IX
Vital Information
“This must be the house. It certainly fits the description given me.”
As she spoke Nancy Drew paused before a square, one-story frame building which stood dejectedly in the center of a yard overgrown with weeds and dandelions. The cottage was sadly in need of paint and pickets were missing from the sagging fence which enclosed it. A boardwalk which led to the front porch had begun to rot away, and offered treacherous footing.
“The place looks deserted, but I’m sure Abigail Rowen must live here,” Nancy assured herself as she made her way up the walk, gingerly avoiding loose boards which threatened to fly up at her.
Early that morning she had left River Heights in her final quest for information concerning the Crowley will. Nancy did not know exactly where Abigail Rowen lived, but she had taken the West Lake Road and had made inquiry along the way. Neighbors had assured her that she could not miss the place, as it was the most rundown house along the road.
“If Abigail can’t help me, I’m at the end of my string,” Nancy thought, as she rapped on the front door.
There was no response to her knock and she rapped a second time. She was about to turn away in disappointment when a slight noise within the house attracted her attention. She was certain her rap had been heard.
“Who’s there?” a muffled voice called. “If you’re a peddler I don’t want anything.”
“I’m not a peddler,” Nancy called out reassuringly. “Won’t you let me in, please?”
There was a long silence, and then the quavering voice replied:
“I can’t open the door. I’ve hurt myself and can’t walk.”
Nancy hesitated an instant, and then pushed open the door. As she stepped into the dreary living room, she saw the pitiful figure on the couch. Abigail Rowen lay huddled under a ragged old shawl, her withered face drawn with pain.
“I am Nancy Drew and I’ve come to help you, Miss Rowen.”
At the words, the old lady turned her head and regarded Nancy with a stare which was almost childlike.
“You’ve come to help me?” she repeated unbelievingly. “I didn’t think anyone would ever trouble themselves about old Abigail again.”
“Here, let me arrange the pillows for you.” Gently, Nancy moved the old woman into a more comfortable position.
“Yesterday I fell down the cellar stairs,” Abigail explained. “I hurt my hip and sprained my ankle. I can’t take a step without it nearly killing me.”
“Haven’t you had a doctor?” Nancy asked in astonishment.
“There ain’t been a soul come near me,” Abigail sighed. “I’ve just laid here on my bed and wondered how soon the end would come. I’m getting along in years now and it won’t be long—”
“Nonsense,” Nancy protested brusquely, for she saw that the old lady’s trouble had made her morose. “You have a good many happy years yet before you. Can you walk at all? Are you certain your hip isn’t broken?”
“I can walk a little, but it hurts something awful when I do.”
“Then your hip isn’t broken,” Nancy said, in relief. “Let me see your ankle. Why, you don’t even have it wrapped up! Where are the bandages? I’ll fix it for you.”
“There’s a white rag in the closet in the kitchen,” Abigail told her.
Nancy shook her head sternly.
“A rag won’t do. You have a bad sprain and it must be taken care of properly. You really should have a doctor.”
“I can’t afford it,” Abigail murmured.
“Let me pay for it,” Nancy begged.
Abigail shook her head stubbornly.
“I’ll not take charity. I’d rather die in my bed.”
“Well, if you’re set on not having a doctor, I’m going to the nearest drug store and get bandages and a number of other things,” Nancy insisted. “But before I go, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“There ain’t any tea in the house.”
“Then I’ll get some. What else do you need?”
“I need ’most everything, but I can’t afford to pay for it. You might get me some tea and a loaf of bread. That’s enough. You’ll find the money in a jar in the cupboard. It’s not very much, but it’s all I have.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Nancy promised.
She stopped in the kitchen long enough to examine the cupboards. As she had suspected, they were practically empty. With the exception of a little flour and sugar and a cheap can of soup, there appeared to be nothing in the house to eat. Nancy discovered the money jar, but an investigation revealed that it contained less than five dollars.
“It’s probably every cent poor Abigail has in the world,” she thought.
Nancy did not take any money from the jar but quietly slipped out the back door. Hurrying to the roadster which she had left at the roadside, she drove to the nearest store and ordered nearly ten dollars worth of groceries. She wished that she might take a doctor back with her, but she realized that Abigail was set in her ways and would not accept the service since she could not pay for it.
Before she returned to the cottage, Nancy stopped at the drug store and purchased bandages and liniments. She carried the supplies into the house and quickly set about making Abigail more comfortable. She bathed the swollen ankle and bound it neatly with the clean bandage.
“It feels better already,” Abigail told her gratefully. “I dunno what I’d of done if you hadn’t come when you did.”
As soon as she had attended to the woman’s immediate needs, Nancy built a fire in the kitchen range and put on the teakettle. While she was waiting for the water to boil, she raised the drawn shades and permitted the warm sunshine to flood into the room. While she did this she told Abigail Rowen something about herself.
After the tea had steeped she poured Abigail a cup and urged her to eat the nourishing meal she had prepared. She was gratified to observe that almost immediately the old woman became more cheerful and seemed to gain strength. She sat up on the couch and appeared eager to talk with Nancy.
“There ain’t many folks that are willing to help an old woman. If Josiah Crowley had lived things would have been different,” she declared.
“It’s strange that he didn’t provide for you in his will,” Nancy replied quietly.
She did not wish to excite the old woman by telling her real mission, and yet she was eager to find out what Abigail knew about the missing will. She hoped that she might lead her tactfully into a discussion of Josiah Crowley’s affairs without raising hopes which might never be realized.
“It’s my opinion that Josiah did provide for me,” Miss Rowen returned impressively. “Many a time he said to me: ‘Abigail, you’ll never need to worry. When I’m gone you’ll be well taken care of by my will.’ ”
“And then everything was left to the Tophams,” Nancy encouraged her to proceed.
“That was according to the first will. But there was another one. I dunno what became of it.”
“Are you sure there was another will?” Nancy inquired almost too eagerly, for Abigail looked at her rather sharply.
“Of course I am. I’m as sure of it as I am that I’m sitting here. Why, I saw that will with my own eyes!”
“You saw it!” Nancy gasped.
The old woman nodded gravely.
“Mind, I didn’t see what was in the will. One day Josiah came in where I was sitting in my rocking chair, and right off I noticed he had a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Abigail,’ he said, ‘I’ve made my will. I fooled them lawyers and wrote it myself.’ ”
“How long ago was that?” Nancy asked quickly.
“Let me see,” Abigail frowned thoughtfully. “No, I can’t remember the exact date. It was about the time Josiah went to live with Richard and Cora. Well, to go on with what I was saying—when Josiah showed me the will he seemed mighty tickled about it. Mind, he didn’t show me what was inside but he hinted that he’d done well by me. ‘But Josiah,’ I said to him, ‘are you sure it’s legal to write it yourself?’ ‘Of course it is,’ he said to me. ‘A lawyer told me it was all right just so long as I had it witnessed.’ ”
“Do you know who witnessed the will?” Nancy broke in.
“No, I didn’t ask him and he didn’t say. He just went out of the room, chuckling in that funny way he had.”
“Haven’t you any idea what became of the will?” Nancy asked hopefully.
“I reckon he hid it somewhere. That would be like Josiah. But I remember he did say something about putting it ‘where nobody can get it unless they have legal authority.’ So I dunno what became of it. For all I know, he may have turned it over to a lawyer.”
“Are you certain that was all he said?” Nancy inquired gently. She knew that Abigail had grown rather childish and that her memory was failing.
“It seems to me he did say something about what he was going to do with that will, but I can’t just recollect.” Abigail shook her head and sighed. “Many a night I’ve laid awake trying to think what it was.”
It seemed to Nancy that as victory was almost within her grasp, it had been snatched from her. Undoubtedly, Abigail Bowen held the secret of the Crowley will locked in her brain. And it was equally likely that she would never be able to recall the vital information unless in some unusual way her memory was given a particular stimulus.
“Try to think!” Nancy begged.
“I can’t remember,” Abigail murmured hopelessly. “I’ve tried and tried.” She leaned against the cushions and closed her eyes, as though the effort had exhausted her.
At that very moment the clock on the mantel chimed three. Abigail Rowen’s eyes fluttered open and an odd expression passed over her face.
For an instant she stared straight before her and then slowly turned her head and fastened her eyes on the clock.