on, the professor began to recognize the road he had been on many times during the summer. He saw a familiar catalpa tree that leaned out from an overhanging snowbank, and a wooden mailbox holder made in the shape of Uncle Sam. They crawled up the long hill that led to the gates of Perry's estate. As the car ground forward, it slowed down. The tires spun and whined, and the professor pressed down on the accelerator, but it was no good. They went slower and slower, till the car stopped and began to slide backward. The terrified passengers clung to armrests and prayed as the car rolled back to the bottom of the hill and buried its rear end in a snowbank.

Silence fell. The professor turned off the engine and pounded angrily on the steering wheel with his fists.
"Blast it all anyway!"
he roared. Then a thought occurred to him. Turning to Mrs. Thripp, he smiled in a strained way. "Madam," he said coldly, "is it possible that you don't have snow chains on this car?"

"Snow chains?" said Mrs. Thripp in a wondering tone. "I—I don't think I have them. I mean, I don't go about much in the winter, and—"

"Great!" snapped the professor, cutting her off. "Just great! Fortunately we aren't terribly far from the estate. We are all going to have to get out and walk! Come on children, hop to it!"

Groaning, Dr. Coote and the boys climbed out of the car and began slogging up the snowy road. The professor marched along briskly, and so did Mrs. Thripp, who was really a better hiker than you might have expected. Johnny looked up as a comet flashed across the cold, starry sky. Frightened, Johnny struggled to catch up to the professor, who was near the top of the hill.

"Pro—Professor," gasped Johnny as he plodded alongside the old man, "is—is that thing up there—"

"I don't know what it is," snapped the professor, putting his head down and resolutely marching forward. "But if I were you I'd save my breath. You'll need it if you're going to get to the mansion without collapsing."

They struggled on. The shadowy gateposts of the estate could be seen now, and to everyone's great surprise the driveway to the mansion was plowed!

"He . . . must have done it . . . for his own convenience," gasped the professor, as he paused to catch his breath. "Well, without meaning to, the fool has made it easier for us! Come on!"

Johnny's legs felt like rubber, and he kept wanting to collapse, but he forced his feet to move. Finally he saw the mansion in the distance. Light blazed from every window, but the tower room was ominously dark. The house looked the way it had on that summer night when the comets died.

"Lovely, eh?" said Fergie, as he stomped alongside Johnny. "I wonder what the prof and Mrs. Whosis are gonna do if we can't get near the place."

"That would indeed be a problem, Byron," said the professor, who was walking nearby. "However, we should not give up hope until all hope is gone. It's ten minutes to midnight by Mrs. Thripp's watch—let's see how close we can get."

The path that led from the driveway to the front door of the mansion had been shoveled, so the five of them walked on it, with the professor in the lead. This time there was no invisible barrier, and they clumped up the porch steps to the entrance. When he opened the door, the professor gasped. A frozen waterfall had cascaded down the front stairs, and the hall looked like a skating rink.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the professor. "A pipe must have burst somewhere! I should have had the water turned off when I left, but we don't have time to think about that now. Fortunately, there's a back staircase, and let us hope that the upstairs of the house doesn't look like the Scott Glacier! This way, and try not to fall down!"

Slipping and sliding, everyone followed the professor down the hall to the back of the house. Frost-rimmed paintings stared down on them as they passed, and clouds of breath hung in the air—it was bitterly cold, colder even than it was outside. When he got to the back stairs, the professor was glad to see that the steps were bare. Waving for the others to follow, he started up. Johnny felt so nervous that he was ready to jump out of his skin, and he kept glancing at Fergie. Fergie plodded along with his head down, his mouth set in a grim frown.