The Mystery in the Attic
Staring
at the ancient three-story house, I’d have changed
places with just about anybody. It had turrets and bay windows
and carvings as fancy as those on a fairy-tale castle. It
had a sundial at one end of the garden and a fish pond at
the other. Inside, we discovered that it also had peeling
paint, mildew-stained walls, and a shortage of bathrooms.
“I love it,” Mom said.
“I hate it,” I said at the same instant.
Dad cleared his throat. “It was built almost a century ago. It’ll be good for another hundred years when a few repairs are made.”
My older brother, Greg, counted as he darted from doorway to doorway. “What a house—fifteen rooms if you include the attic. And maybe an extra room behind a secret panel, Molly. Bet I find it first!”
“Disappear this minute for all I care,” I snapped. Was I the only one to regret leaving our snug home in the country?
But after moving in, I had to admit the old house wasn’t so bad. I spent hours reading on its cushioned window seats. When Greg wasn’t looking, I inspected every inch of carved wood. I even agreed to go to the third floor with him to explore the attic.
Greg led the way up the stairs, carrying a flashlight. But when he pushed open the attic door, we stood blinking at early afternoon sunlight streaming through three windows.
“Some attic,” Greg said. “If it had a floor everywhere we could roller skate up here. Be careful to stay on those wooden beams, or you could crash into the rooms below.” Stepping carefully, he went to raise a window. “Wow! We’re as high as the moon. Come see how small the sundial looks from here.”
“High places scare me, and you know it,” I told him. “I’m not coming near a window.” Instead I followed a bridge of creaky flooring till it ended at a chimney. I was standing on tiptoe to trace the chimney’s exit through the roof when I saw the doll-sized trunk. It sat on a brick ledge. Layers of dust had woven a blanket over its rounded top.
“Greg, come here—I’ve found something!” I said. Both of us reached for it. The trunk slipped from our fingers, and dust swirled around us. After our sneezing stopped, we crouched by the chimney to examine the doll clothes that had tumbled from the trunk. There were velvet jackets with tiny embroidered flowers, dresses of yellowed satin trimmed with pearls, and beautifully made silk bonnets.
The trunk’s lid had been lined with silk, too. Someone had cut a slit in the fabric and tucked in a thin sheet of notepaper.
I let Greg unfold the brittle paper. Then, squinting at the faded ink, I read aloud these words:
“September
5, 1921. I, Hannah Forbes, must grow up. Mama says life
in a new place will help us forget our trouble. But I cannot
bear taking Samantha, Angenetta, and Cynthia from this home
where my mother also grew up. The dolls belonged first to
her, and she agrees. I shall leave them…
resting under wooden rails,
sheltered when the cold wind wails,
hidden where the shadows flee
and sunbeams mark their place at three.”
My voice trembled and trailed off. What long-ago trouble had driven Hannah away? And how old was she then?
Greg interrupted my trance. “ ‘Hidden where the shadows flee and sunbeams mark their place at three.’ Molly, it’s clear as anything. They’re buried near the sundial!”
We found shovels in the garage and raced out to the yard. After an hour of digging produced no results, I asked, “But what about the wooden rails?”
“There probably was a fence here then. Who knows what changes have been made in so many years? Keep digging!”
Finally I told Greg I needed to take a break. There was someone I wanted to see. “Miss Jamison at the library knows everything,” I said. “As soon as I clean up I’m going to ask if she can tell us about the Forbes family.”
Greg snorted. “And leave me with the dirty work? Nothing doing. I’m coming, too.”
Miss Jamison’s information set me shivering in spite of the afternoon heat. Hannah’s father had been the president of a local bank and had been convicted of embezzling thousands of dollars. Depending on which person you believed, he was either a shameless thief or a kind man too softhearted when folks needed money. Like me, Hannah was eleven when she had had to change homes. I was glad we didn’t share the same reason.
“Those dolls simply have to be found, Greg,” I said as we walked back to the house.
“Five blisters prove I’ve been trying,” he grumbled.
“It’s more important now,” I insisted. “I’ll help dig. Just give me time to put their clothes away in the trunk.”
Greg agreed and came back to the attic with me to shut the window. I finished folding the clothes, then picked up the fragile note. In the bright sunlight I saw two faded ink strokes I’d missed before.
“Greg,” I yelped, “it says, ‘resting under wooden TRAILS.’ These walkways are Hannah’s wooden trails. The dolls are here!” I soon got hot and dusty again trying to look under the boards, but Greg sat quietly by a window. “Aren’t you going to help look?” I asked.
He pointed to a patch of sunlight on the floor near the window. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “I told you the sundial had to be involved. Hannah looked at it out this window. How else did she know the sun touches here at three o’clock?”
As we lifted a loose plank in the sunlit spot, I didn’t care who got credit for finding the bundle below.
The dolls’ china faces were still rosy. Gently I touched one painted smile after another. Which was Samantha? Which Angenetta? Which Cynthia? It didn’t matter. Somewhere, I was sure of it, Hannah was smiling, too.
