The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Do you young ladies want to make another date for the end of the week?” asked Titus Ellery, owner of the riding academy, as he came forward on much-bowed legs. He was not an attractive man, but he knew horses. Rather stingy and grasping was his reputation. “How about it?” He was respectful enough but persistent.

  Sim spoke up.

  “Not just now. We’ll phone.” Telling Dick to “charge it,” she and the girls walked toward the waiting roadster.

  Dick opened the door.

  “Don’t let this adventure scare you,” he said in a low voice. “It was probably nothing but those excited men imagining something.” He seemed worried lest they cancel further riding engagements during the holidays, and Dick probably made a little commission.

  “Don’t worry,” Terry answered. “We loved it! See you later; and thanks, Dick!”

  They were off, Sim driving with a little less than her usual abandon. Arden was the first to notice it.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Scared?”

  “No, just thinking.”

  “It was queer,” murmured Terry. “I was really frightened.”

  “The men were, anyhow,” said Arden. “And when we heard those bumping sounds coming out of an old uninhabited house—” She shivered a little.

  “Probably falling plaster!” laughed Sim.

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Arden.

  “She’s thinking of what happened in the orchard,” remarked Terry.

  “Well, something happened there all right,” Arden responded.

  “Let’s forget it a while,” proposed Sim, and she stepped on the gas in her usual manner.

  Home again, they were greeted at the door by the smiling Moselle who answered their ring.

  “You-all have a nice ride?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Grand,” answered Terry. “And we met up with some very fine ghosts, Moselle.”

  “Ghosts?” Moselle’s eyes were wide.

  “Over by Sycamore Hall,” Terry continued.

  “Um—uumm!” Moselle shook her head. “I don’t know what your mother will say, Miss Sim. Chasing after ghosts. You-all ought to keep away from that place. I know it’s dangerous. Plumb full of ha’nts, that what it is.”

  “Why, Moselle! Do you know anything about it?” Sim asked, surprised.

  “Yes’m, Miss Sim, I sure does! Only las’ night Brutus Jackson tole me he was going to work there’ cause he needed a little change, and ain’t half hour ago he came dashing into my kitchen with Sam Brown and tell me they done quit.”

  “He did—why?” Arden frantically signaled Sim to let her continue the questioning of Moselle.

  “Why, he say,” went on the colored woman, “a funny old soldier with a bloody bandage around his haid come clumping down the stairs and stood pointing for Sam and him to get out the door and, yes, ma’am, he say they sure did git!” Moselle made unbelieving noises.

  Terry turned to Sim. “Gosh, I’m sorry we didn’t stay. What’d you run for, Sim?”

  Sim started to reply, but seeing Moselle listening intently said casually, “Oh, I just felt like it.” Then, addressing the curious cook, she asked: “How about lunch, Moselle?”

  “Yes’m, Miss Sim, in just a few minutes. You-all got time to change if you like,” she said, quick to realize she was being dismissed.

  “Good! Come on then, kids, let’s go up;” and before Arden or Terry could ask any more questions Sim, taking them by the elbows, steered them up the stairs.

  By unspoken consent they gathered in Sim’s room.

  “Gee, Arden, I was afraid Moselle would get all worked up, and then you know what she’d do? Write to Mother and Dad and get them all excited. She doesn’t miss a thing. And she’s very superstitious.”

  “I forgot about her,” Terry admitted pulling a turtle-necked sweater over her head. “Wounded soldier! I guess that’s what we heard. Certainly sounded like footsteps to me. Don’t you love it? What did Dick say, Arden?”

  “Not much,” Arden answered. “We were too busy with the horses. Did you notice how scared they were?”

  “Say,” interrupted Sim happily, “won’t Dot love this! Bet she won’t want to sit around and play contract now.”

  “Oh, contract—who wants to do that? There’s something queer about that place, and I’m going to find out what it is before I have to go back to school,” announced Arden emphatically.

  “We’re with you, Arden! You can’t leave us out of any such excitement as that,” Terry decided. “Can she, Sim?”

  “I should say not!” Sim said, and striking a dramatic pose sang out: “All for one, one for all! Arden, Terry, and Sim!”

  “And Dorothy,” supplemented Arden. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Let’s take her out to see the house in the afternoon.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sim. “That will be fun, and maybe we’ll see the soldier.”

  At this point in their plans the dulcet tones of the luncheon bell could be heard coming from below, and Terry was obliged to slip her sweater on again. In the end they all ate in riding clothes and talked of subjects far from their minds lest Althea, who was serving, should carry ghost stories back to her mother in the kitchen.

  The lamb chops were done to a turn, and the peas were startling in their lovely greenness. The pie, lemon meringue, was a fluffy dainty that disappeared with remarkable quickness when put before the girls.

  Everything in its place was their motto; ghosts belonged to Jockey Hollow, and food came under Moselle’s supervision. After a half year of college fare, food was, after all, important.

  Arden Blake, Terry Landry, and Sim Westover had been schoolmates and chums ever since they started in Vincent Prep. They were graduated at the same time and went to Cedar Ridge College for their freshman year together. The first term of the college had just ended and they were home for the Christmas holidays.

  As told in the first volume of this Arden Blake mystery series, entitled The Orchard Secret, almost as soon as the three freshmen signed in at Cedar Ridge things began happening. There was something strange about the college orchard, where so many gnarled, weird, black trees stretched up their waving branches in the night. And when Arden saw the poster of the missing and rich Henry Pangborn, there was another complication.

  But Arden and her two chums solved the puzzle, much to the benefit of the college swimming pool, which had had to be abandoned because there was no money to repair it. And thus Sim remained at college, for she was determined to become an expert swimmer and diver, and when she had found the swimming pool was so sadly out of commission, she had threatened to leave. But Arden’s success in solving the mystery had made everything all right.

  When the three girls had finished lunch in Sim’s beautiful home on the outskirts of Pentville, a few miles from Jockey Hollow, Arden went to the library across the hall and began to scan the shelves impatiently.

  “Know anything about these books, Sim?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course I do. What do you want to know?”

  “I want to find out something about our Revolution. Perhaps we can get a volume that will tell who really lived in Sycamore Hall in Jockey Hollow.”

  “That’s a great idea, Arden! At times you seem almost brilliant,” laughed Sim.

  “Well, suppose you help me to shine a bit,” Arden proposed.

  “Let me help,” begged Terry.

  They delved among the books but though they found some American history lore and much about the Revolution, there was nothing on Jockey Hollow or Sycamore Hall.

  “I’ll have to try somewhere else,” Arden sighed.

  The girls spent most of the afternoon talking over their strange adventure, at times hardly believing it had happened, again with a little thrill of fear mingled with doubt as to what it all meant.

  “Well, I’m going to find out something,” finally announced Arden the impetuous.

  “How?” drawled Sim.

  “I’m going to the library. They ought to hav
e something there about Jockey Hollow. Goodness knows it was important enough!”

  “Tell us when you come back,” begged Terry.

  “Don’t you want to come with me?”

  “No. I’m for a nap. Riding always makes me drowsy.”

  “I’m with you, Terry,” announced Sim. “Come on.”

  She led the way upstairs, where she and Terry changed from riding clothes to lounging pajamas. But Arden donned a polo coat and low-heeled shoes and started out.

  “Don’t you want my car?” sleepily called Sim, lolling on her bed.

  “No, I’m going to walk, thank you.”

  She was on her way, though she scarcely realized it, to the beginning of another strange mystery.

  CHAPTER IV

  Seeing the Dead

  Arden felt sure there must be some historical books in the town library that would throw light on the legends of Jockey Hollow. By studying these legends, Arden decided, she might strike a clue to the traditions that had built up the Sycamore Hall ghost stories.

  Hurrying to the library, determined to get at that angle without delay, she was disappointed when she saw a girl standing at the entrance and shaking the heavy door handle to make sure it was locked.

  “That must be Dick’s sister, Betty,” she decided. “He said she worked in the library. But why is she closing it so early?”

  Reaching the door, Arden asked about the early closing. The girl, pretty and friendly, explained that lack of funds and the holiday season made it more practical to close early. She was Betty Howe, she admitted, smiling at Arden’s question. And she said her brother Dick had mentioned the girls from the Westover house having gone riding with him.

  “I’m sorry, but all the lights are out now,” the girl continued. “We open at nine in the morning, you know,” she smiled, putting away her keys and pulling on her gloves.

  “Oh, thank you. Then I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “Yes, do. I hope it was nothing important?”

  “No, indeed,” Arden answered smiling. “Tomorrow will do nicely.”

  But as she hurried along to Sim’s she did feel disappointed.

  “Did you find out anything?” Sim promptly asked, while Arden sank down rather wearily.

  “No. The library was closed. But I had a nice walk,” Arden tried to persuade herself as well as Sim.

  “Well, let’s forget the ghosts,” suggested Terry. “It’s been a long day, and tomorrow we’ll have Dot with us.”

  “And so, to bed!” yawned Sim, and those who didn’t yawn certainly felt like it.

  Their night was undisturbed by “witches, warlocks or lang-nebbied things,” in spite of what had happened, or was thought to have happened, at the Hall. Not even a bad dream threw its shadow on the healthy girls sleeping serenely at Sim’s.

  Perhaps that grand feeling of being able to lie abed as long as they wished was too much for them; at any rate, when Terry breezily wished Moselle a cheery good-morning, the maid made no attempt at hiding her surprise.

  “’Mornin’, Miss Terry. You-all sleep well?” she inquired.

  “’Morning, Moselle,” Terry replied. “Yes, thank you. And now I’m ready for a big breakfast.”

  Moselle grinned her delight. She loved to cook, and nothing pleases a cook more than knowing her art is appreciated.

  Arden and Sim were not long behind Terry, and the girls made a pretty picture in their gay dresses against the background of dark paneled walls in the dining room.

  It was Arden’s day to do the marketing, but because they were to drive to the station and meet Dorothy Keene, shortly after breakfast, they agreed, “just for this once,” to leave the planning of the day’s meals to Moselle. They were still determined to run the house efficiently and well, on a smaller budget than Sim’s mother had allowed; furthermore, Terry and Arden agreed not to telephone home for advice. Of course, the routine of cleaning and washing went on as before: the girls could not improve on that. So Moselle was instructed to call up the stores and have something very special for the coming guest, whose mother was “in the movies,” which fact thrilled Moselle to the cockles of her heart.

  When the train pulled into the suburban station, the three girls, with the car parked as close as possible to the platform, had no trouble in finding Dorothy. Although Terry, perched on the car top, which was folded down, had thought she could see better from that vantage point and locate her chum more quickly, Dorothy, it developed, was the only passenger who alighted at Pentville. So they saw her at once. She was wearing a smart fur coat cut on swagger lines and a ridiculously small hat pulled over one eye. She waved a greeting.

  “Hello, Dot!” Sim ran to meet her. “Awfully glad you could come.” They hugged affectionately. “We’re having specially nice weather just for you.”

  “Sim dear,” the girl replied, “and Terry and Arden, it’s great to see you. I’ve been in a penthouse in New York with a lot of stage-struck people, and I feel a bit struck myself,” she laughed. “This lovely country and you kids are just what I need,” declared the visitor.

  They walked toward the car, each trying to show her own particular brand of pleasure at Dot’s arrival.

  “And we need you, too,” Arden put in with a little tug at Dot’s arm. “Don’t we, girls?”

  “Now, look here!” and Dot pulled them all to a sudden halt. “You are up to something, I’m sure. What is it? Any new mysteries thrusting themselves upon you?”

  “Dot, my child,” Arden answered, “you are positively psychic! That’s exactly what we’re bursting to tell you!”

  “Ghosts! Nice hundred-year-old ones! All hoary and bloody, with pointing fingers!” Terry supplied.

  “And a poor old lady and two orphan grandchildren,” grunted Sim, as she tried to turn the wheel of the car. All four were in the front seat, a feat accomplished by Sim, Arden, and Terry squeezing into a row and Dot sitting on Terry’s lap. That Dot’s head was much higher than the windshield and unsheltered from the wind bothered them not at all. With so much to say, they simply couldn’t split up the group by using the rumble seat. Dot’s grips were there, anyway, and for the two weeks of her visit she would be well supplied with clothes—at least, judging by the size of the bags.

  “Go on, my dear Watsons,” chuckled Dot laughing. “Isn’t there a nice-looking young man any place in this mystery?”

  “Of course there is,” replied Terry, “and a girl, too.”

  “But the house, Dot—it’s perfect! We heard the ghostly footsteps ourselves, and in broad daylight, too!” Sim surprisingly stated.

  Dorothy shook her head. “You’re all sleeping idiots! Well, I won’t arouse you. I suppose country people must have some amusement.”

  “Country people!” Three voices sang out together. It never failed. A suggestion that they in Pentville were not as metropolitan as their New York chum was always a disputed point.

  “A ghost couldn’t live in New York,” Arden said sarcastically. “You have to get out where there is some room for ghosts. Like Pentville or Jockey Hollow.”

  “Don’t you believe us, Dot?” Terry asked. Dot just smiled.

  “We’ll show you. What do you say, girls—shall we go over to Jockey Hollow before we go home? The bags will be safe. Our ghost isn’t a thief.” Sim slowed down at the junction where one road led to the Hollow, which they would pass as they went to Sim’s house, though at some distance.

  “Yes! Let’s go, Sim. If you’re not afraid of the car on those roads,” Terry said, plainly anxious to go back to Sycamore Hall.

  Sim needed no urging, and going into second she turned the wheel and very carefully started down the narrow dirt road. On the brow of the hill she stopped and pointed out the faded stone walls of the house which could clearly be seen through the bare trees.

  “That’s it, unbeliever,” Sim told her guest. “We’ll take you inside, if we can get in, and show you things your eyes have never before beheld.”

  “Lead on MacDuff,” D
orothy laughed. “Whom have you hired to jump out on me and cry ‘Boo’?”

  “Word of honor, Dot,” Arden insisted, “it isn’t a joke. You’ll see! Go on, Sim,” she prompted.

  Bouncing and rolling from side to side, the little roadster neared the house. The old lane that once approached prosperous farm lands, but was now overgrown and stony, led almost to the door. But knowing she must turn around again to go home, Sim stopped so they could back out.

  Shutting off the motor, she turned to her friends.

  “I hope he shows up,” Sim whispered to Arden and Terry.

  “Who?” asked Dot.

  “The old soldier with a wounded head, all bandaged in bloody rags. He wears very heavy boots and was hidden and sheltered from the British in this old house during the Revolution,” Terry guessed facetiously.

  “But how did you find out all this?” Dot was plainly interested but also a little incredulous.

  “We were riding here in Jockey Hollow yesterday,” Sim explained, “when our horses were frightened, and we were, also, by workmen rushing out of the place, crying, ‘Ghost!’ Oh, it was startling!” and she related, in her most convincing way the details of their strange adventure.

  “Oh!” said Dorothy after a little pause. “Oh!” That was all.

  The four sat in the car, no one speaking for a while. Their own imaginings had gotten the best of them, evidently, though no one would admit it.

  Then, suddenly, the quiet and peace surrounding the old Hall was broken, by the loud squeaking of ancient nails being pulled from hundred-year-old wood, and the shrill sounds were like the shrieks of frightened women. It startled the girls into activity.

  “The workmen are back!” Arden said disappointedly. “I guess the ghost won’t dare come out.”

  “Too bad, girls. You almost had me believing you. But let’s go in and look around, anyway. I like old houses, with or without ghosts.” Dot was still skeptical.

  So they climbed out of the car and picked their way over the tangled vines and low bushes to the door: a dignified, paneled old piece decorated with a handsomely discolored brass knocker.