SPOOKY HOLLOW
_CAROLYN WELLS’_
_Baffling detective stories in which Fleming Stone, the great American
Detective, displays his remarkable ingenuity for unravelling mysteries_
FEATHERS LEFT AROUND
THE MYSTERY GIRL
THE MYSTERY OF THE SYCAMORE
RASPBERRY JAM
THE DIAMOND PIN
VICKY VAN
THE MARK OF CAIN
THE CURVED BLADES
THE WHITE ALLEY
ANYBODY BUT ANNE
THE MAXWELL MYSTERY
A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE
THE CLUE
THE GOLD BAG
PTOMAINE STREET
A Rollicking Parody on a Famous Book
SPOOKY HOLLOW
A FLEMING STONE STORY
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
_Author of “Vicky Van,” “The Mystery Girl,” etc._
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY STREET AND SMITH CORPORATION
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA U. S. A.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND JULIE STANIFORD
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PROUT HAS A FARE 9
II. THE GUEST AT GREATLARCH 28
III. ROSEMARY 48
IV. A MYSTERIOUS DEATH 70
V. WHERE WAS JOHNSON? 89
VI. THE WILD HARP 108
VII. UNCLE AND NIECE 128
VIII. SPOOKY HOLLOW 147
IX. A LIVING TRAGEDY 167
X. HOW COLLINS FELT ABOUT IT 187
XI. A RUN OVER TO FRANCE 207
XII. A NAMELESS, HOMELESS WAIF 227
XIII. A VINCENT AFTER ALL 246
XIV. FLEMING STONE ON THE CASE 266
XV. A FEW DEDUCTIONS 286
XVI. FIBSY EXPLORES 306
XVII. FINCH’S STORY 326
XVIII. THE TERRIBLE TRUTH 346
CHAPTER I
PROUT HAS A FARE
Our Pilgrim band of stern and rock-bound forefathers left us a goodly
heritage in New England. And, even though we may not still in awed tones
call it holy ground, yet the soil where first they trod calls forth a
certain respect and admiration not compelled by any other group of these
United States.
To be sure they didn’t tread all of it. Lots and lots of square miles of
ground and lofty soil are still untrodden to any great extent, especially
the northern parts of the northern states.
Maine, with its great, beautiful Aroostook County, whose far-flung potato
farms have a charm all their own, and whose glistening white farm-houses
have their barns hitched on behind like majestic trains of cars—the
exquisite tidiness of Maine as a state far outranks all her twelve
original sisters.
In New Hampshire the white paint is less immaculate, the state less
tidily cleared up, but the woods against a stormy sky their giant
branches toss, and the rocking pines of the forest roar their eternal
welcome. Timid little lakes nestle confidingly among the hills and the
White Mountains cluster in majestic serenity.
And then comes Vermont, beautiful, careless Vermont, forgetful of her
white paint, heedless of her broken-down fences, conscious only of her
green Green Mountains and the sounding aisles of her dim woods.
East of the Green Mountain Range, in northern Vermont, is wide, rolling
country, with here and there a handful of small hills dumped down as
though they had been flung at the Range and fell short of their mark.
Among them are valleys and lakes, vistas and scenery, verdure and
foliage,—all that goes to make Vermont what her beautiful name means.
And villages. These are not always as picturesque as they should be, but
man’s place in nature is frequently out of harmony with his surroundings.
What should be a quaint little hamlet with an old white-spired church and
a few clustering cottages, is more often a Four Corners or a few rods
or perches of a stupid-looking Main Street, totally lacking in pride,
prosperity, or paint.
Farm-houses are shabby and fences dilapidated, yet, after all, there are
sites and spots—oh, the sites and spots of Vermont!
If one wanted to build ten thousand homes, he could find a satisfying
site or spot for each and have as many left over.
In our forefathers’ days, the soil where first they trod was considered
the very thing for highroads, but now the broad white ribbon of concrete
that tangles itself among the green hills is exceedingly convenient,
without marring the picture.
And the towns that chance to impinge on or straddle that road are up to
date and almost a part of the living, bustling world outside.
But the towns reached by the lesser roads, the older roads,—they have no
animal spirits and lead a mere vegetable life.
Unless a great country house has been built on a site or a spot near-by,
these little villages have none at all to praise and very few to love.
Hilldale was one of the prettiest of these villages and was in fairly
good repair. This was owing to the fact that it had offered an
unsurpassed site for a gentleman’s country house.
The gentleman had materialized, and so, later, did the house.
It had happened forty years ago. Vicissitudes had removed the gentleman
but the house remained—remained empty for years, and at last, five years
ago, had been bought, furnished, and occupied.
Yet the fact of the house, half a mile from the village street, so
influenced and stimulated the villagers that unconsciously they lived
up to it and gloried in its possession as in an invisible jewel held in
trust.
For the house was invisible, by reason of those same dim woods and
rocking pines, and moreover, because of high and strong stone walls.
Yet it was there and it was theirs, so Hilldale plumed itself and went
about its business.
Off the main travelled road of traffic, it was also off the main line of
the railroad and was reached by a tiny spur, whose trains, not impressed
by the great house, ran with a debonair disregard of timetables or
schedules.
And so, when one of these trains pulled up with a grinding jerk, and the
leisurely, easy-going conductor sang out, “Hilldale!” John Haydock, who
had risen, almost fell over backward by reason of the sudden stop.
The train was nearly an hour late, and though still well up in the
heavens, the November sun was secretly preparing for a quick swoop down
and out. The air was damp and raw, with a feeling that portended snow.
Beautiful Vermont had lost her green, but was bravely substituting a
glory of red and russet and gold that clad her hills and dales with a
blaze of autumn beauty.
John Haydock shivered as he stepped to the station platform, then drew up
his overcoat collar, and appreciatively lapped up the beauty of the scene
even while he looked about at conditions.
He saw a phlegmatic looking man standing near an elderly Ford, and with
admirable sagacity deduced a local taxi driver.
“I want to go to Homer Vincent’s,” Haydock said, half expecting the man
would drawl out “Wal, why don’t ye, then?” after the approved manner of
Vermont natives in fiction.
But the influence of the house wouldn’t allow that, and the man merely
gave a sort of grunt that seemed to mean “All right,” or “Certainly.”
Moreover, he showed a gleam of curiosity in his hard, weather-beaten blue
eyes, and moved with alacrity as he took the stranger’s bag.
But he said nothing as he held the car door open for his passenger, and
then took his own place at the wheel.
“Is it far from the village?” Haydock asked.
The driver rolled a blue eye around at him.
“Ain’t never been there, eh?” he said. “Well, it’s about halfa mile,—good
halfa mile. I ain’t never been in the house myself. Druv up to the
entrance now, naginn,—just now, naginn. Great place!”
He spoke in an awe-struck voice, as one might of some masterpiece of God
or man, and Haydock said, involuntarily:
“Is it such a beautiful house?”
“Is it? _Is it!_ Well, you’ll soon see!”
They had left the village now, and were passing along a wooded country
road, beautiful with its pines and hemlocks among the bright autumn
leaves. A few roads branched to right or left, but the Ford car clattered
straight ahead.
“Mr. Vincent get over his broken leg?” Haydock asked. “Can he walk all
right?”
“Yep, mostly. Has a little limp—you’d hardly notice it, though. Course
we don’t see him hardly ever.”
“Recluse?”
“Not quite that,—but sticks to his home mostly. Miss Vincent, now, she’s
more sociably inclined.”
“Miss Rosemary?”
“Well, no, I didn’t mean her,—I meant the old lady,—Mr. Vincent’s sister.
Miss Rosemary, now, she’s here, there, and everywhere. Ridin’ a horse,
drivin’ a car, walkin’, skatin’ and they do say they’re goin’ to keep an
airoplane.”
“Really? How up to date they are.”
“Well, they are, an’ they ain’t. Yes, sir, they are, ’n’ they ain’t. The
old man, now—”
“Why do you call Mr. Homer Vincent an old man?”
“Thasso. He can’t be mor’n fifty,—’n’ yet, he somehow seems old.”
“To look at?”
“Well, no; though ’s I said, I don’t often see him. But if he’s passin’
in his motor-car, he don’t look out an’ nod at people,—see, an’ he don’t
seem to be smilin’—”
“Grumpy?”
“Not so much that as—”
“Indifferent? Preoccupied?”
“That’s more like it. Thinkin’ ’bout his own affairs, seemin’ly. An’ they
do say he does himself mighty well. And why shouldn’t he,—seein’s he has
plenty of money. Why shouldn’t he, I say?”
“Is he married?”
The driver turned fully around, leaving the temperamental Ford to its own
sweet will for a moment.
“Homer Vincent married!” he exclaimed. “I should say _not_! Him married!”
“What’s so strange about that? Lots of men marry.”
“So they do. Oh, well,—no, Mr. Vincent, he ain’t married.”
“What does he do? Any business?”
“Land, no; he’s got more money’n he knows what to do with. He just enjoys
himself, one way ’n’ another,—just one way ’n’ another. Miss Vincent,
now, Miss Anne, she rides about, stylish like, an’ makes fashionable
calls on the minister an’ a few families of the town. They been here five
years now, an’ yet mighty few people knows ’em atall.”
“He didn’t build his fine house?”
“Land, no. It was built long ago, by a man named Lamont,—long about
eighteen-eighty it was begun. Took years to build it, o’ course.”
“Is it so elaborate, then?”
“Is it? Look, here’s the beginnin’ of the stone wall now. See?”
“Good heavens, what a wall!” and Haydock stared at the high, massive,
tessellated structure of carefully hewn and laid blue dolomite, that
seemed to extend interminably.
“Yep, that’s it,” and the speaker wagged his head in deep pride of
ownership. For Hilldale felt that it owned the place individually as well
as collectively; and this in utter disregard of any opinion Mr. Vincent
might hold on the matter.
“He’s an inventor, you know,” Haydock was further informed, as they
neared the gates. “But I don’t think he invents anything.”
The great iron gates stood open but gave access only to a long avenue
shaded by almost perfect specimens of the beautiful “wine-glass” elm.
“That kinda ellum tree’s just about gone now,”—said Haydock’s guide.
“Mighty few left in all New England. Fine ones, these. Now, here begins
the poplar row. See ’m,—not Lombardy,—they’re North Carolina poplars.
I guess Mr. Vincent set these out. They ain’t long-lived. Well, here
we come to the wooded drive. The rest of the way to the house is right
through a jungle. I’d hate it.”
The jungle was a grove, rather sparse than thick, of pine, spruce,
hemlock, and larch, and its shadows were dank and black.
An occasional white birch, slender and ghostly, instead of lightening
the gloom, rather added to it, and the rays of the now setting sun could
scarcely penetrate the murk.
“Not very cheerful,” was Haydock’s comment.
“Now, here, sir, is the tree that gives the place its name.”
“What is its name?”
“Greatlarch,—that’s what they call it, Greatlarch,—’count o’ that big
tree there. See?”
Haydock looked and saw the tallest larch tree he had ever seen. It was
enormous, a most magnificent specimen. Surely the name was well chosen.
“That’s a hummer,” he agreed.
“Yep; nothin’ like in these parts,—an’ I don’t believe, nowhere.”
“I don’t either!” said Haydock, regardless of negatives in his enthusiasm.
“Now, you see, sir, we come to the entrance proper. This stone gateway’s
where I leave you. Want me to wait?”
“No,” and Haydock dropped his sociable manner and became again a
stranger. “What do I owe you?”
“One dollar, sir. Don’t want me to wait? You stayin’ here?”
Haydock looked at him.
“I’m not sure just what I shall do. Have you a telephone?”
“Yes, sir; call 87 Hilldale.”
“And your name?”
“Prout. Mr. Vincent knows me. Tell him you want Prout,—that is, if you do
want me. To take you back,—you know.”
“Yes, I gathered that was what you meant. Good day, Prout.”
The entrance was a massive arch with a tower on either side.
It seemed to include guard-rooms and connected with what was doubtless a
porter’s lodge.
Haydock stared at the heavy stone-work, the beautiful design, and the
hint of green velvety lawn through the arch.
He wished the daylight would linger, but it was even now almost gone. The
gathering dusk gave the scene an eerie aspect, the great larch whispered
as its long branches slowly tossed about, and the pines responded with a
murmur of their own.
Seeing no one, Haydock stepped through the deep, wide archway, and then
stood still, spellbound at what he saw.
A pile of gray stone, red-tiled roofs, tall chimneys, towers, turrets,
dormers,—a perfect example of a French chateau of the period of the
Renaissance.
Haydock knew enough of architecture to realize that he was gazing at
a masterpiece. He had no idea there was such a building in America.
Perfect in every detail, exquisitely set in the midst of rolling lawns,
well-placed shrubbery, and noble old trees, with half glimpses, in the
fading light, of terraces and gardens beyond.
Deeply impressed, he approached the entrance, a recessed portico on the
north side of the house.
Outer doors of massive oak stood open, and he entered a vestibule
wainscoted and paved with richly hued marble.
Wrapt in contemplation of the detail work, he pushed an electric bell,
and was still unheeding when the door opened and a butler faced him
inquiringly.
He felt a slight thrill of disappointment, for, without knowing it,
he had subconsciously looked for a lackey in gold lace or at least a
powdered and plushed footman.
But this man, beyond all question a butler, and a knowing one, gave
Haydock an appraising glance, and in a tone nicely poised between
deference and inquiry, said:
“You wish to see—” The voice trailed off to nothingness, but the barrier
form of the butler gave way no inch of vantage.
“Mr. Homer Vincent,” said Haydock, suddenly recovering his wits, and
speaking with a firm decision.
“By appointment?” But the severity of the butler’s manner perceptibly
decreased and he even stepped back from the threshold.
“No, not by appointment,” and John Haydock came under the portal and
into the beautiful entrance hall. Again he was nearly swept off his feet
by what he saw. Marble walls and floors, painted friezes, vistas of
rooms opening one from another—surely he was transported to some Arabian
Nights’ Dream.
And again he was recalled to equanimity by that calm, cool voice:
“What name shall I give Mr. Vincent?”
And after the merest instant of hesitation, Haydock said:
“Tell him Henry Johnson wishes to see him,—on business, private,
personal, and important.”
This speech was accompanied by a straight, sharp glance at the man, and
the visitor, half-turning, began to give himself up to contemplation of
his surroundings.
“Yes, sir. Will you step in the reception room, sir?”
The reception room, in a large circular tower, was at the right as one
entered the house, and to this Haydock went.
The butler disappeared, and Haydock studied the room.
It was of the period known as Perpendicular Gothic, and the side walls,
delicately paneled in old oak, reached to the richly ornamented and domed
ceiling.
The chimney-piece, which curved with the circular wall of the room,
was of the rare Italian marble known as Red of Vecchiano, and it was
Haydock’s study of this that was interrupted by the entrance of his host.
“You like it?” Homer Vincent said in a tone of slight amusement. “It is
the only bit of that stone ever brought to this country.”
Turning, Haydock saw a moderately tall man with moderately broad
shoulders. His hands were in his pockets, and the smile that had sounded
in his voice was perceptible on his strong, well-cut lips.
He stood erect, his head thrown a trifle back, as if sizing up the
situation.
“If you like, I’ll show you the whole house,” he offered. “It’s worth
seeing.”
And now, Haydock looked at him as if sizing him up. Seemingly he had
forgotten the house in his interest in its owner.
He saw a strong face, which, though now smiling with courtesy, yet looked
as if, on occasion, it could be hard, even severe.
This may have been imagination, for Homer Vincent’s whole manner and
attitude betokened only a friendly welcome.
But Haydock noted the firm curve of the chin, the straight line of
the lips, and the haughty, aristocratic effect of the Roman nose, and
concluded, off-hand, that Homer Vincent was a power.
The dark hair was thickly streaked with gray, and the deep-set gray
eyes were of a peculiar penetration. And yet, important though the man
doubtless was, he had an air of indolence, of impatience under annoyance,
that was unmistakable and impossible to ignore.
“Well,” he said, shortly, “well, Mr. Henry Johnson, what do you want to
see me about?”
With a cautionary glance out through the doorway, Haydock leaned toward
him and whispered two words in his ear.
Vincent permitted himself a slight raising of the eyebrows,—an unusual
concession to interest or surprise.
“You do right to be discreet,” he said; “let us go to my own private
room,—it is just across the hall.”
He led the guest across toward the circular room in the opposite turret,
corresponding with the reception room.
And this time Haydock couldn’t restrain his exclamations.
“Let the business wait a few moments,” said Vincent, almost gleefully. “I
admit I am proud of my home; let me show you a little of it.
“You see, it was built many years ago by one Lamont, an eccentric
millionaire. It is an exact copy of one of the finest of the French
chateaux. Moreover, it is built of the most magnificent marbles ever
perhaps collected under one roof. Just the walls of this hall show
French Griotte, Porte Venere, Verde Martin, and here you see American
Black,—from Glens Falls. The floor is Morial marble from Lake Champlain.
“Ahead of you, looking toward the back of the house, you see the Atrium,
copied faithfully from the Erectheum at Athens. We will not go there
now,—nor to the Organ wing, where I have one of the largest and finest
pipe organs in the world. We will go now into my own private room, and
you shall tell me all about this matter you speak of.”
They crossed the hall, Haydock scarce able to tear his eyes from the
cabinets, paintings, and rare pieces of furniture. The tall chimney-piece
of the hall, Vincent said, was of Bois de Orient marble from Africa.
“Why all these rare marbles?” Haydock cried.
“It was Lamont’s fad,” Vincent replied. “And I’m glad he did it, for it
saved my having to collect them. I bought the place complete, though
totally unfurnished. It has been my pleasure to collect suitable
furnishings and I have enjoyed the task.”
“I should say so!” and Haydock stared about the room they entered, which
was Vincent’s very own.
Circular in form, it was finished in rare woods with a mantel of Siena
marble and bronze, which showed figures of Hercules in statuary marble.
The furniture, while not over-ornate, was in keeping with the character
of the room. In the center was a great flat-topped desk, carved and
inlaid, and at this the two men sat down.
It was after an hour’s conversation that Vincent said: “I will send for
my sister,—we must consult with her.”
A bell brought the imperturbable, yet eagerly solicitous butler, whose
name, Haydock now learned, was Mellish.
“Go to Miss Anne,” Vincent directed; “ask her to join me here if she will
be so good. Tell her I have a caller here. And, by the way, Mr. Johnson,
will you not stay the night? Then we can talk at our leisure and, also, I
can show you over the house, which I feel sure will interest you.”
Haydock looked at his host questioningly, decided he meant his invitation
sincerely, and accepted.
“But I have no evening togs with me,” he demurred.
“No matter, we will be informal. I am myself not overly given to
conventions and my niece is dining out. Mellish, take Mr. Johnson’s bag
to the south guest room, and make him comfortable there.”
Mellish departed, and after informing Miss Vincent, went about his other
errands.
“Man here,” he announced a little later to his wife, who was also the
Vincents’ cook. “Nicish chap, but addle-pated. So took up with the house
he don’t know what he’s saying.”
“They’re often took like that,” returned Mrs. Mellish, placidly. “Where’s
he put?”
“In the south room.”
“H’m; master must set a pile by him.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m not sure they ever met before.”
“Too bad Miss Rosemary’s out,—she likes a stranger here now and then.”
“Oh, Miss Rosemary wouldn’t look at him. He’s not her sort,” said Mellish.