Chapter 7 The Password to Larkspur Lane by Carolyn Keene
Nancy’s Hunch
For three hours Nancy’s maroon roadster wove in and out of country lanes and back roads without passing any spot to excite the girl’s sixth sense of mystery detecting. Although Nancy was disappointed, Helen was highly enthusiastic.
“I had a grand ride,” she said, when they reached the Drew home. “You certainly know the country around here. I was lost a dozen times. Had you suddenly deserted me, I don’t know what I should have done.”
Mr. Drew returned shortly after Helen had left, and asked Nancy if the day had brought forth any unusual developments. When she told him of the purse snatching, he looked grave.
“Perhaps it would be the wisest course if you would let the matter drop now,” he said at the dinner table. “If Dr. Spires does not meddle in the affair any further, and you and I wash our hands of the whole thing, I am sure that the persons who wish their secret to be kept will be satisfied that we are not combating them. After watching us a while, they will mind their own business if we mind ours.”
“Why, Father!” Nancy exclaimed. “And leave that poor woman in the clutches of those unscrupulous rascals?”
“That is all very well,” Mr. Drew said. “My first concern is for your safety. It is more important to me that you are free from harm than that all the mysterious old women in the world should have their freedom!”
Nancy did not argue further, fearing that her father might convince himself, in answering her, that the hunt must be dropped. He might flatly forbid any further delving into the mystery. Instead, after dinner was over she suggested a walk in the garden.
Mr. Drew agreed. Father and daughter strolled up and down the flagstone paths, admiring the blossoms. Phlox and painted daisies, snapdragon and calendula, petunias and verbenas made a gay patchwork of rose and red, yellow, violet, blue—all the colors of the spectrum. At a turn of the walk, they entered the beds where the perennial flowers bloomed. Towering above all the rest were the delphiniums.
“I like to call them larkspurs,” murmured Nancy. “This is the place where the pigeon fell, Father.”
“Hm. And how is the unfortunate bird of ill omen?” Carson Drew inquired.
“It is in its box in the garage, doing very well, but is still unable to fly,” Nancy replied. “Would you like to see it? Sit here by the sundial and I will get it.”
When Nancy rejoined her father with the wounded bird, she found Tommy, a small boy of the neighborhood, paying an informal call. The lad’s face was liberally smeared with chocolate, and he was stretching his tongue to unbelievable lengths trying to lick his face and talk at the same time.
“Oh, you have a pigeon!” he hailed Nancy.
“Yes, Tommy, but the poor bird is hurt. It was brushed by an airplane and fell in the garden here.”
“Isn’t he pretty! What’s his name?”
“Icarus, I think,” Mr. Drew said. “You know, Tommy, Icarus was a man who lived in Greece a long, long time ago. He would not listen to the gods and made himself wings, which he fastened on with wax. When he flew up into the sky in defiance of the rulers, the sun melted the wax and down he tumbled to his death. Now man has seized the sky with airplanes, and the birds who dispute it with him must take the consequences.”
“Who was this Ike Harris, anyhow, Mr. Drew?” Tommy demanded. “He must have been dumb. Why didn’t he get himself an airplane?”
Nancy joined her father in joyful laughter at Tommy’s unconscious humor, which left the little fellow very much bewildered indeed.
Mr. Drew stroked the bird, while Nancy playfully addressed the pigeon.
“Well, Ike Harris,” she said, chuckling, “I hope you will be able to fly soon, so you can lead me to the scene of the mystery.”
Mr. Drew made no comment, merely rumpling the plumage on the bird’s head.
“What pretty blue feathers he has,” Tommy said. “Just the color of those big blue flowers over there. What are they called?”
“Tommy, you ask enough questions to be a lawyer,” Mr. Drew laughed. “Those are larkspurs.”
“Why do they call them larkspurs?” Tommy demanded.
“I don’t know, I must admit,” Mr. Drew replied. “Nancy is the gardener. Perhaps she can tell you.”
“Why, I don’t know either,” Nancy exclaimed. “They are also called delphiniums, and I know why that is their name. They were the favorite flowers used by the Greeks to decorate the altar of the temple of Apollo at Delphi. Larkspur is a quaint name, but I can’t figure out why it was given the flowers.”
Tommy waited patiently for the end of the explanation. Then he asked:
“May I have a cookie?”
“Oh, Tommy, run along home,” Nancy laughed. “From larkspur to cookies! How your mind jumps. I’m sorry, but you can’t have any. Your mother told Hannah that you were not to have any sweets away from home.”
“I’ll go home and eat it,” Tommy suggested hopefully.
“To tell you the truth,” Nancy said, “we haven’t a cookie in the house. Hannah is ill in bed and can’t bake any.”
“All right, then,” Tommy said philosophically, “I guess I’ll go home.”
“Wait and take a bunch of flowers to your mother,” Nancy suggested.
Suiting the action to the word, she gathered a great spray of delphiniums and roses, to which she added some dainty baby’s breath.
“There you are,” she said. “Red, white, and blue; three cheers for you!”
“Thank you,” said Tommy politely, “If I were a bee I’d like these flowers, but I like cookies better because I am a big boy.”
He paused expectantly.
“Well, I guess you really haven’t any cookies,” he concluded, and trudged away toward his own home, clutching the bouquet.
Shortly thereafter Mr. Drew and his daughter retired to their residence. There Nancy pored over encyclopedia and botany books for a clue to the name “Larkspur,” but without success.
“I believe I’ll go to bed,” she said at last, kissing her father good night.
“Good night, Nancy—and don’t dream too much about larkspur,” Mr. Drew cautioned.
That, however, was what Nancy proceeded to do while still awake. She could not tolerate a question without an answer, and was dissatisfied until she had either learned or reasoned out the why and wherefore of every problem that presented itself to her.
“Larkspur—larkspur,” she mused, clasping her hands behind her head as she stretched out at full length on her comfortable bed. “Maybe the little points on the blossoms resemble spurs. But why the lark? Why not sparrowspur, or cockspur, or ostrichspur?
“Spurs are for horses, and horses don’t resemble larks, and larks don’t suggest anything that wears spurs. Larks sing and—oh!”
Nancy sat bolt upright.
“There’s a hunch, Nancy Drew, if ever you had one,” she said aloud. “I must tell Father!”