A large wooden barrel smelled pleasantly of apples, and Harrison’s derby hat sat neatly on top of it.
She picked it up, then jumped as something brushed against her leg. She saw, to her relief, that it was only Henry the Eighth.
“I’m not surprised that we couldn’t hear Harrison when he yelled to us for help,” she told the cat. “We might never have heard him if he hadn’t thumped on the cellar door.”
Henry looked supremely uninterested. He leaped to the top of the barrel and began to wash himself.
When Trixie returned to the kitchen, Mart was still at the sink. “Mart,” Trixie said, putting the hat on a counter top, “I’m going to try and lock myself in the cellar.”
“Good,” he said, without turning. “I hope you’re successful, Sherlock. Then I’ll have you in my power, heh-heh!”
But Trixie was not successful. She hadn’t really thought she would be. She slammed the heavy door again and again, but it didn’t lock.
When she had finished, Mart said, “What was that all about?”
Trixie was thoughtful. “Harrison said he went into the cellar and accidentally locked himself in.”
“So?”
“So it’s impossible. I knew all along he wasn’t telling us the truth. Honey and I really had to struggle with that bolt to let him out.”
Mart stared. “It was bolted, too?”
“From the kitchen side of the door,” Trixie said. “There was no way he could have done it himself.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It means,” Trixie said, “that someone else was here last night, and that someone else locked Harrison in the cellar and left him there. He must know it, but for some reason, he didn’t want to tell us about it.”
She stared down at Harrison’s derby hat as if she wished it could talk.
“But why wouldn’t Harrison tell us?” Mart asked.
“I don’t know.” Trixie led the way back into the living room. “But I’m sure going to try and find out.”
“What are you going to find out?” Di asked.
“It’s elementary, my dear Di,” Mart drawled. “Trixie’s uncovered another one of life’s little mysteries. I have never met a female with such a propensity for puzzling problems.”
“Speaking of puzzles,” Honey said, “will you look at this? I know I shouldn’t have read it, but—well—it is sort of eye-catching.”
She reached up to the mantelpiece and took down the greeting card that Trixie had noticed before. There was a series of drawings on the front of it.
The Bob-Whites gathered around to see.
“Hey!” Mart exclaimed. “There’s a picture of Hoppy, the Town Hall weather vane.”
“And this next one looks like a drawing of Sleepyside Hollow,” said Di.
Trixie was looking over Di’s shoulder. “Jeepers! The next picture is a drawing of a hot dog, and the one after that is a flower. I wonder if it’ s supposed to be some sort of secret code?”
Brian frowned. “Maybe it is. Let’s see. Hoppy the weather vane, Sleepyside Hollow, a hot dog, and a flower. Nope, it doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“There’s more,” Honey said and opened the card.
Inside, in bold handwriting, was a single name: Jonathan.
“I think we ought to put it back where we found it,” Jim said. “The emergency’s over, and this is somebody’s home.”
“And I think we should leave a note for Mrs. Crandall,” Honey said, neatly replacing the card on the mantelpiece. “She ought to be told what happened here.”
While Brian wrote the note, Trixie stood thinking about her experiment with the cellar door. She would have liked to discuss it with the other Bob-Whites. Somehow, though, she had the feeling that Di wouldn’t like to hear that Harrison had not told the truth.
In the end, she said nothing. I’ll talk it over with Honey later, she thought.
At almost the same moment, Honey nudged her gently in the ribs. “I have something I want to tell you,” she whispered. “It’s the funniest thing.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”
Honey laughed. “You sound like Bobby. I meant that it’s funny peculiar. Remember when you were on the front porch calling the others?”
“I remember.”
“Well,” Honey whispered, “I could see old Harrison was really worried about something. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he’d let himself into the house with a spare front door key. Mrs. Crandall always keeps it under a flowerpot on the porch.”
“We ought to put it back then,” Trixie said. “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Harrison wanted me to put it back for him. He was certain he’d left it on the kitchen table.”
“But I didn’t see any key on the kitchen table when we arrived,” Trixie answered.
“That’s just it,” Honey said. “It wasn’t there. Harrison had me search everywhere, but I never did find it. It had completely disappeared.”
“Did you ask the others if they’d seen it?”
“No,” Honey said slowly. “Harrison asked me not to. First, he said he was sure one of you would mention it if you found it. Then he said he probably hadn’t put it on the kitchen table at all. But I could tell he was positive he had.”
Before she left with the others, Trixie, still carrying the derby hat, paused thoughtfully in the doorway of the little house.
What had happened here last night? Why hadn’t Harrison told them the truth? Who was the person who had locked him in the cellar? And where was that door key? Had it really vanished?
The more Trixie thought about it, the more puzzling it was.
“It’s just like all the other mysteries,” Trixie said to herself. “It keeps on getting curiouser and curiouser.”
The Missing Vase ● 6
THE BOB-WHITES were riding home once more when Trixie suddenly called, “Gleeps! I forgot something! I meant to take another look at those alphabet trees. I don’t suppose you guys would wait while I—”
“You’re right; we wouldn’t!” Jim grinned at her from his seat on Jupiter’s back. “As it is, Regan will be wondering what’s kept us.”
“Besides,” Mart drawled over his shoulder, “I, for one, want to hasten to weave our enticing enchantments around Miss Trask.”
“Knowing you, my dear brother,” Trixie retorted, urging Susie on once more, “I’m sure it wouldn’t be long before you put your foot in your mouth. Maybe you’d better leave the talking to us.”
Mart was still trying to think of something sufficiently scathing to say in reply when the horses trotted into the Wheelers’ stable yard.
He slid from Strawberry’s back and said at last, “Introducing one’s foot into one’s oral cavity may be a reprehensible habit, O squaw! But it is not, methinks, as bad as having a pronounced predilection for unraveling murky mysteries.”
“What murky mysteries have you been unraveling now?” asked a cool voice.
Gray-haired Miss Trask, who managed the Wheeler estate for Honey’s millionaire father, emerged from the stable’s fragrant interior. She looked as trim as ever in a neat tweed suit.
Patch, Jim’s black and white springer spaniel, followed close at her heels. Patch hurried to each of the dismounting Bob-Whites in turn and received an absentminded pat on the head from each of them.
He didn’t seem to mind the lack of attention. He sat watching everyone, his head to one side, as all the Bob-Whites began talking at once.
It wasn’t long before Miss Trask, her bright blue eyes twinkling, held up a protesting hand. “Stop!” she cried, laughing. “I can’t hear myself think! I gather something has happened, but what can it be?”
She listened quietly while the Bob-Whites, one by one, related the events of the afternoon. When the entire story was told, she was silent for a long moment.
“I’m very sorry to hear that Harrison has been hurt,” she said quietly at last. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Oh, ye
s, Miss Trask—dear Miss Trask,” Mart said promptly. “Could you—would you—?”
“Supervise the arrangements for the bazaar tomorrow?” Miss Trask finished for him.
The Bob-Whites held their breath.
Slowly, Miss Trask nodded. “I don’t see why not. You must get Mr. Lynch’s permission, of course—”
“Oh, we will! We will!” Di’s violet eyes were shining.
“And,” Miss Trask continued smoothly, “I’ll have to ask Honey’s parents if they would mind if I—”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Honey said quickly.
“Very well, then.” Miss Trask smiled. “The cause is such a worthy one that, yes, I’ll be glad to do what I can.”
After that wonderful announcement, Miss Trask could not hear herself think again for another five minutes. She was surrounded by noisy Bob-Whites, each trying to outdo the other in expressing fervent thanks.
When some of the excitement had died down, Miss Trask said, “I hope you left everything just as you found it in Mrs. Crandall’s home.”
“We did,” Brian answered, “and we also wrote a note explaining everything.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Miss Trask said. “That poor lady has had many worries in these last few months. I wouldn’t want to think that any of you had added to them.”
Trixie picked up Susie’s brush and turned to the little mare’s smooth black flank. “What kind of worries?” she asked.
Miss Trask sighed. “I’m afraid it all began when Rose Crandall’s husband died,” she answered. “He used to be the curator of Sleepy-side’s Fine Arts Museum, you know.”
“Of course!” Honey exclaimed. “Jonathan Crandall! Why didn’t I recognize the name before?” She looked across Lady’s broad back at her adopted brother. “Remember, Jim? He came to the house a couple of times to see Dad. We thought he was such a nice man.”
“Now I remember,” Jim said thoughtfully. “Mr. Crandall died quite unexpectedly, if I recall the circumstances correctly.”
Brian had been busy brushing Starlight. He paused to ask, “What did he die of?”
“I think it was a heart attack,” Jim said.
Miss Trask nodded agreement.
“Anyway,” Jim continued, “the notice of his death was in all the newspapers at the time. In fact, I think The Sleepyside Sun had quite an article about him. And there was something else, too. Now, what on earth was it?”
“Immediately after he died,” Miss Trask said reluctantly, “the museum discovered that a very valuable vase was missing. It had only just been lent for display for a limited time. The owner was very upset at its loss.”
“Wow!” Mart’s eyes were round with astonishment. “Do you mean to tell us that Jonathan Crandall was a thief?”
Miss Trask looked uncomfortable. “Many people thought so at the time.”
“Was the vase ever found?” Brian asked.
“No, it never was. The insurance company had to pay a great deal of money because of it.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of any of it,” Trixie declared. “How come we didn’t know about this before?”
“It was all very quickly hushed up for Mrs. Crandall’s sake,” Miss Trask said slowly. “Even the Sun agreed not to publish anything more about it. Rose Crandall’s family has lived here for generations, you see—almost as long as the Beldens.”
She smiled at Trixie.
Trixie stroked Susie’s soft nose. “But if the vase was never found,” she said, “and if everyone thought that Jonathan Crandall stole it—and if no one is allowed to talk about it—” She glanced sharply at Miss Trask. “Why, that means that everyone must still think he’s a thief. Isn’t that right?”
Miss Trask sighed again. “I’m afraid so. People who really knew him—and I mean the people who were his friends—don’t believe he could possibly have done such a thing. But there it is. The vase was delivered to the museum late one Friday afternoon. Jonathan Crandall did receive it. Someone saw him do so.”
“But,” Honey said slowly, “when they came to look for the vase after he died, they couldn’t find it? Is that the way it was?”
Miss Trask agreed that that was exactly how it had been.
“But how awful for Mrs. Crandall,” Di said. “She must be very upset that people still think such terrible things about her husband.”
“You’re right,” said Miss Trask firmly, “and I can’t think how we got off on this subject. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it. Matters like this are best forgotten. And it was all settled long ago by the insurance company.”
Trixie said suddenly, “I wonder where Harrison fits into all of this.”
“Aha, my pretty!” Mart said, pretending to twirl the long ends of a nonexistent moustache. “The plot thickens!”
Miss Trask smiled at him. “Aha, yourself!” she said. “There’s nothing mysterious about it. Harrison and Mr. Crandall were very good friends, you see. They were also enthusiastic chess players.”
“Harrison?” Mart sounded astonished again. “He plays chess?”
“People do, you know,” Miss Trask said dryly. “Harrison often went to Sleepyside Hollow on his evenings off, I believe.”
It was Brian’s turn to be astonished. “Harrison told you all this?”
Brian wasn’t the only Bob-White who couldn’t believe that Di’s butler had ever been that informative. Trixie couldn’t believe it either.
Miss Trask laughed aloud.
“No,” she said, “Harrison didn’t tell me. Rose Crandall and I have known each other for some time. It was she who mentioned it to me once.” Jim had been listening closely. “Does Harrison now feel, perhaps, that he should keep an eye on things for his friend’s widow? I mean, he went over there to feed the cat. He didn’t seem to think it was at all strange to have been asked to do it.”
“That’s very perceptive of you, Jim,” Miss Trask said, turning to leave. “Yes, I believe Harrison does still try to help his friend’s widow every chance he gets.”
After she had gone, the Bob-Whites were silent. Even Patch sat still. His big brown eyes were watching Jim.
Trixie watched Jim, too. She thought it was just like him to have understood immediately the loyalty that Harrison might feel for his friend. Maybe it was because Jim had been friendless himself, until the Wheelers adopted him.
Trixie also felt that maybe Jim’s remark had helped her to understand Harrison a little better. Before today, he had seemed to her to be just Di’s butler—a reserved, quiet man who was good at his job. She had never given much thought to the fact that he, too, was a human being with feelings and loyalties of his own.
All the same, she thought, I still want to tell Honey about that cellar door.
In spite of Trixie’s eagerness to talk to Honey alone, she had no chance to do so for the rest of the afternoon. There was work to be done.
When Regan realized that the Bob-Whites had returned, he hurried to the stables. Under his watchful eye, the teen-agers worked industriously, first with the horses, then with the tack.
Patch, disappointed that Jim obviously had no time to play with him, turned and trotted away toward the house.
Trixie watched him go. She found herself wishing that one day Reddy might be as well behaved. It was impossible, of course. Or was it?
It was almost suppertime before Regan was satisfied that his beloved horses had come to no harm from their afternoon’s outing.
The tack had been polished and rehung on the stable wall—stirrups on leathers, girths thrown over saddles, bridles on the hooks right under the saddle pegs. Even Di had stayed there to help.
“Fine!” Regan said at last. “Everything’s fine! You’ve done well, all of you!”
“In that case,” Honey said, sounding relieved, “I’d better find Miss Trask again. We have a very important question to ask my parents.”
“And I,” Di said, “have a telephone call I can’t wait to make.”
Brian hurried h
ome to Crabapple Farm to see about his long-ignored chores. But Mart stood watching Di as she rode back up the hill.
“Maybe I should have gone with her to talk with Mr. Lynch,” he said. He threw Trixie a triumphant look out of the corner of his eye. “Some people think that I put my feet in my mouth. The truth is that I only put my feet under the dining room table.” And with that parting shot, he strolled away, his hands in his pockets.
Trixie sighed. “I suppose what he means is that he’s hungry again.”
Regan grunted. “Is there ever a time when he isn’t?”
Suddenly Trixie chuckled. “I wonder if Mart will be able to be as en-enticingly enchanting when he gives Reddy his obedience lessons.”
Jim came up behind her. “What’s all this about Mart giving Reddy lessons?”
Trixie picked up Harrison’s derby hat, which Di had forgotten to take home. She stuck it on her head and grinned.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.” She tipped the hat jauntily over one eye. “Mart will never train that dog to do as we want. Never!”
The Phantom Rider • 7
OVER SUPPER that evening, Trixie listened quietly while Brian and Mart told the rest of the family about their afternoon adventure.
“And when she heard the news,” Brian said, “Miss Trask was great! She offered to help us at the bazaar tomorrow.”
“Thanks to me,” Mart reminded him, “and if Di gets her father’s permission.”
“In the meantime,” Brian continued, “Harrison is being well looked after at the hospital. His head has been stitched up, and they’ll find out the results of the X rays soon.”
“How do you know?” Mart asked, his mouth full of roast beef and potatoes.
“I called Dr. Ferris a while ago,” Brian said. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Mart,” their mother said. “It’s bad for the digestion.”
“Are Brussels sprouts bad for the ’gestion, too?” Bobby asked hopefully, eyeing the vegetables on his plate.
“They’re very good for the digestion,” Helen Belden answered firmly. “Aren’t they, Brian?” But Brian was busy pursuing a thought of his own. “Miss Trask was telling us about the curator of Sleepyside’s Fine Arts Museum, Dad. Was there anything mysterious about his death?” Peter Belden, their banker father, frowned. “No, there was nothing mysterious about it. It was a heart attack, plain and simple. It was very unexpected, that’s all. Jonathan Crandall had had a weak heart for some time. No one thought it was quite as serious as it turned out to be.” Trixie said suddenly, “Miss Trask told us about the missing vase, too. Was it really that valuable?”
The Mystery of the Headless Horseman Page 4
