Chapter 16 The Secret of the Wooden Lady by Carolyn Keene
A Pirate’s Prize
“Dad,” Nancy said in alarm, “what has happened?”
“Oh, nothing to frighten anyone,” the lawyer replied. “Just a big disappointment. I have absolutely nothing to report about the title to this ship. I studied every record I could get hold of. Visited shipbuilding companies and libraries, even talked to old seamen. There isn’t a single mention of a clipper named the Bonny Scot, and nobody’s ever heard of her.”
“And no clue to any other name?” Nancy asked.
Mr. Drew shook his head. “Of course,” he admitted, “there are no records for many of the old ships. It hurts my pride to give such a negative report, Captain, especially now that I must give up the case.”
“What do you mean, Dad?” Nancy asked. “Aren’t you going to stay and help us clear up the mystery?”
“I’ve been called back to River Heights,” her father said. “A case coming up in court. I’ll have to be there. I must leave here this afternoon. Terribly sorry, Captain.”
Mr. Drew looked at his daughter. There was a challenge in his eye. “But how about you staying? If you use the ingenuity and the perseverance I credit you with, Nancy, I believe you’ll solve the case. What do you say?”
Nancy hugged her father, then laughed. “You know, for a minute I thought you were going to make me go home with you. Of course I’ll stay, if Captain Easterly will let me.”
The skipper grunted. “Don’t you girls dare leave me alone with a bunch of kidnapers!” he said. Then he gave a loud guffaw. “Imagine an old sea dog like me ever saying such a thing! Well, Mr. Drew, you see what I think of Nancy and her friends.”
He confided to the lawyer he had a feeling that by solving the mystery of why the intruders came on the ship, the matter of title would be cleared up too.
“And I think Nancy is going to do both,” the captain said staunchly.
After lunch, Nancy told her friends she would row her father over to the village, to take his bus for the airport. “I think while I’m in town, I’ll stop at Mr. Frisbie’s.”
“Again?” George teased. “Count me out this time.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Bess, “I’ll stay here and paint.”
Nancy was glad her two friends decided to remain aboard. She wanted them to have some fun, and not be stuck in the hot barn loft.
Before going there, Nancy once more called on the police magistrate. There was no report on Grizzle Face Quint. The girl turned her steps toward the sculptor’s barn.
Mr. Frisbie did not seem surprised when Nancy walked into the studio. He said, “Good afternoon!” with his usual shortness, but his frosty blue eyes softened in a smile as he waited for her to climb the steps to the second floor. But she stood still, staring at what had once been a large block of black wood on the workbench. Now it had the rough outline of a small body.
“Is this going to be a figurehead?” Nancy asked in surprise.
“Yes, and by the time she’s finished, the young lady will weigh only twenty pounds,” Mr. Frisbie said. He grinned. “She started out at four hundred.”
“You mean you have to throw away all that wood?” Nancy thought this was a dreadful waste.
“Nowadays, figureheads are carved from a solid block, and usually from ebony, like this one,” Mr. Frisbie explained. “Then no heads or legs can drop off like in the old days when the parts were jointed together.”
The sculptor said even hard woods like oak were not as durable as ebony, and in his work he would use nothing but the best. “After all, I’m creating a beautiful young lady,” he said.
“Will she remain black?” Nancy asked.
“Oh, no, she’ll be painted whatever color her sailing master wants. She’ll probably be red. The name of the boat she’s going on is the Indian Queen.”
Nancy chuckled as she left to go upstairs. Presently she was deep again in the study of Mr. Frisbie’s books on sailing ships.
The first thing she found was quite unexpected. It was a faded drawing, but she was not mistaken in her identification. A penciled sketch of the Neptune figurehead she and George had rescued from the sea the night before!
Nancy ran downstairs with the sketch. “Mr. Frisbie,” she said excitedly, “can you tell me anything about this figurehead? We found it in the water yesterday!”
“Certainly can. It decorated the prow of a trim little vessel named the Pride of Neptune. She was owned by a friend of mine—a Captain Pringle.”
“Then he’ll want his Neptune back,” said Nancy.
“It isn’t likely,” Mr. Frisbie replied with a sad shake of his head. “The Pride of Neptune was wrecked years ago in a storm off Martha’s Vineyard. Captain Pringle went down with his ship.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nancy said.
“You might get in touch with his widow,” suggested Mr. Frisbie. “She’s living over there in Edgartown.”
Thanking Mr. Frisbie for his help, Nancy telephoned Mrs. Pringle. A soft, tired voice answered.
The girl introduced herself, mentioned Mr. Frisbie’s name, and explained her reason for calling. She offered to send the figurehead to Edgartown, if Mrs. Pringle wished.
The woman answered sadly that the Neptune would bring her only unhappy memories. “You keep it, my dear, if it will give you any pleasure.”
Nancy expressed her appreciation, and promised to call on the widow if she ever went to Edgartown. She told Mr. Frisbie about the telephone call and added:
“The Neptune figurehead is cracked and battered, but it still has lovely lines. I’m glad Mrs. Pringle is letting me keep it.”
“Bring it down to the shop,” Mr. Frisbie said. “I’ll repair those cracks. Make it look the same as it used to.”
When Nancy tried to thank the sculptor, he grumbled, “I’m doing it in memory of Captain Pringle, young lady. That Neptune figurehead was his pride and joy. Maybe it should have stayed down with the ship. It must have come loose and been picked up.”
“And got away again,” Nancy reflected.
She went back to her research in the loft. Her talk with the widow had given her a new idea about the snuffbox. Perhaps the initials P. R. stood for a person instead of a ship! If the design carved on the snuffbox were a ship’s figurehead, couldn’t the P. R. refer to the ship’s master?
Eagerly the girl began looking for the names of captains whose initials were P. R. She would pay special attention to ships whose fates were unknown.
This new lead had some exciting results. First, she learned from a book, which looked as if it had been through many a hurricane, about a vessel lost at sea some forty years before. Her master was a Captain Preston Rundle, and she was on her way from South America with a cargo of quinine when she disappeared. Could Preston Rundle have been the P. R. who owned the snuffbox?
“One clue,” she thought excitedly, “even though the ship was called the St. John.”
Nancy continued her search. That was how she came at last upon an account of the ship named the Dream of Melissa.
The clipper was on her way home to Provincetown from Bombay, under the command of Captain Perry Rogers. When last seen she had been heading for Sunda Strait, between Java and Sumatra.
No one knew what had happened to the Dream of Melissa. She had simply disappeared. So far as was known, no trace of the ship or cargo had ever been found. Neither captain nor crew had ever been heard from again!
Nancy’s eyes were bright with excitement. The Melissa’s captain, Perry Rogers, had the initials P. R. The snuffbox could have been his! The figure on it was a dreamy-faced woman. She might well be the Melissa of the ship’s name!
The Dream of Melissa had carried a costly cargo of rugs, silks, and perfumes.
“Surely a pirate’s prize!” Nancy reflected.
Captain Easterly had told her that the clippers sailing to and from the Far East had often been attacked by pirates. Many of the ships had been captured. He had even mentioned that the islands off Java were a favorite hide-out for these sea gangsters.
Perhaps, Nancy thought excitedly, pirates had seized the Dream of Melissa. If they intended to keep the ship, of course they would have to change her name. And naturally they would get rid of the figurehead—it was too good a clue to the ship’s identity.
Nancy closed the book. “The Bonny Scot,” she told herself, “may really be the Dream of Melissa.”
Her eyes aglow, she ran to the first floor to speak to Mr. Frisbie. All she found was a crisp note:
Lock up when you leave.
Smiling, Nancy looked at her watch. Six o’clock! She locked the barn door, hurried to the dinghy, and made fast time out to the clipper. Her eager face told the others she had found something this time.
“Out with it,” George demanded.
After Nancy had told her story, Bess shivered. “My goodness, to think I may have been sleeping in some pirate’s bunk!”
“Those stowaways know about the pirates and think there’s hidden loot on board!” George added.
“Now just a minute, girls,” Captain Easterly spoke up. “Seems to me you’re jumping at conclusions. Let’s go at this thing a little more sanely.”
Secretly he was excited too. But he did not want Nancy’s air castles to burst and leave her disappointed.
“In the morning we’ll make plans for tracking down this dream ship of yours, Nancy,” he said. “No more work tonight.”
But Nancy could not get the Dream of Melissa out of her mind. She lay awake for hours, wondering if the Bonny Scot could once have borne that other name.
She wondered if the hold had once carried rugs and silks and perfumes from the Orient. If it had been captured by pirates, what had happened to Captain Perry Rogers? Was it his mate to whom Grizzle Face had referred? What was the secret of the Bonny Scot?
Such exciting thoughts kept Nancy wide awake until after midnight. Captain Easterly, she knew, had been too tired to remain on watch and had gone to his cabin. George and Bess were sleeping peacefully in their bunks. Nancy heard nothing but the soft slap of water on the ship’s side and the creaking of the masts.
Suddenly a new sound made her sit straight up, nerves tingling. Just outside her porthole she heard a soft thump thump thump!
Nancy slid out of her bunk and threw on a coat. Slipping a flashlight from under her pillow, she tiptoed into the passageway, and knocked on the captain’s door.
“Captain Easterly, there’s someone on board!” she called softly.
Then, without waiting for him to appear, she ran up to the deck.