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Carolyn Keene
Nancy Drew Mystery Stories: Volume Thirty-Seven
The Clue in the Old Stagecoach
Copyright © 1988, 1960 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Nancy’s latest mystery has her searching for an old stagecoach with something valuable hidden inside. She is asked by an elderly woman, Mrs. Strook, to find an old stagecoach her great-uncle may have hidden in the town of Francisville. This stagecoach may contain something of value.
CHAPTER I
The Mysterious Stagecoach
“NANCY, this is one of the steepest hillsides I’ve ever climbed down,” said Bess Marvin. “I hope the mystery you’re about to solve will be worth all this trouble.”
The pretty, blond girl was with two companions who were carefully picking their way down a wooded slope. One was Nancy Drew, tall, slender, and attractive, with blue eyes, and hair with just a hint of titian. The other was Bess’s cousin George Fayne, a boyish, slim girl, who was a sparkling brunette with a good sense of humor.
Nancy smiled. “I wonder what Mrs. Strook is going to ask me to do.” At that moment Nancy was looking through a long clearing to the road below. Her eyes widened in amazement. “Girls, look!” she cried out.
Bess and George gazed downward just in time to see four white horses pulling an old stagecoach. Evidently the horses were running away. There was no driver, but inside the stagecoach the girls could glimpse two swaying figures.
George clapped a hand to her forehead. “Am I dreaming or have I jumped back in time a hundred years?”
“I don’t know what this means,” Nancy replied, “but we must try to stop that runaway!” She darted down the hillside.
“But they’ll be way ahead of us by the time we get there,” Bess argued.
“We’ll go at an angle and head them off!” Nancy retorted, changing course.
George soon caught up to Nancy. Bess was a little distance behind. The girls turned their ankles and lost their balance on the uneven, stony ground. They grabbed for tree trunks to steady themselves and finally reached the foot of the hill.
“There they are!” George exclaimed.
“The horses have stopped,” Nancy added, as the two girls emerged onto a narrow country road.
A few seconds later Bess arrived. By this time Nancy and George were laughing merrily.
“What’s so funny?” Bess asked, puzzled.
Her cousin pointed, and Nancy explained, “The horses are artificial. They’re made of plaster of Paris, I guess. And they’re attached to a wheeled platform.”
Bess stared in astonishment. “But the stagecoach—what about that?”
“I’m sure it’s authentic,” Nancy replied.
Pulling open one of the side doors of the stagecoach, which was painted bright red with gold decorations, she said, “Those figures on the rear seat are plastic dummies and here on the floor are the rest of the group!”
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One after the other she lifted out the driver and the messenger. Both men wore tight-fitting pants, high boots, gray wool jackets over white shirts, and flat, black, low-crowned hats with wide brims.
The women passengers were dressed in flower-and ribbon-trimmed bonnets, tight bodices, and toe-length bouffant skirts. The men dummies wore suits in light shades with knee-length, rather snug coats, and high-crowned hats.
Bess was laughing now too. “We won’t have to go on to Mrs. Strook’s,” she said. “We have a mystery on our hands right here.”
“We certainly have,” George agreed. “What do you suggest we do about it?”
“It’s my guess,” Nancy said, “that somebody was towing this antique outfit, and it broke loose.” She pointed to two link chains attached at each side of the front of the horses’ platform.
“In that case,” George spoke up, “the person will certainly be back.”
Bess looked worried. “We don’t know when, though. I think we ought to guard the stagecoach until he arrives.”
At that moment the girls saw a truck approaching from the opposite direction. As it came up to them, the handsome young driver stopped and leaned out the cab window.
“I got a good distance up the road before I realized my tow chain had broken,” he said. “I’m glad nothing happened to the old outfit.”
Bess smiled. “We thought we were seeing things as we came down through the woods from Camp Merriweather. We’re vacationing there. Where is this stagecoach going?”
The truck driver introduced himself as John O’Brien, then said, “I guess you girls haven’t heard about the deserted village of Bridgeford that’s being restored.”
“No, we haven’t,” Nancy replied.
John explained that about two miles away there had once been a thriving town where iron ore was brought from a nearby bog to be smelted. It had been abandoned a hundred years before, but now the county historical society, with the help of some people interested in reconstructing old villages, was fixing up the place.
“A woman named Mrs. Pauling, who lives outside of Francisville,” John O’Brien went on, “bought this stagecoach and had it repaired and newly painted. It came from an abandoned farm. The people who bought the place recently found it hidden on the property.”
“The horses too?” George asked.
“No. Mrs. Pauling had them made. She’s presenting the whole thing to the restoration at the time of the grand opening. You ought to come over and see what’s being done.”
“I’d like to,” said Nancy.
By this time the trucker had stepped out of the cab and was inspecting the tow chains. One large piece was attached to his truck and he explained that the two lighter ones on the horses’ platform had snapped off. After turning the truck around, he produced more links from a toolbox and repaired the tow.
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Whistling, John O’Brien got behind the wheel of the truck, waved to the girls, and said, “Don’t forget to come over to Bridgeford.”
“We’ll be there,” Nancy called as he drove off. She looked at her wrist watch. “Girls, we’re going to be dreadfully late for our appointment with Mrs. Strook. Let’s hurry!”
Mrs. Strook, an elderly woman, lived in Francisville. Formerly a quiet place with a small population, it had suddenly mushroomed because of two housing developments which had sprung up not far apart at one end of the village. Less than half an hour’s walk brought the three girls to the shaded side street where Mrs. Strook lived.
“What a charming place!” Bess remarked, as they reached a small, white, two-story colonial house surrounded by a white picket fence with a gate. Flowers, especially old-fashioned American varieties, grew in profusion in the front yard.
Mrs. Strook, a petite, smiling woman with snow-white hair pulled straight back and arranged in a knot at the nape of her neck, ushered the girls in with old-time courtesy.
“You have had a long, hot walk,” Mrs. Strook said, as they cast admiring glances at the beautiful antique furniture, hooked rugs, and hand-woven linen draperies. “Won’t you sit down while I bring some iced tea?”
Their charming hostess was gone only a few minutes, then returned with a tray and brimming glasses. As she and her guests sipped the delicious minted tea, Mrs. Strook looked intently at Nancy. “I probably shouldn’t intrude on your vacation, but when I heard through the manager that you’re staying at Merriweather and love to solve mysteries, I couldn’t refrain from asking you to come over here. Let me tell you my story and then you can decide for yourself whether or not you want to help me.”
Mrs. Strook said that the town of Francisville had been her family’s home for many generations. At present the old-timers found it impossible to cope with the changed situation. The two housing developments had brought many new families into the community. This had necessitated extensive water and sewage systems.
“Our town has issued bonds to borrow money for these,” Mrs. Strook explained. “Now we find it impossible to issue any more for a much-needed educational program. We ought to have a large, new school. The old building cannot take care of all the children who have moved in.”
As the woman paused, George spoke up. “Can’t your town borrow money from the federal government?”
“A certain amount, my dear,” Mrs. Strook answered. “And the town can add its share, of course. But what we need is a large sum to pay the balance. And that’s where my mystery comes in.”
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The elderly woman’s eyes twinkled. “I had a great-uncle named Abner Langstreet. He never married. Great-uncle Abner was born in Francisville and loved our little village. But back in 1853, in September to be exact, he disappeared, taking all his savings with him.
“None of his relatives or friends ever saw him alive again, but ten years later word came to my grandmother, his sister, that Great-uncle Abner had been found dead in a small farmhouse only a few miles from here. He had become a hermit, but evidently just before his death he decided to reveal a certain secret that he had been harboring since leaving Francisville.
“An unfinished letter to my grandmother was discovered and in it Abner Langstreet said that he was sorry he had run away and hoped it had caused the family no embarrassment. But he had not been able to face the bankruptcy he saw confronting him. The railroad which came here in 1852 had ruined his business. The tracks are gone now, but you can see the embankment here and there.”
As Mrs. Strook paused again, Bess asked, “What was your great-uncle’s business?”
“He was a stagecoach driver—owned his own coach and horses.”
The three girls sat up very straight in their chairs. Twice, within an hour, they were hearing about an ancient stagecoach!
“You see,” Mrs. Strook went on, “everyone began to use the railroad and there were no more passengers for my great-uncle. He was heartbroken and left Francisville in the old stagecoach without telling anyone. It was thought that he had gone out West to drive it or at least to sell it. You know, stagecoaches were used in the western part of our country long after they went out of vogue in the East.
“Lately,” the elderly woman went on, “I have begun to think that Great-uncle Abner might not have taken his stagecoach so far away. If it was hidden around here, the old vehicle should be found and donated to the Bridgeford restoration.”
“And you want me to find it?” Nancy asked.
“Yes, but not just for that reason. I have a more important motive—one that was written in the letter to my grandmother,” Mrs. Strook replied quickly. “The letter said:
You will find a clue in the old stagecoach which may prove to be of great value to my beloved town of Francisville. I put it there because I wanted it to be found some day, but not for many years. I was afraid I might die suddenly, then no one would ever know. But now I shall tell you the secret. You will find the—”
Mrs. Strook wiped away a tear which was trickling down one cheek. “The letter ended there,” she said. “Apparently Mr. Langstreet was never able to write any more.” She gazed at Nancy. “Do you think my story sounds too farfetched? I have been afraid of being laughed at if I go to the authorities with it. But I thought maybe you—”
Nancy had already risen from her chair. Now she sat down on the floor in front of the elderly woman and took both her hands in her own.
“I don’t think your story is farfetched at all,” she said. “I’d love to solve the mystery for you if I can. Now I’m going to tell you a strange coincidence. Bess and George and I saw an old stagecoach not far from here.”
“What!” Mrs. Strook exclaimed.
When Nancy finished the story, Mrs. Strook stared in amazement. “You say this stagecoach was found hidden on a farm near here? Then it may very well have been my great-uncle’s!”
“And contains the clue!” Bess cried out.
“Oh, I hope you’re right!” Mrs. Strook said, her cheeks glowing and her eyes glistening with tears. “Could you find out for me?”
“Indeed we can,” Nancy replied. “Bess and George and I will go back to the lodge and get my car. We’ll drive to Bridgeford at once and examine the old stagecoach.”
CHAPTER II
A Special Search
BEFORE leaving, Nancy asked Mrs. Strook if she had a photograph of Abner Langstreet’s stagecoach.
“Yes, I have,” she answered. “It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.”
Nancy’s mind was leaping ahead; she might solve the mystery that very day!
The young sleuth had already figured out the answers to several mysteries, some of them for her father, Carson Drew. He practiced law in River Heights where Nancy, Bess, and George lived. Among the cases on which Nancy had helped him were The Secret in the Old Clock and The Golden Pavilion, the latter in the Hawaiian Islands.
Presently George said in a low tone to the other two girls, “Suppose Mr. Langstreet went a bit zany in his seclusion and imagined the whole thing.”
“Oh, George,” Bess scolded, “you’re so practical. Why don’t you look at the romantic side of it? I’m sure the story is true. What do you think, Nancy?”
“I have a strong hunch there’s something to it,” the young sleuth answered.
“You see, George, you’re outvoted,” her cousin said. “Just for that, if you lose, you’ll have to pay us a forfeit.”
Nancy’s eyes twinkled. “You certainly will, George. Bess, let’s make it something good. I’ll tell you what. George, if we win, you’ll have to knit each of us a lovely sweater!”
George groaned. The other two girls knew she hated to knit. “Oh, please not that!” she begged.
Bess winked at Nancy. “Sweaters or nothing,” she answered.
Before George could object any further, Mrs. Strook came down the stairs holding a faded photograph. It showed four proud-looking, coal-black horses hitched to an attractive stagecoach. Nancy asked if she might take the picture along to compare it with the stagecoach at Bridgeford.
“Yes, indeed, my dear,” Mrs. Strook answered. “And I shall be eagerly awaiting your answer.”
The girls said good-by and started for the front door. Nancy opened it and almost ran full tilt into a man and a woman who were standing on the other side. They were Mr. and Mrs. Ross Monteith, who were staying at Camp Merriweather. Ross and Audrey were in their early thirties. They were not popular with the younger set who considered them too aggressive and overeager to be included where they were not welcome.
Ross was tall and slender, with dark hair and piercing black eyes. His manner of speaking was very affected. Audrey, blond and blue-eyed, was a braggart. She attempted by her speech and mannerisms to appear more sophisticated than she actually was.
“Why, Nancy Drew, fancy meeting you here!” said Ross. “Audrey and I were out for a hike. Isn’t this place utterly charming—best-looking house in town. We’re thirsty and we thought we’d step in for some water.”
“Do you know the owner?” Nancy asked.
“No, but we hope to meet him or her.”
Mrs. Strook, who had followed the girls to the door, stepped forward. She was frowning and it was evident that she was annoyed by the intrusion. “If you will take seats out in the garden, I will bring you some ice water,” she said.
“Oh, I’ll take it to them,” Bess offered.
Ross and Audrey Monteith went to sit in chairs under a large shade tree. In a few minutes Bess carried out two tall glasses of ice water.
“Thanks,” said Ross. “Are you girls going back to the lodge?”
“I really don’t know,” Bess replied and walked away.
In the house George whispered to Mrs. Strook, “I’m glad that you didn’t invite the Monteiths in. They’re staying at our camp and are very inquisitive people.”
Mrs. Strook smiled knowingly. Then she said, “By the way, please don’t tell my little secret about the stagecoach to anyone, will you?”
The three girls promised to keep the matter in strictest confidence, then they said good-by and hurried off. As they reached the hillside trail and began climbing toward the summit, George remarked, “I think Ross and Audrey deliberately followed us and I’m afraid they were eavesdropping near the open window.”
“I agree,” said Bess.
Nancy was inclined to think so too. “Anything they missed I’m sure they won’t learn from Mrs. Strook!” she said with a grin.
After the arduous climb the three girls reached the extensive plateau on which Camp Merriweather stood. The main building was a large, rambling log cabin with pine-paneled interior walls. In front of it was an immense swimming pool with sun umbrellas and tables set around the edge. At once the three girls were besieged by a group of young people who invited them to go swimming.
“We can’t just now,” Nancy called. “Have a job to do.”
“A mystery to solve?” asked one of the young men, coming to her side. He was Rick Larrabee, tall, very blond, and an excellent dancer. Nancy had enjoyed having dates with him during her stay at camp.
“A detective never tells her secrets,” she said, laughing. “But I promise we’ll all join you later.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Rick replied.
Nancy, Bess, and George quickly showered and changed their clothes. Then they set off in Nancy’s convertible for Bridgeford. The old town, situated about a mile from the main road, was a beehive of activity.
“Oh, this is simply wonderful!” Bess cried out in delight, gazing around at the quaint buildings, some of which had been restored.
“I like that covered bridge,” George spoke up. “I suppose it led to what was the main road in olden days.”
“This rushing stream was used to turn the water wheel in that old mill,” Nancy remarked. Some distance up the stream stood the miller’s vine-covered cottage. The great wheel and the grinder were in a wing of the house.
The girls walked around for a while, inspecting the ancient bakery which as yet held no food; the blacksmith’s shop with its fire pit, anvil, and smoke-stained walls; and finally what a workman told them had been the “artillery house.”
“What does that mean?” Bess asked.
The man explained that it had once contained firearms—rifles, pistols, cannon, together with bullets, gunpowder, and other weapons for helping ward off unexpected attacks from enemies.”
“You mean like Indians?” Bess inquired. The workman nodded.
As the girls walked off, Nancy said, “Perhaps we’ve done enough sight-seeing and should find the old stagecoach.” She was about to ask another workman where it was when the girls saw John O’Brien coming toward them.
He smiled broadly. “I thought I saw you here,” he said. “Let me show you around.”
Nancy thanked him but said, “We’re eager to look at the stagecoach.”
John O’Brien told the visitors to follow him, and led the way to an old barn which had not yet been repaired. As he opened the creaking door, the man said, “There she is. I detached the horses. They’re in another barn.”
“May we inspect the stagecoach?” Nancy asked.
“Sure. Go ahead. But don’t damage anything.”
John O’Brien said he had an errand to do in another part of the village. When he finished he would be back. The young man strode off and instantly the girls began to investigate the ancient vehicle.
Nancy took the photograph of old Mr. Langstreet’s stagecoach from her purse to compare it with this coach. She stood off at a short distance and surveyed the one in the barn, then stared at the picture. The design and size were identical!
A pleased smile came over her face. “Girls, it looks as if this might have been Great-uncle Abner’s stagecoach!”
“Super!” said George. “Now let’s find that clue!”
After a short conference, it was decided that George would search the driver’s seat and the box under it. Nancy would examine the interior, while Bess investigated the “boot” at the rear. This was a great triangular leather sack attached to the back of the stagecoach to hold baggage.
There was complete silence for many minutes as the girls worked. George went over every inch of the driver’s seat, removing the cushion and looking thoroughly in the leather-lined box beneath. She found nothing.
Nancy had no better luck inside. She had turned up and thoroughly examined under and around the cushions on the front and rear seats, and the one in the center. She had felt the padded walls and looked for any opening. Then she had dropped to her hands and knees for an examination of the floor. Finally she came to the conclusion that no clue was going to be found easily.
Just then Bess gave a loud squeal. George and Nancy jumped to the ground and ran to her side.
“Have you found the clue?” Nancy asked excitedly.
“Have you found the clue?” Nancy asked excitedly
Bess had unbuckled the cover of the “boot” and inside had found a newspaper dated 1860. Quickly she laid it on the ground and carefully turned the pages, skimming through the various items and advertisements which might yield the clue for which they were hunting.
Finding nothing, she turned back to the first page and this time all the girls went over each article minutely. Still they found nothing to help them.
“Oh dear!” said Bess. “I thought sure I had solved the mystery!”
The newspaper was put back into the “boot” and the fastenings closed.
“If the clue is in this stagecoach, it’s well concealed,” Nancy remarked. “I wonder if we could possibly look inside the cushions and other hiding places.”
At that moment John O’Brien returned. He seemed to be excited. “Come on with me, quick!” he exclaimed. “They’re going to put the water wheel into operation. It hasn’t turned in a hundred years!”
The three girls hurried along beside him up the towpath which led to the miller’s home. There were a few sight-seers present, but the bulk of the audience was comprised of people working on the restoration.
They crowded into the small cellar room which contained part of the sluiceway leading to the big wheel. The girls became separated from John O’Brien and were pushed against one of the wooden sides of the sluiceway.
“Everyone set?” called a man standing not far from Nancy. He had one hand on a great wooden lever which could divert the water to or from the great wheel.
“Guess we are!” came a reply.
The man pushed the lever with all his might. Instantly tumbling, gushing water rushed into the sluiceway, headed for the wheel’s blades. At the same instant the crowd surged forward to watch.
An overeager man stumbled into Bess and knocked her off balance. Unable to steady herself, the astonished girl tumbled headlong into the sluiceway!
Bess cried out and tried to grab the wooden side, but the rushing water was too powerful. She was swept along toward the turning blades of the great water wheel!
Bess was swept toward the great water wheel
CHAPTER III
An Ominous Warning
WHEN Nancy and George realized what had happened to Bess, the two girls made a wild leap forward and grabbed for her in the sluiceway. Water spurted in all directions over the stunned onlookers, as Nancy and George managed to pull their chum to safety.
“You all right, young lady?” cried out the man who had turned the lever.
“Y-yes,” Bess sputtered.
She was a bedraggled sight, with her hair and clothes hanging limp! “Please, let’s go home,” she said plaintively.
“Right away,” Nancy replied.
The worker who had jostled Bess off balance apologized profusely, and asked if there was anything he could do.
The forlorn girl shook her head. “No, thanks.”
The man in charge of the mill now ordered everyone out of the place. Coming over to the girls, he said, “I’m mighty sorry this happened. Thank goodness you weren’t hurt.”
The three friends left hurriedly and headed at once for Nancy’s car. John O’Brien, who only a moment ago had realized that Bess was the victim of the accident, caught up to the girls and offered to do whatever he could.
“I’ll be all right,” Bess assured him.
Nancy said that she had a raincoat in the back of the car which Bess could put on during the drive back to Camp Merriweather.
“Outside of the little accident, we really had a wonderful time here,” Nancy told John O’Brien. “Thank you for suggesting we come.”
The trucker saluted and went off to his job. The girls were soon back at the lodge.
“I’ll pull into an inconspicuous spot in the parking yard,” Nancy told Bess. “Then we can go up the back stairway and nobody will question you.”
“Thanks,” said Bess. “I suppose you mean the Monteiths.”
Unfortunately, the three girls had no sooner stepped from the convertible than they were confronted by Ross and Audrey who appeared like apparitions out of the bushes that surrounded the parking area.
“Why, Bess Marvin!” Audrey Monteith cried out. “Whatever have you been doing to yourself?”
“I had a little swim,” Bess returned tersely.
As if disbelieving Bess’s words, Audrey pulled aside the raincoat the girl was wearing. Seeing the soggy clothing beneath, she remarked, “But not a swim you intended to take.”
Bess offered no further explanation. Nancy and George did not say a word as the three walked up a path toward the rear of the lodge. Audrey and Ross followed close behind.
“Mrs. Strook is a delightful old lady, isn’t she?” Ross queried.
“Yes, she is,” Nancy answered.
“Have you known her a long time?” Ross prodded.
“Long enough to feel that I know her rather well.”
“So you won’t talk?” Audrey remarked. “Nancy, you don’t have to be so tight with your information. Tell us, why did you and Bess and George go to see Mrs. Strook?”
Nancy and her friends were annoyed, but resolved not to lose their tempers. George, however, could not resist a remark. “Like you and your husband, we had a cool drink there—only ours was iced tea.”
The Monteiths looked at each other as if to say, “We’re not going to find out anything now,” and hurried down a side path.
Bess fumed, “Nancy, first thing you know those two horrible creatures will be taking the mystery right out of your hands and trying to solve it themselves!”
Nancy was silent for a few seconds, then she set her jaw firmly. “Let them try it!” she said.
When the girls reached their rooms, Nancy suggested that they put on bathing suits and go for a real swim. Bess grinned. “My second today. And anyway, we promised Rick and the others we’d join them later.”
For the next few hours the three girls thoroughly enjoyed themselves. There was no mention of the mystery until they were preparing for bed. Then George asked Nancy how she planned to continue searching for the clue in the old stagecoach.
“I’m going to ask Mrs. Strook’s permission to tell part of her secret to Mrs. Pauling, the woman who owns the stagecoach. Maybe she’ll let me make a more thorough search.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Bess remarked. “When do you plan on going?”
“Monday morning.”
Bess and George said they would have to be counted out as they had promised to play in a tennis match at that time.
“I’m sorry,” said Nancy.
Next day, Sunday, the girls went to church in town. Later Nancy phoned Mrs. Strook’s home and gave her the latest news.
“Do you think there’s a good possibility that coach was Great-uncle Abner’s?” the elderly woman asked eagerly.
“Yes,” Nancy answered. “It certainly looks a lot like the picture. I thought perhaps Mrs. Pauling might let us investigate a little deeper. Do you know her?”
“Not personally,” Mrs. Strook answered, “but I understand she’s a fine woman and is very civic-minded. I believe she would keep my secret and at least tell us anything she may know. Yes, Nancy, go ahead and talk with her.”
Directly after breakfast on Monday, Nancy drove to Mrs. Pauling’s home. It was a large house built at the top of a knoll and reached by a winding driveway. In front of the house was a wooded area, screening the residence from the highway. Nancy could see barns and other buildings to the rear as she drove up and parked.
At the same instant she heard yelping dogs approaching, and within seconds she was surrounded by a pack of hunting hounds.
Nancy smiled. “They’re cute—and harmless.”
She was about to pick up her purse and get out of the car when from around the comer of the house bounded two very large police dogs. They began to bark noisily and instantly the hunting hounds slunk away.