Chapter Eight

Beep! Beep! Beep!
Harry’s alarm clock yelled at him from the bedside. Without looking, he reached over and turned it off. When he did peek out from under heavy eyelids, red numbers glared through the dark room announcing the time. One forty-five. “Good,” he thought. “I’ve got fifteen minutes to get up there and figure out that lock.” He sat up and pulled on a warmer shirt, pushing his feet into a pair of slippers by the bed as he did so. On his way to the door, he grabbed the flashlight from the dresser. He opened the door and found, much to his surprise, Randall sitting on the floor in the hall just outside. He was clad in robe and slippers and was holding a flashlight.
“I decided I ought to come with you,” he explained standing up. “Since it’s my treasure we’re after, and the whole purpose of the hunt was to prove that I could finish what I started.”
“What about the ghost?” Harry asked with a sleepy grin.
“I’m not afraid. And if we see anything, it’ll only prove that I’m not as superstitious as you seem inclined to think.”
“Then let’s go. Time is running out.”
Back in the tower, Randall had disconnected the gong hammer and was watching the gears leading up to it to ascertain when it should have gone off. Harry gripped the gear with the handle and waited. As soon as Randall saw the gears start to turn, he called to Harry who pulled the gear out of alignment. Within seconds the pendulum stopped swinging, and the two stepped over to examine the wall. The stone segment now swung easily inward on an invisible hinge. The hand of a clock rested in a small cavity behind the wall.
“Claim your prize,” Harry said turning to his companion.
Randall reached in and picked up the key. It had several prongs on the back, obviously for opening the compartments outside the treasure room.
“The fourth key,” Randall said smiling.
“So the only ones left are…”
“Richard’s and Edmond’s,” Randall finished for him.
“Correct. Now let’s start this thing again and get some sleep.”
After shutting the stone segment and replacing the gears, they descended to the bottom of the tower which Randall then locked. Harry led the way toward their rooms using the back stairway. On reaching the second floor, he glanced down the hallway towards the front of the house, and caught sight of a closely hooded figure moving down the hall away from him.
Sliding out of his slippers, Harry noiselessly moved after the dark shape. He lost sight of it for a moment as it turned the corner, but caught a glimpse of the dark robe as it entered the Great Hall.
“Who are we chasing?” Randall came up behind Harry at the top of the stairs.
“Your ‘ghost’. I saw him as we came off the stairs.”
“We’ll never catch it,” Randall said. “There are too many places for it to hide once it reached the Hall--the library, museum, any room on the first floor, outside. It could’ve gone anywhere.”
“Okay, let’s take this systematically,” Harry said quickly. “You look in the parlour. I’ll stay here and make sure it doesn’t come back through.”
“Why do I have to look? What if it’s in there?”
“Okay fine. You stay here and I’ll go look for him.” He did so, searching behind curtains, furniture, and doors, but found no trace of the hooded figure. Harry quickly moved to the library, but with the same results. He returned to the hall and looked in the closets under the staircase, and the big coat closet off the balcony. Leaving Randall once again, he headed for the museum, but found the doors locked fast for the night.
“There’s no use keeping this up,” Randall said when his friend returned a second time. “It could have gone anywhere inside or outside the house before we came this far.”
“I guess your right. Let’s go to bed,” Harry conceded. When he entered his room, however, he found a small object on the floor just inside the door. He rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh of frustration, defeat and exhaustion as he picked it up and turned back through the door and down the hall to Randall’s room. He knocked softly at the door.
“Come in,” was the reply.
Without a word, Harry entered the room and dropped it on the bed.
“Where did you find that?” Randall grabbed the little book.
“Painful, isn’t it? It was on the floor just inside my room.”
Randall carefully looked it over to make sure there was no damage, but then dropped it on the bed again. “Should we have checked for prints?” he asked.
“No point. This character is obviously smart enough to have worn gloves. He’s sadistic enough. And even if he didn’t, we’d have to match the prints. Do you want me to take it? I can lock it in my suitcase until tomorrow.”
“Yeah, go ahead. Close the door, will you?”
“Sure, good night.”

* * * * *

Inside, the castle was certainly spacious and cool, but the medieval architecture left little occasion for sunlight or fresh air, whereas outdoors, the sun was blazing oppressively. Stopping just outside the front door, Harry paused a moment to look about him. Randall had left for town just after breakfast, and he hoped to clear his head by taking another walk around the castle. He noticed a broad, gravel lane leading from the driveway into the woods away to his right, and, enticed by the shade of the trees and his own curiosity to see where it led, he chose this secluded place for his walk.
Surrounded by trees and listening to the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes, Harry faced the problem before him. He and Randall had found four keys so far, but there remained two still to be found. And he had no idea where to look for them. Richard and Edmond. One a collector; the other a woodcarver. “This isn’t going to be easy,” Harry thought. “Richard collected so many different things. It could be anything. Edmond at least presents a clue with his woodcarving craze. Still, practically everything was made of wood or stone in his time. There must be some way to figure this out. If we only knew where to look! Maybe I’ll have another try at the museum, though it’s probably a waste of time.”
As his mind followed on this path, his feet followed a path that snaked through the trees and thick underbrush for a few hundred yards before ending at a high wall which Harry guessed to be the one that surrounded the property. But as he neared the stone partition, he found that this was not the case. The wall obviously enclosed only a small area, but what was inside, he could not make out.
At the end of the gravel path, an iron gate broke the regularity of the ivy covered wall. He tried to open it but found it locked. Harry parted the dark green ivy with his hands and peered through the black bars.
“A cemetery.” His whisper cut into the silence where previously only nature had dared to break. Drawn by inexplicable desire, he began looking for another way in. Through the gate, he spotted a low branch overhanging the enclosure. Circling the cemetery to reach the tree, he hauled himself into its branches and dropped over the wall. He landed on top of a stone vault, one of six along the wall opposite the iron gate. Harry knew without looking that these burial chambers belonged to the original Greystone brothers.
It appeared to be the family’s private cemetery. In several places were imposing stone monuments, but most graves were marked with a simple headstone, much like one would expect to find in a centuries-old cemetery. He thought it not irreverent to remain perched atop the vault on which he had landed. He linked his hands behind his head, leant back, and extended his legs in front of him, peeking at the sky through the trees above. His thoughts turned to his competitor. Who could it be trying to beat them to the treasure?
“Anybody,” Harry thought aloud. “It could be anybody. Louis could be after it for either the historical significance or the money. He said himself he expected to come into a large amount soon. Or it could be Larry. He’s into history and what a story that would make for him. Aside from the money, anyone could have any kind of motive we haven’t even taken into account. It could be anybody.” Harry closed his eyes and sighed.



Some time later, he opened his eyes. Sitting up to look around, Harry realized he had fallen asleep! A glance at his watch showed him that nearly three hours had passed since he had begun his walk.
Harry sat up and idly fixed his eyes on the headstone in front of him. He looked rather like his bird friend from the garden, with his head cocked to one side as he read the name. “Helen Elizabeth Nichols Greystone,” he spoke aloud. “She seems to have had names to spare.” He jumped to the ground. After spending so long asleep, he felt it best to atone for lost time and began to inspect his surroundings. As he weaved around the headstones, Harry noted names belonging only to the people who had inherited the castle and their spouses.
Harry was not normally one to digress from an objective and quickly realized that his trip to the family burial ground was pointless. As he turned to leave, he remembered the gate was still padlocked from the outside. This knowledge, combined with the sight of the seven foot walls, Harry realized he was literally getting nowhere.
“Oh, this just gets better and better.”
He spied the six stone vaults. “Well, I can get out the same way I came in.” Climbing up on one, he easily reach the top, and jumped over. Randall would surely be back by this time, and probably would be wondering where he’d gone. Harry made his way back along the path to the house with a quickened step.
On his return, he noticed Larry’s car parked outside. He wandered into the library to keep an eye on him for a while. As he watched the researcher at his work, he made a pretence of looking at the books in the room. Grabbing one from the end of a shelf, he found a comfortable chair where he could observe without attracting observation himself. He opened the book and appeared to be reading.
Larry went on with his work, and for some time the only sound to be heard in the room was the click-clack of his mouse and the tip-tap of his keyboard. Harry began to contemplate just how unproductive his morning had been. He’d fallen asleep in a cemetery and was currently employed in spying on an avid research historian. Why could he not make his mind focus on finding a clue to the keys? He decided to break the silence.
“Do you know if Randall has come home?”
Larry looked up as if noticing for the first time that he was not alone. “I did not even know he was gone.” And he turned back to his work.
Harry looked at the book in his hand. It was a small black bible. He had opened the cover, but hadn’t turned a page since he sat down, so intent was he on the only other occupant of the library.
“Thomas Daniel Nichols in honor of his christening, ” read the inscription inside, “from his father and mother, Stephen and Helen Nichols.” Harry stopped. Helen Nichols. The name he had seen in the cemetery. “Now that’s just too weird,” he thought. “She must have remarried if her name was Greystone. If Thomas was the son, why didn’t he inherit the estate? He may have died before reaching adulthood. I wish I had looked closer at those headstones. I’ll ask Randall if the names mean anything to him.” Harry did not have to wait long, as the young man returned in time for well before lunch.
Harry intercepted him in the Hall. “You got a minute?”
“Sure, just let me take these to aunt Harriet,” he said, holding up some packages. “Meet me in the parlour.”
“Now what was it you wanted to know?” Randall asked, coming in to sit down in the blue wingback chair next to Harry’s.
“Does the name Nichols mean anything to you?” Harry questioned. “More specifically, Stephen and Helen Nichols? or Thomas Nichols?”
Randall was quiet for a moment thinking. “Nichols. It rings a bell. Why?”
“I saw it in a book in the library.”
“And?”
“This morning after you left, I went for a walk in the woods, and I followed the gravel path through the woods to a small stone enclosure.”
“The cemetery,” Randall commented.
“And while I was there …”
“The gate was unlocked?”
“Actually, I climbed the wall.”
Randall snorted. “I suppose you have an excuse to be snoopy.”
“Anyway, I found a headstone for ‘Helen Nichols Greystone’ and by uncanny coincidence, I also found this book in the library.” Harry showed him the inside cover. “This says she was married to Stephen, and had a son named Thomas. In order for her name to have been Greystone, she must have remarried after her husband died. Now here’s my question--why didn’t Thomas inherit the castle?”
“I don’t know. Her second husband may have already had children older than Thomas when they married. Or the boy could have died as a child. He may not even have still been living when his mother remarried.”
Harry remained silent, wondering how to find out more about Helen and Thomas. He knew how he wanted to go about it. He looked askance at Randall.
“You want to ask Larry? He’s a suspect!”
“Everyone’s a suspect. How else do you propose we figure this out?”
The boy snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. There’s a historical society in town! They might be able to help.”
“Let’s go,” Harry replied. “We can take my car so we don’t have to ask Harriet for hers.”
Harry pressed the button on his key ring to unlock the doors of his dark blue Honda Accent. He had had it sent over for his business trip and was glad to slide behind the wheel of his own car.
“Don’t forget which side to drive on,” his passenger remarked as they pulled out of the drive.
“I’ll remember that,” Harry said.
A fifteen minute drive brought them to the center of town, where Randall directed Harry to the Historical Society. Harry had no desire to attract the attention of the people in town. It was agreed that Randall would inquire, since it was his own family’s history and would arouse no more curiosity than that of the ladies inside.
As Randall entered the two-story brick building, the bell over the door clanged announcing his presence. Yellowed maps of the town hung in large picture frames around the room. File cabinets lined the walls. Randall placed himself in front of the only desk in the room. A plaque rested conspicuously before him on the desk. Elaine Carter. Within a few moments, a dark-haired woman in her early twenties appeared from another room and sat down.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you could help me get some information on one of my ancestors. I’m attempting to compile a family tree, but I can’t seem to find any details on one particular lady.”
“It’s quite the task you’ve undertaken,” Elaine commented. Many people don’t realize the labor involved in tracing their genealogy. But I’d be glad to help. What information do you have on this lady?”
Randall retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket. “Her name was Helen Elizabeth Nichols Greystone. I believed she lived from 1829 to 1917.”
“Well let’s see what I can get with that.” She said typing the name into her computer. “Alright then, Helen was married to Stephen Nichols in 1858. She bore him a son named Thomas in ‘62. One year after the birth of their son, Stephen Nichols died. In 1866, Helen married Peter Greystone. Three years later in 1869, they had a son named Douglas. In 1875, they had a daughter named Abigail, and in 1877 they had another son named Robert.”
Randall nodded as wrote the names and dates on his paper. He already knew that Peter had a son named Douglas. And that the castle and land had passed to him.
“Can you tell me what became of Thomas?” he inquired.
“Just a moment.” The historian replied turning back to her computer. “He lived to be eighty-seven years old. He was married to a girl named Anne Kittering in 1886. He had two children, Janet and Scott, and lived in Sussex.”
“Thank you so much,” Randall said nodded as he wrote these new details on his paper. “You’ve been a great help.”
She flashed a bright smile at him. “If you need anything else, you just let me know.”
“I will. Good day.”
“What’s that?” Randall asked, as he returned to the car to find Harry reading.
“Get A Clue. It’s a detective magazine.” Harry tossed it in the back amongst many more magazines and some empty soda bottles. “Whatcha find out?”
Randall briefed his friend on the recent interview inside. “Here’s the scoop. Helen marries some chap named Stephen Nichols and she become Helens Nichols. They have a son named Thomas. Stephen dies. Helen remarries to Peter Greystone, the man who built the museum, making her Helen Nichols Greystone. Thomas has three younger half-siblings--Douglas, Abigail, and Robert Greystone. Douglas got the estate.”
“Half-brother,” Harry said to himself. “But Thomas was still the eldest. Why didn’t he get the old place? Did he die?”
“No, Thomas married, lived a long life near Sussex, and died at the age of eighty-seven.”
“Children?”
“Yes, two. A boy and girl.”
“Can you find out what happened to his descendants? It could be crucial that we know who is in the direct line of this new branch.”
Randall retraced his steps to the office to make his request, but Miss Carter told him it would take some time. “I’ll look into it. Come back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the genealogy report for you by then.”
Harry sat in the car with a scowl on his face. This new angle to his friend’s family history was causing him headaches, and it was written all over his forehead. He started the car when Randall came back, but didn’t pull out of his spot. He was thinking. Suddenly, he turned off the engine. “Let’s have lunch. I’m starved.”
“Good idea,” Randall said. “We will have missed lunch at home anyway.”
Getting out of the car, Randall led the way down the street to a small restaurant. Harry followed him silently. He was still thinking. They ordered lunch and sat near a window. All through lunch Randall felt the awkwardness of a one-sided conversation. He finally gave up trying to engage his friend. He was obviously thinking.
“I wonder where we could find a copy of Peter’s will?” Harry finally said aloud.
“A lawyer I know can help us out. His firm has been around here forever and they have handled many of the Greystone wills. They would probably be the best place to start.” Randall directed Harry to the building, and went in to procure a copy of the will, while Harry again waited outside. Half an hour went by before Randall came out carrying a large brown envelope.
“It took a while to find,” he explained, “and I dropped several comments about learning more of the man that made the museum to avert any suspicions or rumors from circulating.”
“Probably wasn’t necessary,” Harry remarked, “but you’re right. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”