The Clue in the Old Stagecoach

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Copyright
©
1988, 1960 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Pumam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. NANCY DREW MYSTERYSTORIES® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster,

Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07738-2

2007 Printing

“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!”

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.

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.”

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.