The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  All this was said before and after shaking hands with Mr. Andrew Van Meter and while he was exchanging a few words with Janet. Janet found him interesting. She had noticed that he rose with some difficulty from a seat near Mrs. Holt, when they first approached, and leaned a little upon a light cane in his left hand, while he extended his right. He was tall, thin, with a pale face and large, dark eyes. His nose was a little long for beauty, but he had a pleasant mouth, which smiled a little as he told Janet that he was her “Cousin Andy” and her Uncle Pieter’s son.

  “I am so glad to have some family,” she informed him. “Did you ever see my mother?” she continued.

  “Yes. You look like her.”

  But it was time to bid Miss Hilliard goodbye. She said that she had an errand in Albany, but would take the next train back to New York. Janet wondered what that errand was, but would not, of course, ask Miss Hilliard. Then, too, she was anxious to reach the end of her journey, and that anticipation, with the pleasant impression made by Mrs. Holt and her cousin, helped very much to keep Janet from any regrets at saying another goodbye. “Write to me very soon, Janet,” said Miss Hilliard, and Janet promised.

  The car to which Janet was shown was a good one, but not new. It also bore evidences of April weather, though the day was a bright one. “There were some mud-holes, Janet, as you can see,” said Mrs. Holt. “We could have directed you to come farther by train, somewhat nearer the Van Meter place, you know. But it seemed troublesome for Miss Hilliard to arrange the change, and we wanted you to see the country. A motor trip is much better for that. Our light truck is getting your baggage.”

  The three of them stepped within the car and waited for the colored chauffeur, who was attending to the matter of Janet’s trunk and a suit-case with the driver of the light truck referred to. This waited not far away.

  “Now you are wondering, I know, who I am and how we are all related,” said Mrs. Holt. “I could not tell everything in that little note that I dashed off to put in the box. It is better to have your uncle Pieter explain, perhaps—”

  “If he will,” inserted Mr. Andrew Van Meter.

  “Yes, if he will,” laughed Mrs. Holt. “You will not find your uncle very communicative, Janet, but he is very glad to have you here and it is due to him that you are ‘discovered.’ As I was about to say, I am a distant cousin and I am supposed to be the housekeeper at the place. Really, old P’lina runs the house and I officiate at the show part of it, though we have very little company just now. Uncle Pieter is expecting me to coach you a little in your studies, and what I don’t know Andrew here can tell you.”

  “Oh, I’m glad that it is to be the family that teaches me,” said Janet with content. These were lovely people. But she did wonder what was the matter with Cousin Andy. Oh, of course—he would have been in the war! He must have been injured—poor Cousin Andy! She would not take any notice, of course. Some one would tell her.

  Little more was said about personal affairs. Mrs. Holt was kept busy pointing out interesting spots, hills, places along the roads which they took. It was a much longer ride than Janet had supposed. The New York country was beautiful, she thought. She had been among the Pennsylvania hills and mountains, but never in New York except in the great city on her way to the seashore. Cousin Andy said little. There was a delicious little lunch which they ate on the way, and in reply to questions from Mrs. Holt—older people could ask questions, but never girls—Janet chatted about her life at the school, her dearest friends and the funny farewell that she had had at the last. She did not, however, repeat the “crazy” verse sung about “Uncle Pieter.”

  Janet did not forget to speak with enthusiasm of the box and its contents. “I had never had one sent me in my life. Whoever baked that cake certainly can cook! The girls thought it just wonderful.”

  Mrs. Holt laughed. “That was old P’lina herself, I think. You will find her a bit difficult, perhaps, Janet, but you must remember that her ‘bark’ is considerably worse than her ‘bite,’ as they say.”

  What a funny name that was, P’lina. Janet wondered how they spelled it. Was it a Dutch name, too?

  In silence they drove into the drive of the Van Meter place. A grove of trees in early spring beginnings of foliage had impeded the view of it until they were almost at the entrance. Janet sat forward eagerly to look.

  It was not different from much of the country which she had already seen, with its sweep of undulating valley and background of hills. It was really a farm, then; but the land immediately surrounding the house was laid out formally for beauty. The house stood behind some great oak and elm trees upon an elevation which was terraced. Behind it were hills. Janet wondered if the Catskill mountains could be seen from the house. She had forgotten those, which she had seen from the train. She was not far from Rip Van Winkle country anyhow.

  “This is all different from when your mother was here,” Cousin Andy volunteered. “Father has made all this improvement in and about the house, and the whole front of it is new. The old Dutch house still stands, though.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Holt, “and if you like, you may have the room that was your mother’s.”

  “Oh, I should like that above all things!”

  “I wouldn’t give her that one, Diana,” said Andrew. “It may not turn out as well as she thinks.”

  “We shall see,” returned Mrs. Holt, and Janet wondered why Cousin Andy had said that.

  “Has the ‘old Dutch house’ stood since ’way back in ‘Knickerbocker’ times?” asked Janet, looking curiously at the more modern front, made in “Dutch Colonial” style, with its porch and two high-backed benches one on each side. The house, in front of which the car now stopped, was of red brick, its woodwork, in entrance and windows, painted white.

  Janet had a slight feeling of disappointment to know that the place had been so modernized, but common sense told her that it would be in all probability much more comfortable. How big it was!

  Andrew Van Meter answered Janet’s question, as he slowly left the car and stood leaning on his cane and stretching one hand to assist Mrs. Holt and Janet. “The original house was burned by the Indians,” he said. “All this land was given by grant from the English government, back in about sixteen hundred and seventy, to one of our ancestors, not a Van Meter, however, if I remember correctly. It will please Father if you care to ask him all about it. He will show you what we have on the early history of New York and of our particular family.”

  “I will ask him,” said Janet, whose study of American history was recent.

  Next, there she was inside of the big room, where a fire burned brightly and a tall, stooped man rose from an armchair to meet her. It was Uncle Pieter. Why, he must have been ever so much older than her mother! His hair was quite white, though his face did not look so old.

  Mr. Van Meter senior, took Janet’s hand and shook it limply a little. “I am glad that you are here,” he said. “I expect it to be your home from now on. While your mother had her share of the estate, her daughter has some rights in the home of her ancestors.”

  Janet’s uncle was looking at her rather tensely, while he spoke in a deliberate way, as if he had thought beforehand what he intended to say. “You look like your mother,” he added, dropping her hand. “What room has been made ready for her, Diana?”

  “She may have either a room in the new part of the house, or her mother’s room in the old part,” returned Mrs. Holt.

  “I should prefer my mother’s room,” timidly Janet offered.

  “Show her both of them,” said Pieter Van Meter. “You will be more comfortable in this part, I should say.”

  With this comment, Uncle Pieter resumed his seat, picking up the paper which he had been reading, and apparently dismissing the matter, Janet as well. But Mrs. Holt beckoned Janet to follow her.

  Janet Eldon’s feelings were indescribable, as Diana Holt conducted her o
ver the house of her forefathers. She kept thinking, “This place is where my mother lived when she was a girl like me!”

  The new part was large and beautiful, the whole arrangement a little unusual. In order to preserve the front and appearance of the old house, the new building was attached to it in such a way that it faced a sort of court, which it helped to form.

  Widely the new “Dutch Colonial” stretched across, facing the main road, but at a great distance from it. There were large rooms here, parlors, library and hall downstairs, and suites of smaller rooms upstairs for Mr. Van Meter and his son.

  At the left, an extension, which contained a large dining-room and kitchen downstairs, and bedrooms upstairs, ran back for some distance, to connect at its right by corridors only with the old house, which thus formed the third side of the court and in width equalled the new front; for even in its time the old Van Meter home had been more or less imposing, the connecting corridors now supplying the difference in extent. By this arrangement the old house received almost as much light in all its rooms as of yore. Beautiful trees and a pergola with a concrete floor, rustic seats and a swing were at the right of the court and the house walls, which made the court more or less retired. Wings that had been built upon the old house with the growth of the family had been removed and stood as small buildings for stores, some distance back from the now fairly symmetrical home.

  “John says that the only reason your uncle Pieter did not take down the old house was that he did not want to disturb the ‘ha’nts,’” said Mrs. Holt, with a slight laugh of amusement. “But that can not be true, for Pieter took great pains to fix the old kitchen in the most accurate representation of an old colonial kitchen, and he has left some old paintings, which would grace the new parlors very well, for the old ones, just because they always hung there. He made quite a show place of it at first, P’lina tells me.”

  “It’s a real ‘haunted house,’ then?” Janet inquired, as they stepped from a rear door of the new part to the green spaces of the court. With interest she looked at the well preserved front of the aged dwelling, approached by a walk of flat stones sunk in the turf. It was all very quaint and beautiful, Janet thought.

  “Yes, it has the reputation of being haunted, Janet, but of course that is all nonsense. However, if you are timid, you’d better stay in the new part.”

  “I’d love to have it haunted by my mother,” smiled Janet. “She would make a lovely ghost, I’m sure.”

  “She would,” said Mrs. Holt, unlocking the front door. “I thought that it would interest you more to enter here, Janet. Step over the threshold, now, where all your ancestors before you have trod! No—the first house was burned by Indians. But this has stood for many a long year.”

  Thoughtfully Janet entered the door and stood looking about the central hall. There they had placed the old spinning wheel. The antlers of a large deer’s head stretched from the wall above her.

  As they went from room to room, Janet was almost confused. There were the big fireplaces. Some of them, Mrs. Holt explained, had been boarded up and stoves used, but these Mr. Van Meter had restored to their original appearance, with old andirons, found in the attic, and other ancient appurtenances, like the queer old leather bellows, used to create a blaze, and the long-handled brass warming-pan that stood, or hung, in a corner of the kitchen. Old dishes, the cranes, and old iron kettles, even an old gun, hung above the plain mantel, were a revelation of the antique to Janet. She could scarcely have lived in Philadelphia without knowing something about such things, but she had never had any personal interest before. Although she said little, Mrs. Holt saw that her young companion was interested.

  “Friends from New York, Albany and Troy often visit us, Janet, and are brought here to admire. We sometimes have a house full in the summer.”

  “Who is John, Cousin Diana?” asked Janet suddenly, “John that spoke of the ‘ha’nts’?”

  “Oh, yes. I haven’t told you about my son, Janet. He will be here in a few days, for his spring vacation begins, late this year, on account of a contagious disease that some of them had, and the boys were not allowed to leave. He was christened Jan, but prefers to be called John.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Janet. “From now on, I’m going to spell my name with two n’s.”

  “You think so now,” said Mrs. Holt with an indulgent smile.

  From room to room they went, Mrs. Holt pointing out the old highboys, claw-footed mahogany tables and desks, and telling Janet whose were the faces in the pictures upon the walls. At last they went up the beautiful old staircase, through bedrooms made comfortable with modern springs upon the old four posters, and Mrs. Holt stopped before one of the doors, drawing a key from her pocket.

  “This, Janet, is your mother’s room. Your uncle gave direction to have it kept locked and to permit no one to enter on any tour of inspection. So you may be sure that it has not been looked at with curious eyes. Only P’lina and I are ever supposed to enter it, though I think that your uncle has a key, and it is possible that he comes in occasionally.

  “You see how this corridor runs over to the new part, where my bedroom opens directly upon the hall there. Old P’lina sleeps near you, if you decide to take this room. You will see a picture of your mother that will give you great pleasure, I think, and I’m leaving you alone now, child—to go in by yourself. You will find me in my bedroom for a while, but if you want to stay here, I will see that you are called for supper. It will be late, I think. We have supper, not dinner, at night, except when we have guests. May you be happy, my dear, to find your mother’s room at last.”

  CHAPTER V

  THE “HAUNTED CHAMBER”

  Janet entered the room once occupied by her mother and closed the door. Soberly she stood still and looked about. Facing her, upon the wall, there hung a face so like the one which she daily saw in her mirror that she had no difficulty in recognizing it as her mother. Yet she realized now that in certain features she did resemble her father, as “Gramma” Eldon had insisted. That was one thing that Janet remembered out of the confused memories of her early childhood.

  The attractive mouth smiled down upon Janet. Fair hair like her daughter’s crowned the sensitive face. The dress was white, lacy about bare neck and arms. A necklace of pearls furnished adornment. “Why, how young you look, Mother,” said Janet aloud. She was surprised. Mothers were old.

  Glancing down at a graceful little table which stood under the picture, Janet saw a sheet of note paper. Some one, probably Cousin Diana, had written a message upon it.

  “This is Jannet at nineteen, shortly before she was married. The gown is one that she wore at a recital where she ‘sang like an angel’, according to your father. Your mother lived in New York, studying voice, for a year. Your grandfather took an apartment there and your grandmother died there. Then they came back here, your uncle’s family moved in, and your mother was married from here. She met your father in New York.”

  Some girls might have taken an immediate inventory of everything. Not so Janet. A little feeling of reverence and hesitation held her. She sat down in a chair near the table to think and to grow familiar with her mother’s face. Then she noted a small silver vase of spring violets on top of a dark, old-fashioned highboy. She jumped up and put the violets beneath her mother’s picture on the table. “I think that I shall keep some flowers there for you, Mother,” she said.

  Presently other things in the room challenged her attention. The dark highboy was a handsome piece of furniture. She slowly pulled out one of its curved drawers—empty. Her own clothes could be put here, where that other Jannet’s clothing was. One by one, Janet opened the drawers. In the bottom one a few unmounted photographs lay loosely. Eagerly Janet picked them up. Good! They were pictures of the place, the old house as it was—and oh, this must be her mother and father! Why, did they have snap-shots then?

  Of course they had snap-shots fiftee
n years or so ago! She must be crazy to think that her mother and father belonged to the antiques! What a bright, laughing face it was! They were hand in hand, the two young people, her mother in her wedding veil, her father so handsome in his wedding attire. Some one had snapped them outdoors, and her mother was in the act of curtseying, her arm stretched to her young husband, who held his wife’s hand and bowed also, looking at his bride instead of at the camera.

  Janet could imagine the scene, with a crowd of merry guests looking on. She looked from the wall picture to the photograph, and to the picture again. It must be a good painting, then, true to life. But she would mount that little picture of her father and mother and have it in sight. She laid it carefully upon the table and went to examine a beautiful desk that stood at no great distance from the fireplace. How wonderful to have such a fireplace in her own room! And suppose that this was one of the desks with secret drawers! Why, she would not miss staying here for any comfort that the newer building might offer. That dear little rocking chair might have been used for years by her mother.

  After a tour of the room and a look out of its two windows, one of which opened upon a balcony that stretched away the length of the house, Janet again sat down near the table and looked up at the picture above, when the sudden opening of her door startled her.

  A straight, angular woman, with dark hair gathered into a little knot on top of her head, stalked into the room with a large comforter in her arms. She wore spectacles, but as they were drooping upon her nose Janet thought that they were not of much use. A woolen dress under an enveloping gingham apron and shoes whose tops were hidden by the dress which came to her ankles, completed the picture.

  She did not see Janet until she was well into the room, and started back a little. “Miss Jannet!” she exclaimed under her breath. Then she recovered herself and stalked to the bed to lay the comforter and a blanket, which it had concealed from view, across the foot. “You’re here, then,” she continued. “You look like your ma. You will need some extra covers to-night. It’s turning colder now. I’ll have a fire made in the fireplace. Your ma liked this room because she could have one. But I wouldn’t sleep here for anything.”