“Oh! Oh!” she screamed. “It’s terrible! Down here—in the cellar——!”
(_Frontispiece_) (THE MYSTERY OF JOCKEY HOLLOW)
_The Arden Blake Mystery Series_
MYSTERY OF
JOCKEY HOLLOW
_By_
CLEO F. GARIS
A. L. BURT COMPANY
_Publishers_
New York Chicago
_The Arden Blake Mystery Series_
BY CLEO F. GARIS
The Orchard Secret
Mystery of Jockey Hollow
Missing at Marshlands
COPYRIGHT, 1934, BY
A. L. Burt Company
Mystery of Jockey Hollow
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I Fleeing in Alarm 7
II The Ghost Mansion 20
III Arden Wonders 30
IV Seeing the Dead 42
V Baffled 53
VI Introducing Granny 61
VII Trial by Jury 68
VIII The Ghost of Patience 75
IX A Warning 86
X The Missing Man 91
XI Callahan Collapses 98
XII A Strange Discovery 103
XIII Betty and the Books 113
XIV How Did It Happen? 120
XV Jim Doesn’t Know 130
XVI A Surprise 140
XVII Some Real Investigating 148
XVIII The Figure in Red 157
XIX Santa Claus 168
XX Harry Hears Something 178
XXI Rift in the Clouds 185
XXII Arden’s Idea 193
XXIII Mistletoe 205
XXIV A Strange Woman 214
XXV The Christmas Party 223
XXVI Two Ghosts 230
XXVII Frightened Screams 237
XXVIII Falling Stones 243
CHAPTER I
Fleeing in Alarm
The proud old house rang with excitement. Nor was there any attempt to
suppress it. When no one but the three girls, the faithful Moselle, and
her daughter Althea were in it, there seemed no reason to go all the way
up to Sim’s room when a lusty shout up the stairs would answer the same
purpose. So Terry Landry stood with one foot on the bottom step, leaned
against the banister, and again tried to make Sim hear her above the
blatant music coming from the radio in the library where Arden Blake was
supposed to be listening, but Arden, instead, was curled up in a big
chair reading a book of ghost stories.
“Oh, Arden! Will you please turn off that radio just a moment while I
call Sim?” Terry spoke in those evenly spaced, overly quiet tones
sometimes effectively used to prevent one’s temper from taking flight.
“Hu—u—um!” came from the library as the radio was switched off. “What’s
the trouble?”
“No trouble at all. Only I’ve shouted three times for Sim to come down
and get this letter. But she must be asleep or something.”
“Letter? Let’s see!” Arden reluctantly closed the book she had been
reading, uncurled herself from the depths of the chair, and came out in
the hall to Terry, who said:
“It just came, and it’s postmarked New York. Look at the size of the
envelope. I wish Sim would answer!” Terry repeated peevishly.
“Of course, you could go up, you know,” Arden suggested with a superior
air.
Terry did not answer but tapped her foot impatiently, bringing into play
a shining black patent-leather opera pump that was vaguely reflected in
the polished floor beneath. Terry wore lovely shoes.
Arden took the letter and was examining it, front and back, feminine
fashion. A leading jurist once said that if a woman was given a letter or
any piece of paper she would, without fail, turn it over and look on the
other side. Arden, however, was rewarded, for on the reverse, in large
red letters, was the name “Rita Keene.”
“It’s from Dot’s mother,” exclaimed Arden. “I suppose it says Dot can’t
come. But I should think she’d be glad to have her daughter visit such
lovely girls as we are.” Premeditated sarcasm here.
“Are we lovely girls?” inquired a voice from the stair landing above.
“Seems to me I heard a little shouting.”
“Sim! Where were you? I’ve been shouting for ages!” Terry announced.
“I know. I was phoning. I just called Ellery’s. I thought we could go for
a ride through Jockey Hollow. It’s such a nice day, and we have the
marketing done and everything.” Sim, a rather small light-haired girl,
already dressed in riding clothes, was descending the stairs as she
spoke.
“Open this letter first. It’s addressed to you. From Dot’s mother.” Terry
handed over the missive as Arden made this demand on Sim.
“You could have opened it,” suggested Sim, carefully inserting a tiny
shell-pink nail under the flap, in no hurry at all.
“It says,” she began, “‘My dear Miss Westover: I shall be most happy to
have Dorothy spend the Christmas holidays with you. I am rehearsing in a
new play and would have very little time to give her. I know you will
enjoy yourselves. Cordially, Rita Keene.’ That’s all. Oh, no, it isn’t,
either. It says, also, that Dot will get here tomorrow on the eleven
o’clock train. We’ll meet her,” Sim concluded.
“Will you ask her, in due time, of course, to take her turn at doing the
marketing?” Terry wanted to know.
“A good thought,” murmured Arden.
While Sim’s parents were spending Christmas in the South, Arden, Terry,
and Sim had been entrusted with the running of the big town house. Arden
and Terry were Sim’s guests over the holidays until it should be time to
return to Cedar Ridge College, where they were freshmen. A last-moment
idea had been to invite Dot Keene, also a freshman, to make one of the
house party. Now, it appeared, Dot was coming.
Although Arden and Terry had their own fine homes in Pentville, not far
removed from the Westover residence, they thought it much more fun to
come and live with Sim and help her manage over the Christmas vacation.
Like all girls, they were sure they could do it if once given the chance.
So when Mr. and Mrs. Westover decided to go South, and when it was
impracticable, because of the projected length of their stay, to take Sim
with them, they agreed to let the three girls try housekeeping.
Moselle and her daughter Althea were there, of course, and would remain
to do the housework. Moselle had been in service with the Westover family
ever since Sim’s baby days, and Althea, blacker, if possible, than her
mother, was learning the ways of a parlormaid and waitress. Henry,
husband of Moselle, was driving Sim’s parents South in the big car. A
small roadster had been left for Sim’s use.
“I don’t know,” spoke Sim in response to the suggestion of Terry and its
seconding by Arden, “I think I’ll have to wait until we are a little
better acquainted with Dot before suggesting marketing to her. I wouldn’t
like to embarrass her so soon. Which reminds me—what did you order for
lunch, Terry?”
“Lamb chops, baked potatoes, peas, salad, and some of Moselle’s special
lemon meringue pie,” Terry answered practically, licking her lips in
appetizing anticipation.
“Good!” exclaimed Arden and Sim in unison. And it was good.
“Did you make a date to ride today, or did I imagine it?” Arden next
asked, getting back to the original subject.
“I nearly forgot. Yes, I did. For half-past ten. You two hurry and change
while I get the car out.” Sim was already starting out of the front door,
while her companions, murmuring about Sim’s habit of letting things go
until almost the last minute, dashed up the stairs to the bright pleasant
room they shared in Sim’s home.
It did not take them long to get into riding clothes; warm woollen
underwear (for the weather was cold), heavy gloves, and hats pulled well
down. Terry and Arden wore light tan trousers with darker coats, while
Sim sported a dark green coat with cocoa-colored trousers. Looking
“snappy” was the main idea.
Soon the three were sitting in the little roadster, Sim’s last year’s
Christmas present. They soon covered the short distance to the Ellery
Riding School.
The girls rode so frequently, every opportunity they had to be away from
Cedar Ridge, that their favorite horses were ready for them when they
arrived. Dick Howe, the young groom and helper around the stable, opened
the door of the car.
“Good-morning,” he greeted them pleasantly and with a smile that
displayed to advantage his white even teeth against the background of
well tanned cheeks. “Nice day for a ride. How long do you want to stay
out?”
“About two hours. What do you say, girls?” Sim asked. “Is that all
right?”
“Fine,” answered Arden. “But couldn’t we go a new way for a change?”
“Yes, let’s go by Sycamore Hall,” suggested Terry.
“Sycamore Hall?” questioned Dick.
“Why not? We have time, and I like the hill there. It’s so nice for a
canter,” Terry went on.
“Certainly. Whatever you say,” Dick agreed, with just a shade of
reluctance, it would seem.
Their horses were led out, and Dick gave each of the girls a “leg up.”
Stirrups were adjusted, and away they cantered.
Dick was a very proper young groom. He gave them a little trotting, some
walking, and just enough cantering. A good horseman, he sagely observed,
never allowed his animal to get overheated, but saw to it that there was
the proper amount of exercise for himself and his beast.
Walking the horses, they reached the end of the paved highway and were
soon upon the dirt road that wound around through a stretch of woodland
into Jockey Hollow, a Revolutionary historic section just outside
Pentville, which, though it was so comparatively near, had seldom been
visited by Sim and her two chums. It was a lovely wooded place,
containing, now and then, a cleared field. With Jockey Hollow in
prospect, a pleasant ride was assured the little party, and, though they
did not know it, the girls were to begin a strange adventure.
Now well out into the open, the horses suddenly, of their own accord,
broke into a trot with Sim and Terry in the lead. Arden followed with
Dick. The day was cool for December, and the horses seemed to feel
frisky. They liked it.
“Don’t let him get going too fast, Miss Westover,” called the groom as he
watched Sim. “We take that left turn.”
Sim pulled her horse up, and Terry also stopped. They looked back at
Arden and Dick to make sure of the direction to take next. Dick smiled
and pointed to a lane leading down a hill. Sim and Terry went that way
but more slowly.
“This is a new way,” Arden said. “Do you know that road?”
Dick smiled slyly as he said, “I ought to. I live down there.”
“In Sycamore Hall?” Arden was surprised.
“No, not in the Hall, but in a little house near it. With my grandmother
and sister. The Hall is soon going to be torn down to make way for a new
road through this section. Jockey Hollow is going to be made into a
national park on account of it being connected in many ways with the
Revolution.”
“Oh, it is?” asked Arden, interested. This was news. But the truth of the
matter was that though she and her chums knew, in a vague way, about
Jockey Hollow, they had been, of late, so wrapped up in college life at
Cedar Ridge, they had lost track of local matters.
Arden, suddenly occupied with guiding her horse, which evinced a desire
to shy, did not pursue the subject with Dick. Through the trees she now
caught a glimpse of the two-hundred-year-old mansion known as Sycamore
Hall. There were many stories about it, one or two concerned with the
more or less established fact that it still contained certain objects
supposed to belong to the descendants of the original owners, whoever
they were. No one now lived in the Hall, nor had it housed anyone for
some time. In spite of its age, the old mansion, though woefully lacking
paint, was well preserved. It was as strong and sturdy as some ancient
oak tree.
Sim and Terry, in the lead, had approached Sycamore Hall and were waiting
for Arden and Dick to reach them. The two girls gazed, not without
interest, at the deserted mansion. There were evidences about it of some
new and strange life. There were dump carts, but no horses, some piles of
boards, and, near the drive, an old flivver that seemed impossible of
being used.
From within the ancient mansion came dull blows, as of pounding, and out
of some open windows floated a fine dust, like smoke.
“Is the place on fire?” asked Arden as she and Dick spurred their horses
forward.
“No. But I guess they’ve already started to tear it down. A new road is
going right through the old place.” Dick seemed to sigh a little.
“What a shame,” murmured Arden. “It’s too bad such a historic place can’t
be preserved.”
“I guess it’s too old to preserve,” Dick said. “Though they are going to
make a park of the Hollow and save some of the smaller houses that were
used by Washington or Mad Anthony Wayne or some of the Revolutionary
folks.”
“How interesting!” exclaimed Arden. “I wonder——”
But she never finished that sentence. Just at that moment something
happened.
Two big Negroes, one carrying a crowbar and the other an ax, came fairly
leaping out of the open front door of Sycamore Hall. They were mouthing
something unintelligible and seemed to be rushing straight for Sim and
Terry.
“Oh! Oh!” gasped Arden. “Oh, Dick, what is this?”
Straight for Sim ran the two Negroes, their ragged clothes white with
plaster dust. They were still mumbling and waving their hands in a
terrified way. This was too much for the nervous horse on which Sim was
mounted. He reared sharply, nearly throwing the girl off, though she had
a good seat, and then, wheeling, the beast ran wildly up the road past
Sycamore Hall.
Terry managed to control her animal, though he too showed a desire to
bolt.
“Oh, Dick!” cried Arden again.
“I’ll get her!” shouted the young groom, and spurring his mount he dashed
away after Sim. Left to themselves, Arden and Terry looked at each other
with frightened eyes. The two colored men ran into the woods across from
the Hall, still mumbling in a strange way and showing every evidence of
terrible fright.
“Come on, Terry, we’ve got to follow!” called Arden.
They urged their steeds after those of Sim and Dick. When they reached
the top of the hill they could see that Sim was safe. Dick had dismounted
and was holding her still frightened animal. Sim was soothing the
creature with neck-pattings and calming words.
“Heavens, Sim! What happened?” gasped Arden.
“Those men scared Teddy, rushing at him that way, though why, I don’t
know. I wonder what the idea was, having them dash out in that wild way?
If I had been standing a little nearer they would have run right into
Teddy and me! They couldn’t seem to turn off. They were wild with fright.
But why?” Sim was a little indignant.
Dick smiled up at her. “Haven’t you heard?” he asked.
“Heard what?”
The other girls listened with interest.
“Why, this old place is said to have become suddenly haunted. Something
in Sycamore Hall has stirred up the spirits of the departed owners, and
more than once the Negroes and Italians hired to tear it down have been
scared away—frightened stiff. A lot have quit. I understand the
contractor has continually to get new men. And it looked as if those two
who ran out saw something—or thought they did,” Dick concluded. “They
probably won’t come back.”
“Haunted!” murmured Terry.
“Ghosts—Revolutionary ghosts,” whispered Sim.
“How thrilling!” exclaimed Arden. “Tell us some more, Dick.”
“Well——” began the groom, but he got no further.
Back up the hill came running the same two Negroes who had but a few
minutes before rushed out of the mansion in such a terrified way. Their
faces still bore signs of their fright.