The Mystery of the Headless Horseman

by Campbell, Julie

  “This is my sister, Mrs. Polly Ward,” Mrs. Crandall said. “Polly, you said you wanted to meet the Good Samaritans who were here this afternoon. Well, here are two of them: Trixie Belden and Honey Wheeler.”

  Mrs. Ward shook hands with them warmly. “My, what a treat this is!” she exclaimed. “We were just wondering what on earth could have happened this afternoon. Now here you are to tell us all about it.” She patted the couch beside her. “Come and sit down, both of you.”

  As they obeyed, Mrs. Crandall looked closely at Honey. “Why, child,” she said, “you’re as white as a sheet. Is anything wrong?”

  Just in time, Honey caught Trixie’s warning shake of the head.

  “N-No,” she said. “It’s just that—uh—we— uh— You tell about it, Trix!”

  “We both got a little out of breath riding uphill through the woods,” Trixie said promptly. “That was some ride, wasn’t it, Honey?”

  Honey didn’t answer. She was staring at something that came toward her and brushed lovingly against her ankles. It was the cat, Henry!

  Trixie gasped. “Oh, Mrs. Crandall! I’m so glad to see him!” she cried. “Honey and I came here tonight because I thought I’d accidentally locked Henry in the cellar. We weren’t sure when you’d be home, you see

  “And so you dear girls came all the way back here to rescue him,” Mrs. Crandall said quietly. “How very kind and thoughtful of you.”

  “You were very kind to us once,” Trixie reminded her shyly. “My brother’s car broke down, and you let us use your phone.”

  Mrs. Crandall chuckled. “My,” she said, “that was nothing. Neighbors should help each other.” Honey looked embarrassed. “It was all Trixie’s idea to come here tonight,” she said. “I didn’t want to come—even for Henry. I—I knew those woods were going to be spooky.”

  “Spooky?” Mrs. Crandall sounded startled. “Honey,” Trixie broke in quickly, “why don’t you tell Mrs. Crandall and Mrs. Ward about what happened here this afternoon. Tell them about how Henry scared me.”

  Honey did, and soon they were all laughing at the story of Trixie’s monster. After that, it was easy for the two girls to tell again what had happened that afternoon.

  As they talked, Trixie relaxed and looked around the now-familiar room.

  Yes, the Bob-Whites had done a good job of removing all signs of their presence. Even the odor of lavender perfume was not as strong as it had been that afternoon.

  Instead, the room now smelled pleasantly of wood smoke. Someone had started a fire in the wide fireplace, and it blazed and crackled cheerfully.

  Above it, on the mantelpiece, stood the greeting card, its secret code as tantalizing as ever. Trixie longed to ask about it, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so.

  She did tell Mrs. Crandall everything she knew about the state of Harrison’s health. Then she told her quietly about the cellar door.

  “And it was locked and bolted when Honey and I arrived,” she said. “I was wondering if you could think of any reason for someone to have locked Harrison in the cellar.”

  Mrs. Crandall shook her head in bewilderment. “Even now,” she said, “I can’t really believe it happened. As for the door being bolted from the outside—well, are you sure it was? I mean, dear, you had just had that scare with Henry. Maybe you were still feeling—forgive me—a little panicky. Maybe you just thought it was bolted.”

  “No,” Honey said slowly, “it was bolted, all right. I saw it, too, and I wasn’t panicky.”

  “Your spare key to the front door is missing, too,” Trixie said. “Honey looked for it everywhere.”

  Polly Ward said, “You know what I think, Rose? I think it was all done by that same dreadful person who played that stupid practical joke on you yesterday.”

  Trixie looked at her sharply. “What practical joke?”

  Rose Crandall sighed. “Someone—I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman—called me on the telephone early yesterday evening,” she said. “The message I received was not kind. It was not kind at all.”

  “What Rose is trying to say,” Polly Ward explained, “is that someone called her and said I had been taken seriously ill. They said I had been rushed to Croton Hospital. Can you believe it? Well, what would you do in a situation like that? Rose and I are very fond of each other.” She leaned forward and patted her sister’s hand. “So, of course, she came at once.”

  Trixie’s voice was low. “What happened next?”

  “I didn’t stop for anything,” Mrs. Crandall said. “I jumped into my car immediately and drove to Croton-on-Hudson just as fast as I could get there.” Her brown eyes filled with tears. “I arrived at the hospital and hurried inside. You can imagine how I felt!”

  “Of course,” Polly Ward continued with the story, “no one at the hospital knew anything about me or about any telephone call. If you ask me, Rose, I still think you should have reported the whole incident to the police.”

  “From the hospital,” Mrs. Crandall said, “I drove immediately to Polly’s house. And there she was, as fit and as well as ever.” She smiled fondly at her sister. “As for calling the police, I couldn’t see that it would solve anything. I can’t think who would have done such a deliberately cruel thing. I’d prefer to forget it. It’s just as I told Polly last night: It was someone’s idea of a joke.”

  While Rose Crandall was talking, Henry leaped onto Trixie’s lap and collapsed in a warm heap. Trixie stroked his soft head and tickled him under his chin. She was promptly rewarded by a very loud and contented purr.

  “Poor old Henry,” Mrs. Ward said, watching him. “He must have wondered what was going on. Rose left the house so fast yesterday that she forgot to leave him any supper.”

  Trixie’s fingers stopped tickling. “So she called Harrison from Croton last night?”

  Honey gasped. “Harrison’s mysterious phone call!”

  Mrs. Crandall laughed.

  “Yes,” she said, “I called him. Polly invited me to spend the night. Her husband’s away for a few days on a business trip. I was still very upset, so I was glad to accept. But I had to make some arrangement about Henry, you see—even if he is sometimes a bad cat.”

  “Bad cat?” Honey said, laughing. “He doesn’t look bad to me.”

  Henry purred louder than ever.

  “Ah,” Mrs. Crandall said, “but sometimes looks are deceiving. You see, he knocked over a large bottle of lavender cologne upstairs in my bedroom.”

  “So that was it!” Trixie leaned down to Henry’s ear and said, “You rascal!”

  Henry merely settled himself more comfortably on her lap.

  “Because I wasn’t here last night,” went on

  Mrs. Crandall, “I think Henry made himself at home on my bed.”

  “While Harrison had to make do with a cold cellar,” Honey added.

  Mrs. Crandall looked down at her hands. “Yes,” she said, “and I am very sorry indeed to have caused him so much trouble. He has been a very good friend to me this past year. There have been times when I don’t know what I’d have done without him.”

  Suddenly, Polly Ward laughed. “Rose, will you please put this poor child out of her misery?” She shot an amused glance at Trixie. “She keeps on staring up at your card on the mantelpiece. You don’t have to be a mind reader to figure out that she’s dying to find out what it says.” Embarrassed at having been caught, Trixie began to protest. Then she laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said, “we couldn’t help noticing it this afternoon. I know we shouldn’t have looked at it, but—”

  Rose Crandall stood up and took the card down from the mantelpiece. She appeared delighted to explain.

  “This was the last card I received from my husband before he died,” she said simply. She handed it to Trixie. “That’s why I treasure it. He often sent me cards just like that one. Oh, the message was different each time. But it always had puzzle pictures on it.”

  Polly Ward chuckled. “Jonathan was a great one for puzzles
,” she said. “He loved them.”

  Rose Crandall waved a hand at the bookshelves. “He loved mystery stories, too, as you can see. Sometimes I think he must have read every mystery and detective book that was ever written. One of his favorite authors was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He wrote the Sherlock Holmes adventures, you know.”

  “Jonathan liked to make up puzzles of his own, too,” Polly Ward added. “The card you’re holding, Trixie, is a good example of it.”

  “You must look at the pictures,” Mrs. Crandall said, her eyes twinkling, “and read aloud what you see.”

  Trixie frowned. “I can see Hoppy, the Town Hall weather vane,” she said slowly. “I can see a drawing of Sleepyside Hollow. I can see a hot dog. I can see a flower. And I still can’t see that it means anything.”

  The two sisters looked at each other and laughed aloud.

  “You’ve almost got it,” Mrs. Crandall said, “but not quite.” She pointed. “This is Hoppy. This is a hollow. This is a wienie, and this is a rose. My name is Rose. Put it all together.”

  Suddenly, Trixie shouted with laughter, too. “And did you receive this card last October?” Rose Crandall smiled and nodded.

  “What is it, Trixie?” Honey asked, taking the card from her hand. “What does it mean?”

  “Oh, don’t you see?” Trixie cried. “It says: Hoppy. Hollow. Wienie. Rose. If you say it quickly, you’ll get the message: ‘Happy Halloween, Rose.’ Oh, what a terrible pun!”

  They were still laughing when Trixie realized that they had been at the little house far longer than she had intended.

  “I promised Honey we would zip here and back home again in nothing flat,” she confessed. “We must go. It’s dark, and our folks will be getting worried.”

  “Then why not phone them?” Mrs. Crandall suggested. “I could make some hot chocolate for all of us. Then, if you’d like, you could leave your bicycles here. I’d be glad to drive you home.” From the expression on Honey’s face, Trixie could tell that she was thinking of that long, dark ride back through the woods.

  “What a perfect idea!” Honey exclaimed. “Let’s, Trixie! Jim could drive back here early tomorrow morning, before the bazaar, to pick up the bikes in the station wagon.”

  Trixie grinned.

  “How can I refuse?” she told them all. “And thank you; the hot chocolate sounds delicious.” The two girls made their telephone calls and received permission to stay a little longer.

  “As long as you’re sure,” Trixie’s mother added, “that Mrs. Crandall won’t mind bringing you home.”

  “I’m sure, Moms,” Trixie answered. “And say, before you go, how did Mart and Reddy get along with the lessons?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Belden said, chuckling. “I think that Reddy taught Mart, instead of the other way around. As far as I can see, that dog delights in doing exactly the opposite of what he’s told.”

  When Trixie hung up, Rose Crandall and her sister hurried to the kitchen. Soon Trixie and Honey could smell the mouth-watering fragrances of hot chocolate and cinnamon toast.

  Trixie wandered over to the bookshelves, and soon Honey joined her.

  “I’m glad we got to stay,” Honey whispered. “But why wouldn’t you let me tell Mrs. Crandall about the headless horseman?”

  “I think,” Trixie said quietly, “that she’s already worried enough. Besides, I have an idea she’s seen him before.”

  Honey looked startled. “You mean tonight

  wasn’t the first time the ghost appeared?”

  Trixie looked thoughtful. “I’m sure it wasn’t,” she said.

  “How do you know?” Honey shivered and looked apprehensively toward the window.

  Trixie said, “Remember I wanted you to see something I found on the ground? Well, it was the strangest thing.”

  Honey was almost afraid to ask. “What was it?”

  “I found a footprint,” Trixie said slowly. “Well—it was a hoofprint, really. And Honey, you’ll never guess what! It looked as if it had been made by a horse wearing socks!”

  Trouble Ahead ● 9

  WHEN TRIXIE ARRIVED HOME, she went first to find her mother. Then she hurried away to talk to Mart and Brian. She found them in the farmhouse kitchen.

  The large room looked even more cozy by night than it did by day. The polished maple furniture and gleaming copper utensils glowed softly in the lamplight. Treasured china waited on plate racks and cup hooks. Trixie liked this room almost better than any other in the old house.

  “I’m glad you’re still up,” she told her brothers. “I’ve got such a lot to tell you.”

  “I’ll bet,” Mart answered over his shoulder.

  He was busy at the refrigerator. “What you want to tell us is how sorry you are that you weren’t here to help Bobby get ready for bed.”

  “No,” Trixie said guiltily, “that isn’t it. As a matter of fact, I forgot all about him.”

  “Tut-tut!” Mart drawled. “Then what a very good thing it is that you have a kindhearted brother who did it for you.”

  Trixie pretended to misunderstand. She turned to her eldest brother, who was seated at the table, watching her.

  “Did you do that for me, Brian?” she asked, her blue eyes twinkling. “Did you really help wash Bobby and put him to bed?”

  Brian chuckled. “And don’t forget the telling of the all-important bedtime story. I believe it involved sisters who don’t do their chores and dogs who won’t do as they are told.”

  With the toe of his shoe, he gently nudged Reddy, who lay sprawled on the rug by his chair.

  Reddy didn’t move. He was sound asleep. He had had a very enjoyable, though tiring, evening.

  “Did the bedtime story have a happy ending?” Trixie asked Mart. Then she gasped. “You’re not going to eat all that!”

  Mart had turned away from the refrigerator, his arms full. Trixie saw packages of ham, bologna, and three different kinds of cheese. She saw a jar of mayonnaise and one of peanut butter. She saw two tomatoes, a head of lettuce, a bottle of catsup, and a jar of homemade sweet pickles.

  Mart carefully deposited all of it on the kitchen counter. He reached into an upper cupboard for a large bag of potato chips. Then he turned to find the bread.

  “To answer your question about the required happy ending to the bedtime story,” he said at last, licking his fingers, “suffice it to say that the sister was irretrievably lost in the woods. The disobedient dog was made into frankfurters. And the small boy to whom the story was told went to sleep with a gratified grin on his face.”

  “I don’t believe you told him a story anything like that, Mart Belden!” Trixie declared. “You know it would give Bobby nightmares. Oh, listen, please, both of you. Talking about nightmares—”

  Mart built himself a towering sandwich, one layer of which was peanut butter and potato chips. Then, as he began to eat it all, Trixie told them what had happened.

  When she had finished, Mart chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Now I’ve heard everything,” he said finally. “A headless horseman? But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know,” Trixie said. “Honey thought it might be a real ghost. She said there is a real one. It’s a Hessian soldier.” Trixie shivered, even though the kitchen was still warm and fragrant from her mother’s baking.

  Mart shook his head. “Even if there is such a ghost, I’ve never heard of it haunting our woods.”

  “That’s what I told Honey,” Trixie said eagerly. “And the only other story I remember about a headless horseman is ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,’ about the schoolteacher named Ichabod Crane.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mart mumbled through his sandwich. “Skinny Ichabod, who used to whip his pupils. His troubles began when he decided to woo a fair damsel named Katrina Van Tassel. But she had another chap after her, too. His name was Brom Bones, and he wanted the lady all to himself.”

  “We all know the story, Mart,” said Trixie impatiently.

  Mart ignored
her and dropped his voice to an eerie whisper. “Late one night,” he said, “Ichabod was on his way home from a quilting party. He was plodding along through the spooky woods, on an old horse, when all at once, a horse and rider appeared in the gloom. The rider was 108

  huge, misshapen, and as black as the night itself. And”—Mart’s voice rose dramatically—“it had no head! The terrified schoolmaster dug his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped away as fast as he could.

  “The headless horseman came after him— closer and closer. Then, just as old Ichabod thought he was safe, he looked back over his shoulder.”

  “And?” prompted Brian, enjoying Mart’s theatrics.

  “And there was the phantom standing up in his stirrups. He held something in his hand— something horrible and round—and he was getting ready to throw it! It was his head!”

  “His head?” exclaimed Brian in a suitably horrified voice.

  “The ghost hurled it straight at the schoolteacher. It hit him squarely on his cranium. Ichabod tumbled headlong into the dust. And in another instant, the black horse and its headless rider rushed past like a whirlwind and were never seen again!”

  “For pete’s sake,” Trixie said, “you’re going to give yourself nightmares, Mart. Now finish off the story. It’s getting late.”

  Mart looked disappointed. “I like it just the way it is, but all right. The next day, the townspeople went looking for their schoolteacher. They found his horse, and they found a shattered pumpkin.”

  “A pumpkin?” both Trixie and Brian obediently echoed.

  “But they never found Ichabod Crane. Some folks thought he had run away. Some thought the goblins had got him. Jolly old Brom Bones led the fair Katrina in triumph to the altar, And forever after, he laughed when anyone mentioned the pumpkin, so you can draw your own conclusions.”

  Trixie sighed. “What the story is really saying is that Brom Bones dressed up like a headless ghost to scare old Ichabod out of his wits and out of town. Well, Washington Irving certainly made up a better story than the one you supposedly told Bobby.”

  “Not really,” Mart said loftily. “It’s just that I’m an excellent storyteller.”