The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  Arden sat with pen poised and her face alight with eagerness, a dark-haired, blue-eyed Portia.

  “Now we’ll begin,” she said. “Who was the first person to mention Sycamore Hall, and how can we connect him with the mystery?”

  “I was,” answered Terry. “I suggested that we ride by. I was tired of the old roads.”

  “Theodosia Landry, student,” Arden wrote in a schoolgirl’s hand, “suggested visiting spot. Of course, Terry, you knew nothing about the legend that the place was haunted?”

  “I object.” Sim sprang up. “That’s a leading question. How do we know she didn’t? Remember, we are all guilty until proven innocent.”

  “I’ll ask it another way, then,” Arden agreed. “Did you have any knowledge of ghost stories emanating from Sycamore Hall, the house in question?”

  Arden was well pleased at the businesslike way in which she was conducting the investigation.

  “Absolutely none, it was merely a coincidence,” Terry replied and Arden penned her answer.

  “Who next mentioned the house?” Arden resumed her rôle of detective.

  “Richard Howe,” Terry supplied. “He seemed surprised that we wanted to go there and didn’t seem anxious to take us.”

  “Yes, and it was he who told us the house was haunted!” chimed in Sim.

  Arden wrote down Dick’s name and occupation and the charge against him.

  “Next come the men running from the house when they frightened Sim’s horse. Sim, what did they say they had seen?” Arden asked, busily writing, her head on one side and the tip of her tongue showing between her white teeth as she worked.

  “Dick asked them what was the matter, and one said he wouldn’t work there any longer. That he wouldn’t stay where there were ghosts,” Terry supplied promptly.

  “What happened after that?” Arden asked. “I’m a little confused, things happened so quickly.”

  “I’ll testify again,” Terry exclaimed eagerly. “This is lots of fun. Then we went back to the house after calming our horses, and entered the living room.”

  “Where was Richard Howe then?” asked Dorothy from a deep armchair. “It seems to me you’re losing sight of him. After all, he is the one who would want to keep the house standing.”

  “I don’t remember whether he went in first or after we did,” Terry answered, “but we were all together in the living room when we heard the noise.”

  “Dick said there were no workmen in the house when I suggested it might be they who were responsible for the manifestations, so apparently he knew we were alone there,” Sim said. “It does seem as though he knows more than we think.”

  “We will each have to report what we were doing and what we heard as we were in the house. Your story comes later in the course of events, Dot. You check up on us and ask questions when we leave anything out. Now—” Arden took a deep breath. “Sim Westover, or, rather, Bernice,” she corrected herself with a little giggle, “how about you?”

  “I was standing near the door of the parlor leading to the hall when I heard a bump—bump—like someone coming downstairs. I became frightened and ran out,” Sim stated simply.

  “Terry?” questioned the youthful inquisitor.

  “I was looking at the picture of the girl over the fireplace, and Dick was looking out the window. He had his back to the room,” Terry told her story.

  “And I,” said Arden, “was near Terry, also looking at the picture when the noise came. My recollection is that Sim ran out first, then Terry and Dick, and I last. The noise was definitely louder when we left.”

  “But you didn’t actually see anything?” Dorothy asked practically.

  “No,” Arden resumed, “we only heard it. When we got home, Moselle told us that she knew the men who had been working there and that they told her they had seen the figure. Do you suppose real detectives would consider that?”

  “If we want to be very thorough we ought to look those men up and interview them,” Dorothy decided. “But let’s go on for the time being. Don’t I come next?”

  “Dorothy Keene,” Arden wrote and added: “student.”

  “I heard from the car hammering that suddenly stopped and then a cry. The men rushed out of the house. When I went upstairs I saw nothing,” she remarked.

  “The next people were the men who returned and the contractor. We can almost rule them out. It’s Callahan’s job to tear the place down,” Arden went on, pushing a stray lock of dark hair out of her eye.

  “Granny Howe appeared after that,” Sim added. “Let me report about her, Arden.”

  “Proceed,” Arden said with dignity.

  “She poked her head in at the door and asked what the trouble was,” began Sim. “Then she came in and asked if the men had gone and laughed when we told her they had,” she finished.

  “That covers everyone and everything,” Arden remarked putting the top on the fountain pen she had been using. “And from it all, the only conclusion we can come to is that two separate sets of workmen were frightened away by something they claim they saw or didn’t see. While we only heard sounds.”

  “You’ll have to admit, though, that it was very strange that the horses should be so frightened before we came out. That is, we are reasonably certain that we did not frighten them ourselves,” Terry suggested smartly.

  “There’s something in that,” agreed Sim, “and also don’t forget the number of people who heard the same kind of noises and claim they saw the same thing at the same time.”

  Arden stacked the sheets of paper containing the history of “The Jockey Hollow Case,” as she had called it, and suggested that they be put in a safe place so more could be added. All the girls felt that there was much more to come and hoped to get new evidence from Granny Howe when they took tea with her.

  Sim took the papers, locked them in a small drawer in the desk, and took the key.

  “I’ll put the key on a chain and wear it around my neck. Then it will be safe.” She looked at her friends with shining eyes. It was so exciting to be in the very center of a thrilling mystery.

  The girls nodded their approval and began talking brightly of all they had done and seen as though they might have forgotten something important. But on the whole they were well pleased with their work and agreed it was very clever of Arden to suggest it; one useful fact remembered from reading countless detective tales had come their way.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Ghost of Patience

  “Move over, Terry, give me a look!” demanded Sim, elbowing her way nearer to the long mirror before which Terry was admiring herself.

  “There’s plenty of room and at least two more mirrors within easy walking distance,” Terry replied. “Why we all have to congregate in here, I don’t know.”

  “It’s more fun, that’s why,” Arden crisply replied. “And we can talk better. Moselle can hear every word we say if we call to each other from room to room. Don’t forget she’s under suspicion too.”

  “As far as I can see, the only person who isn’t is Dorothy Keene, daughter of Rita Keene the distinguished comédienne,” Terry remarked, successfully maneuvering Sim away from the glass again. “We saw her get off the train ourselves. You’re the only innocent one among us, Dot, but you don’t look it in that swanky dress.”

  “Do you think we’re dressing up too much? We wouldn’t want to embarrass Granny Howe,” Dorothy considered.

  The girls were all in Sim’s big blue-and-white bedroom, laughing and talking as they dressed. It was the afternoon following the “trial by jury.” Sim had lately gone “modern,” and the room showed it. The walls were a cream-white edged in dark blue; light fixtures were star shaped, and the twin beds were covered with a dark-blue satin spread with Sim’s monogram in white-satin letters on the fold. It was all glorious.

  Fooling around until the last possible minute, they were now making up for lost time by all hurriedly dressing in Sim’s room; getting ready for the visit to Granny Howe.

&nb
sp; After talking it over they had decided that the old lady, though she was spry and active, might better enjoy the little party if they did put on a little style and dressed up. So they were wearing soft dresses and high-heeled shoes and had put on other dainty accessories.

  The day was rather dark, a slate-colored sky promising snow before night, but the balmy air contradicted the warning, and Sim, with the top of the roadster down, urged the girls to hurry. A glance at her watch showed three-thirty, and their first call should not keep Granny waiting.

  They were ready at last and piled in the car, Sim letting the clutch in so fast that the sudden start snapped their heads back and jerked the car forward as though Sim was just learning to drive. They went off in a gale of laughter but not in a cloud of dust, for the frozen ground of the driveway refused to part with any of its surface.

  Sim drove as near as she could to the little white house where Hannah Howe lived. The cottage-like place was behind the more stately Sycamore Hall and to the left of the lane. The lane was a mere path just tunneled with trees.

  Four small pillars, more like posts, supported the shingled roof of the low porch, and behind it were two square windows with a door in between.

  The girls stood in dignified silence waiting for Granny to answer Arden’s knock, but she didn’t keep them long.

  “Come in, my dears!” exclaimed the elderly lady like a grandmother in a fairy tale. “I’m glad to see you all looking so well and happy.”

  Granny herself looked well and at least temporarily happy. She wore a long-sleeved, high-necked dress, dark-blue color with little pink flowers dotted over it. At her throat, precisely in the middle, glowed with sullen brightness the soft purple of an antique amethyst brooch. Her thick white hair accentuated the smooth tan of her skin, as she smiled a welcome.

  The party trooped inside the little old house, and they were at once struck by the charm and quaintness of the little place.

  With admiring “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” the visitors looked eagerly about, and Granny, pleased with their young enthusiasm, explained and pointed out the interesting features.

  The fireplace, with a pot in place and hooks for holding others, was especially fascinating.

  “Imagine cooking over an open fire!” exclaimed Sim, “and Moselle complains about the oven in our new gas range.”

  “Years ago the fireplace served a double purpose,” Granny explained: “that of heat and a stove. And as someone has said, they were truly the heart of the home. Many a lone winter night Patience Howe sat by this one, keeping the fire alive, wondering would she ever see her father and brothers again.”

  On a low maple table in front of the old Colonial davenport, Granny was putting out the “best china”: thin cups and saucers with a pink wild-rose pattern. With unfeigned interest, Arden watched her dainty movements. She seemed as much a part of the place as did the pewter plates on the mantel. The little company had settled down to chat with the abruptness of old friends. After the first greetings were over, they all felt they had known this little lady all their lives. But it was Sim who first broached the subject uppermost in the minds of all.

  “It was Patience who hid the wounded soldier, wasn’t it?” she asked, nibbling at a tiny bread-and-butter sandwich.

  “Her picture still hangs in the Hall, doesn’t it?” Terry inquired, following Sim’s lead.

  “What a brave girl she must have been,” remarked Arden, hoping Granny would take the cue and tell them about her.

  Handing Dorothy a cup of tea and settling herself in a quaint high-backed rocker, the old lady nodded her head and smiled.

  “I can see you are all burning with curiosity,” she laughed. “Of course, I’ll tell you about her, I’m very proud of her, and as you say, my dear, she was indeed very brave.” Granny glanced at the girls sitting around her, sipping their tea and patiently waiting for her story. Then she began:

  “In the year when Washington’s troops were retreating from New York, Patience refused to leave her home to seek shelter with relatives at Philadelphia. This was her home: the big house, I mean, of course,” she explained. “This tiny place was for the servants. But Patience decided to stay and help with the work of the farm; so many of the working men had joined the troops. There was plenty of work, and it was bitter cold, too. One day, as the poor, tired army was forced to go still farther back beyond the advancing British troops, a wounded soldier was carried into the house. Nathaniel Greene, his name was, and his comrades begged Patience to take him in and keep him, for he would surely die if made to march in the bitter cold. Patience hid him in her own room, disguised herself as an old servant, and moved out here to live.”

  “What a—girl!” breathed Arden, as Granny paused a moment.

  “Imagine waiting on a wounded soldier,” followed up Terry.

  “And imagine the danger she was in,” concluded Sim.

  Granny, gratified that the story of her famous relative should gain so much honor through her own simple telling, finally continued.

  “When the British took possession of the house Patience declared the wounded man was a raving lunatic, and so she kept him out of harm’s way. Until spring she hid him successfully, and by that time the soldier and the maid had fallen in love.”

  The girls waited while Granny shook her head sorrowfully.

  “But he contracted pneumonia and died,” she murmured. “Patience never married but gave herself up to her country’s cause and became a nurse for wounded soldiers. That was her candle holder; she used it to light her way along a secret passage from the big house to this one.”

  Granny indicated a pewter candlestick on the mantel between two plates. Their eyes lingered on it lovingly. A moment later Granny went on with her story.

  “I have an old letter telling about it, but when the place was remodeled the passage must have been walled up. Dick and Betty have never been able to find any trace of it. Although, I dare say, it will come to light when the house is torn down.” Granny finished her recital and sat looking straight before her, her bright eyes dimmed with tears. She sighed and attempted a little smile.

  Arden’s heart skipped a beat, and a lump rose in her throat.

  “Oh, it’s monstrous to think that dear old place should come down!” she exclaimed bitterly. “Can’t something be done to save it? Is there no way of buying it in?”

  “I’m afraid we couldn’t keep it, even if we could save it,” Granny replied. “We need the money it would bring. But as it is now, we are unable to prove title to it, and it will go and be forgotten,” she sighed pathetically. “I can stay here while I live, they have allowed me that, but Dick and Betty will be left homeless when—”

  She did not finish that prophecy, but they all knew what she meant, and instantly they secretly determined to help her some way; how, they did not know.

  But in a flash Sim imagined herself handing the long lost deeds to Granny Howe and then becoming a heroine. The plot had magic influence on them all.

  It was Dorothy who brought them back to the present. “Was it Nathaniel Greene the workmen thought they saw the other day? But it couldn’t have been Patience on the bed,” she demurred. “Of course, the workmen didn’t know anything about these war stories.”

  “There is an old tradition,” Granny resumed, “that Nathaniel appears in his tattered uniform and with his head bandaged whenever the old house, or anyone in it, is in danger.

  “Sometimes, so the story goes, and you may believe it or not, as you choose,” Granny smiled whimsically, “the ghost of Patience Howe is seen wandering about the old house. Certainly she would have good reason to come back here now. Not that I believe in such things,” she hurried to declare, rather unreasonably.

  The girls politely agreed, but did not want to interrupt the stirring narrative. Patience Howe’s story was simply fascinating.

  “As for the figure on the bed, Patience died there when she was an old woman. Her horse fell, breaking his leg, and she was mortally injured. She
died in her red cloak there on the old four-poster.” A reverent pause followed that statement. “But we are becoming too sad. All those things are over and done with. Won’t you have some more tea, my dear?” Granny quickly asked, addressing Sim.

  “The story holds such strange historic interest,” Sim replied, accepting her second cup of tea. “May we go through the Hall sometime?”

  “Whenever you like,” Granny consented. “But I advise you to do it soon. That Callahan will have a new batch of workmen here by the end of the week, and you won’t have the house to yourselves after that. I must say he is very determined. Don’t let those ghost stories frighten you—the house is really very interesting, and the door is always open ... to you,” and the hostess included them all with a bright smile and a graceful wave of her gentle hand.

  It was almost dark now, and the girls, realizing this, drew themselves up with a start.

  “We want to thank you for a most pleasant afternoon,” said Sim smilingly. “We must be going now; Moselle will be worried to death, and look—it’s beginning to snow!”

  The first feather-like flakes were floating down to be lost in the brush below. Arden sprang up and impulsively kissed the old lady they had all come to love. She gave Arden a little hug in return, and asked them all to stop and see her whenever they could, declaring she had had a wonderful afternoon, herself. Then, gathering their things quickly, they left the little white house behind them. As they drove away the merry snowflakes were making little jabs at their happy, willing faces.

  “Oh, wasn’t it great!” sighed Arden.

  “I feel like a live history of the American Revolution,” declared Sim.

  “And I feel like the latest authority on military ghosts. But I hated to have the soldier die before he married Patience,” sighed romantic Terry.

  “We might even be able to fix that up if we get friendly enough with the ghosts,” teased Arden, which seemed like a very good idea to all of them.

  CHAPTER IX

  A Warning

  The air was brisk now, and the countryside had taken on that hushed feeling that comes just before a snowstorm. At the moment the roads seemed quite deserted, and their little roadster hummed along with all its prideful speed and importance.