Nancy was eager to ask their hostess about the mysterious treasure and stepped toward the tunnel door. The chugging sound of a motorboat stopped her midway.
“Look!” she cried, pointing toward the canal.
The boat was entering the tunnel. Who was steering it? Had their ghostly attacker returned?
11
Fantastic News
The oncoming boat drew closer. George clicked off her flashlight, waiting for the single occupant to reach the steps.
“When he gets here,” Nancy whispered, “shine your light right in his face. We’ll be able to capture him then!”
The boat, however, stopped some distance away. A man who was carrying a large bundle hopped out and entered another door at the base of the tunnel.
“I guess he lives next door,” Nancy remarked with a giggle.
George also laughed in relief. “I’m glad he wasn’t our ghost after all,” she said and seized the chance to relate Madame Chambray’s story about the stranger at the window.
“I wonder if he and Mr. Ghost are one and the same,” Nancy commented, leading the way back to the kitchen. “We have so much to talk about with Madame Chambray.” She glanced at her watch. “But it’s nearly dinnertime.”
Upstairs the girls found the woman peering into a large kettle on the stove. The aroma of delicate spices filled the air.
“What are you making?” Nancy said. “It smells absolutely delicious.”
“Waterzooi.” The woman smiled. “One of our traditional dishes—poached capon in a light creamy sauce. The rest of the menu is a surprise. And so is the package on your bed, Nancy. Now go up to your room and get ready. My guests will be arriving soon.”
Excitedly the girl dashed upstairs and opened the bundle. Folded carefully inside was a beautiful ecru linen dress trimmed in fine lace!
“Oh, it’s lovely!” the girl detective exclaimed happily.
She held up the dress in front of her and gazed into the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Around the neckline and fitted cuffs of the long, tight sleeves were ruffles of lace. I wonder if François Lefèvre’s lace cuffs were like these, Nancy said to herself. Then, hearing Madame Chambray come up the stairs, the girl hurried out of her room. “Oh, thank you so much, Madame—”
Embarrassed, the woman cut her off, telling her to dress quickly. “Everyone will be here in a few minutes!” she said with a smile.
To her delight, the three girls were ready to greet the guests when they arrived. Madame Chambray introduced Professor Philip Permeke and his daughter Hilda, a pretty blond who looked about twenty. With her was a young man with sturdy features and brooding green eyes.
He’s cute, Bess thought, but he looks so sad. I wonder why.
“And this is Joseph Stolk,” Madame Chambray announced as Bess shook his hand. “He and Hilda went to high school together. Now Joseph is studying art history in Brussels. ”
“Oh, how interesting!” Bess said eagerly. “I bet you know a lot about all the museums of this wonderful old town. Perhaps you could take us on a tour sometime.” She flashed him a dazzling, flirtatious smile.
“Yes—uh—perhaps I could,” Joseph replied shyly.
Hilda seemed less than delighted with that suggestion, and George tugged on her cousin’s arm, signaling her not to pursue the conversation any farther. “You’re about to set off a little quarrel between those two,” she whispered to Bess. Then, turning to the professor, she said, “Dr. Permeke, I understand that you are an expert on the history of Brugge. Would you tell us a little about it?”
“Gladly,” he said, “but stop me when you get bored. ”
His remarks during dinner were fascinating. “Did you know that the original town of Brugge was on the seacoast? The name of our ancient town means city of bridges. Long ago it was a thriving port. But storms were so devastating, even the dikes could not save it. The merchants moved inland—to the spot where we are today—and dug a canal to connect the town with the ocean.”
“That was quite an engineering feat,” Madame Chambray commented. “It’s about ten miles from here to the coast.”
The jovial gray-haired professor nodded. “When this new town was built, its predecessor on the coast took the name of Zeebrugge which means Sea Brugge.”
While he paused to take a sip of wine, his daughter continued the tale. “This was a very fashionable place in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. Merchants were rather successful and able to buy the finest of everything, including the best clothes from Paris. If you like, I’ll give you a tour tomorrow.”
“Perhaps I can go with you too,” Joseph suggested, looking over at Bess for a moment.
Hilda’s suspicious glance trailed from him to Bess, who was beaming prettily. “I think not,” Hilda said firmly. “Don’t you have a term paper to finish before the end of the week?”
“Yes, but I—”
Poor Joseph is trapped under Hilda’s jealous thumb! Bess decided.
Seeing the fire grow in the young Belgian woman’s face, George quickly changed the subject. “Maybe Hilda can take us to a gift shop where I can buy something for Burt and you can buy something for Dave and—”
“I can buy something for Ned,” Nancy chimed in.
“Are they your brothers?” Hilda inquired with interest. “Or, as you say in America, your boyfriends?”
Nancy grinned. “They’re our boyfriends,” she said, happy to see a smile return to Hilda’s face.
“In that case,” their new friend went on, “you must buy them very special gifts—and, of course, you will want some lace for yourselves. ”
The mention of lace prompted Nancy to reveal one of her reasons for coming to Brugge. She mentioned the magazine contest and the story of François Lefèvre.”
“What?” Madame Chambray said, electrified. “What was that name you mentioned?”
“François Lefèvre.”
The woman stared at her, unable to speak for a moment.
“What is it, Madame Chambray?” Nancy asked anxiously. “Is that name familiar to you?”
“Mais oui—yes, indeed,” the woman cried out. “It is one of the names mentioned in the document I found. It was written by one Friedrich Vonderlicht, also known as François Lefèvre!”
“I don’t believe it!” George blurted out. “You mean, François once owned this house?”
“Apparently he did!”
“Then maybe the secret in the old lace is hidden right under this roof!” Nancy deduced.
“I doubt it,” Madame Chambray remarked. “After all, François lived here a long time ago. Others have come and gone since and I’m sure that whatever secrets he had were discovered by later occupants. ”
“Could we see the document, please?” Nancy urged.
“I locked it in my desk upstairs,” Madame Chambray said. “I’ve been looking for my keys but can’t seem to find them.”
“Oh!” Bess said anxiously. “Do you think they were stolen?”
“No, dear.” The woman smiled. “I always misplace them. I’m sure they’re in the house somewhere and I’ll find them tomorrow. No one would have any reason to steal them, so don’t worry.”
“But what does the document say?”
“It was a small part of a will, actually. It said that Friedrich Vonderlicht, also known as François Lefevre, was leaving his fortune to his wife. But the part telling where he left it has been torn off. ”
“Too bad,” George said. “I’m afraid it won’t help us much then.”
“Well, it’s helped already,” Bess pointed out. “Now we know that François lived in this house!”
The group discussed the strange coincidence at length, and the rest of the evening proved enjoyable as everyone moved into the living room to taste Madame Chambray’s surprise dessert, a delectable lemon meringue pie.
“I’m stuffed,” Bess admitted at last.
“Well, tomorrow we will walk off all the calories!” Hilda chuckled.
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But before the visitors were ready to leave Madame Chambray’s house the next morning, there was an impatient knock at the door.
“Will you answer it for me, please?” Madame Chambray asked Nancy. “I want to keep an eye on the toast. ”
The girl hurried out of the kitchen to the hallway and flung open the door. To her surprise, it was a schipper holding a piece of green luggage in his hand.
“That’s my suitcase!” Nancy cried gleefully.
12
At the Lace Center
“Where did you find my suitcase?” Nancy asked the boatman.
But he spoke no English. He merely smiled and waved good-bye, leaving the girl dumbstruck. Immediately Nancy looked through her bag to see if anything was missing. Nothing appeared to have been stolen. She told the good news to everyone before changing from the travel clothes she had worn since leaving New York, then called the airline for details.
“Someone found your bag in an alley behind a hotel in Brussels,” a clerk told her. “Although your luggage tag was taken off, the airline tag wasn’t. And we knew your initials, which helped us identify it.”
Nancy repeated the conversation to her friends. “Now I’m totally convinced someone took it, hoping to keep me from leaving Brussels,” she said. “Whoever it was is probably in Brugge this very minute. ”
When the threesome met Hilda, they asked her to take them to a lace shop. “I’d like to learn as much about lace making as possible,” Nancy said.
“Then I know just where to go,” the young Belgian woman said.
She led the girls to the Lace Center where supplies were sold and lace makers could take courses in their craft. There were two types of lace, Hilda explained: bobbin lace which originated in Belgium and needlepoint lace which developed at the same time in France.
“Those are bobbins,” Hilda said, pointing to a tray of wooden objects which resembled miniature bowling pins. “They are attached to linen threads and serve as weights when the threads are combined in intricate patterns. But first, the kantwerker or lace maker chooses a wooden mold to work on. Like one of these.”
She indicated a stack of disks about a foot and a half in diameter. One side of each disk was a mound covered with canvas. “They’re called pillows and are filled with seaweed,” the girl continued. “After the kantwerker chooses her pattern, she copies it with pins which she sticks into the pillow. The threads are woven around the pins and then the pins are pulled out.”
George noticed sheets of transparent plastic. “What are these for?” she asked.
“The lace maker covers her pillow and the finished lace with a piece of plastic, leaving open just enough space for her to work on. The plastic helps keep the lace clean.”
Nancy and Bess discovered a bin of linen threads. “Hannah would love these,” Nancy said. While she purchased three spools, George wandered toward the rear of the shop. A chubby boy about eight years old was dipping his hands into another barrel. He pulled out a bunch of bobbins, and threw one at the window and the other at a small statue on a shelf.
“Stop it!” George exclaimed, rushing toward the boy and grabbing his arm.
“Says who?” he answered stubbornly.
“I do,” George said, quietly challenging the boy.
He yanked away from her. As she dived for him again, he threw a bobbin at her, hitting her neck hard. Furious, George gripped him by the shoulders and shook him.
“Mommy! Mommy!” the boy yelled frantically.
“What’s going on?” A woman suddenly appeared out of the crowd milling about the Lace Center.
“Your son just threw that at me!” George defended herself, pointing to the bobbin lying on the floor.
“Did you do that, Peter?” the boy’s mother asked, grabbing the child’s hand. The small boy started to protest but at his mother’s stern look, lowered his head guiltily.
Meanwhile Nancy and Bess dashed toward their friend. “What happened?” Bess asked, noting the red spot on her cousin’s neck.
“Lets just say I hope the next time I get this close to a bobbin I’ll be making lace with it,” George replied dryly.
“I apologize,” the boy’s mother said softly. “My husband and I have been dragging Peter with us everywhere and he’s getting very cranky, though that’s no excuse. I think we’ll take him back to the hotel now.” Still holding the little boy’s hand she exited quickly.
Meanwhile, Nancy asked the shop owner if she had any ice on hand. The woman flew toward a back room and returned with a small bowl and cloth.
“This should prevent any swelling,” Nancy said, wrapping the ice in the cloth.
George held the compress against her neck, insisting her friends continue their tour of the store. In a back room about twenty women were making lace. Their nimble fingers moved the bobbins with dizzying speed.
Nancy spoke to one of the lace makers who was seated in one corner, studying a book about lace.
“Could you tell us a few facts about your craft?” the girl detective asked.
“Oui. I’ll try,” she said, speaking slowly with a soft accent. “In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, lace was worth much money. It was very valuable as trim for clothing. Many people sold their homes and other belongings just to buy it.”
“That’s incredible,” Nancy commented.
“Incredible but true. There are old papers that say Charles I of England bought forty-four yards of lace trim for a dozen collars and a dozen cuffs, and six hundred yards of bobbin lace for just his nightwear!”
The girls giggled. “Can you picture Dave or Ned wearing ruffled shirts and pajamas?” Bess said, as the woman handed her book to Nancy.
There were numerous photographs of lace patterns throughout. Birds and flowers predominated but there were geometric designs as well.
“Judging from these,” Nancy said, “it wouldn’t have been too difficult to hide a message in a pair of lace cuffs. It could have been easily woven among flowers and leaves or fantastic-looking birds, like this one.” She pointed in the book to a picture of a bird with a striking fantail.
Bess agreed. “I can just imagine a young woman spending endless hours weaving a message for François like ‘I must meet you soon in the garden of my home.’ Or, ‘A moonlit night would be best.’ ”
The girl’s reverie was quickly interrupted, however, by her cousin and Hilda, who had been chatting with George. “My neck’s a hundred percent better and we’re ready to move on; are you?”
“If you say so,” Nancy replied. “Where to, Hilda?”
“Well you did mention you’d like to go to the museums so I suggest the Gruuthuse next.”
As the girls left the shop, however, Nancy sensed that somone was watching them. Across the street stood a man in a raincoat and hat. He glanced at the girl detectives, then disappeared down the street and around a corner.
Wondering if he had been waiting for them, Nancy decided not to mention this to the others until the pleasant tour was over.
Hilda, meanwhile, directed them to the large old building with minaretlike towers and a store facade. “This used to be the home of the Gruuthuse family. By our standards, it was a palace more than a house.”
Inside, the visitors were impressed by the beautiful tapestries, china, and furniture. “How do you like these old beds?” Hilda asked when they reached the second floor. “Notice they are short and narrow. In the old days many people were small.”
“Guess they didn’t take their vitamins.” George laughed.
Bess followed Hilda to the top floor where the Lace Room was. “What gorgeous centerpieces!” she exclaimed, gaping at the large display case. “It would be a real shame to put one of those on a table and then cover it up with a lamp or something.”
Nancy was equally awestruck by the collection of lace collars. They were designed to stand up stiffly around the neck, some up to six inches high!
“Those are ruffs,” Hilda explained. “They were very fashionab
le all over Europe in the seventeenth century. ”
George flinched. “I’d hate to wear one of those. They must have been very hot and uncomfortable. ”
There were also handmade children’s dresses, hats, and handkerchiefs on exhibit. “Several of these things,” Hilda remarked, observing Bess’s admiring glance, “are worth many thousands of dollars—they are irreplaceable.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Bess said. “And I was just thinking how nice it would be to buy one to show everybody at home.”
Hilda now suggested they go downstairs to see the guillotine. Bess trailed after her down the stairway while Nancy hung back, talking to George.
“Don’t turn around,” Nancy said in a low tone. “There’s someone in this room who’s been following us. I don’t want to lose him. ”
“Well, you won’t if he’s following us,” George said wryly.
She and Nancy stepped out of the room for a moment and pinned themselves against the outside wall behind the door. Surely the man would go downstairs now. The next few minutes ticked by slowly as the young detectives waited.
“You were wrong,” George whispered to her friend when the stranger did not appear.
Nancy peered through the crack below the door hinge. “He’s gone!” she cried, racing back into the empty room. Her eyes circled quickly to a balcony doorway. “He must have escaped through there!”
She dashed toward the opening and peered over the railing. Hand over hand, the man was lowering himself on a rope!
“He stole some of the lace!” the young detective gasped, seeing fringes of ruffles sticking out of his pockets.
Instinctively she leaned across the balcony and grabbed the rope, pulling on it as hard as she could. But the man’s weight was too much for her to budge. Suddenly Nancy’s foot slipped and she lost her balance. She slid forward over the railing, ready to tumble over the edge!
13