Mystery at Moorsea Manor Read online

  down narrow lanes bordered by rose-covered stone

  walls.

  “This must be the outskirts of Lower Tidwell,”

  Nancy remarked. As she spoke, they passed a post

  office, a pub called the Wily Fox, a bookstore, a

  grocer's, and a single modern building.

  “Outskirts—no way,” George countered. “This is

  Lower Tidwell. Or should I say was?”

  Through her rearview mirror, Nancy could see the

  village quickly receding. She smiled. “Then let's get

  back on the A road. We just have another two miles to

  go.”

  A few minutes later a paved driveway appeared on

  their right. Nancy slowed and turned into the open

  wrought-iron gates. Carved into the walls on both sides

  of the drive were the words Moorsea Manor.

  “Well, it's about time,” George said.

  Nancy smiled to herself. Despite George's wry tone,

  Nancy noticed that her friend was sitting forward in

  her seat, her brown eyes sparkling with eager curiosity.

  “Look, Nan,” George said excitedly, as if reading

  Nancy's thoughts. “The grounds are like something out

  of a movie. They're so grand— and we haven't even

  seen the house yet.”

  The long driveway curved through a parklike area of

  majestic old trees scattered over wide lawns. Meadows

  dotted with sheep opened on the right. Soon, two large

  stone buildings appeared. Behind them, another field

  filled with sheep rose into a wooded hill.

  “Those must be the barns,” Nancy commented.

  “The big one is probably for the sheep. I'll bet the

  small one's for the horses.”

  Next to the barns were a complex of greenhouses,

  vegetable gardens, and a couple of small stone

  buildings with signs saying Bakery and Wool

  Gathering.

  “Didn't the brochure say that the estate sells its own

  bread and cakes to the public?” George asked. “And

  also woolen handknits like sweaters and scarves? Well,

  those must be the shops.”

  “This place is like some sort of feudal village,” Nancy

  commented. “It has everything. Now all we need is the

  manor house.” Just as she spoke, a tennis court came

  into view. On the other side of it was a stone wall with

  a high arched entrance through which Nancy caught

  glimpses of brightly colored flowers—the garden, she

  guessed.

  George brightened at the sight of the tennis court.

  “I've seen everything except a baseball diamond,” she

  remarked.

  “Baseball's way too American for Moorsea Manor,”

  Nancy said. “But I wouldn't rule out cricket.”

  Several moments later a large stone house rose up

  behind a row of tall pine trees. With its splashes of ivy

  around windows and balconies, it seemed to be full of

  history, as if it had sheltered many families throughout

  the centuries and planned to give shelter to many

  more. Climbing roses crept up beside all the lower

  windows. The tiny leaded panes of the old windows

  sparkled in the afternoon sun as the girls drove closer.

  “Wow,” George said. “It's beautiful. And even

  though it's big, it looks like it could be cozy on a long

  winter evening.”

  Nancy grinned as the soft late-summer breeze blew

  through the car. “Well, I'm glad we won't have to test

  that theory on this vacation.”

  Nancy pulled the car up in front of the house. A

  short flight of marble steps led up to a large oak door

  with an elegant fan window above it. She turned off the

  ignition, relieved that the long trip was finally over.

  Just then the oak door burst open. A tall, gray-haired

  man in his sixties wearing a perfectly pressed suit

  stormed out of the house. His pale blue eyes were slits

  of fury as he stared into the distance. His lips were

  drawn together in a tight angry line.

  Before Nancy and George could move, a pretty

  young woman with long red hair followed him out the

  door. Dressed in white slacks and a hot pink sleeveless

  blouse, she tilted her face toward him with a puzzled,

  anxious frown.

  The man whirled around, facing her. “A likely story,

  Mrs. Peterson!” the man fumed. “I've never been so

  insulted in my life. I'm leaving this hovel, and the

  sooner the better!”

  3. A Shadow at the Window

  Nancy and George exchanged glances.

  “Nancy!” the man shouted in a bossy tone. “Come

  here this instant!”

  Nancy started, shooting a puzzled gaze toward him.

  Before she had a chance to make sense of the situation,

  a stout older woman bustled out of the house, followed

  by a young, dark-haired man carrying two suitcases.

  “Ah, there you are, Nancy, dear,” the man said,

  patting the woman on the back of her starched white

  blouse as if she were a child. “Let's not linger. The

  fewer words we exchange with these wretched people,

  the better.”

  “But, darling, I want to make sure I've got

  everything,” the woman said. Her hands fluttered

  around her head in an agitated gesture. “My hat! I

  must have left it upstairs.”

  At that moment a large English sheepdog bounded

  out of the house. Clenched in its jaws was a large straw

  sun hat trimmed with fake flowers.

  “Maisie!” the red-haired woman said in a horrified

  tone. “Drop it!”

  The dog eyed the woman from under its mop of

  hair. Then it shook its head hard, wrestling the hat to

  the ground and ignoring the order.

  “My brand-new hat!” the older woman exclaimed,

  wringing her hands. “Put it down, you miserable

  creature!”

  In one deft move, the red-haired woman pried the

  hat from the dog's jaws and handed it to the older

  woman. “I'm so sorry—” she began.

  “Hmmph! I can assure you that that's the least of the

  insults we've endured,” the man spat out. His wife

  stared in distress at the shredded brim of her hat as if

  she wasn't so sure.

  “Come along, Nancy dear,” the man went on, “and

  you, too, Peterson. You can take our belongings to the

  car.” He cast a withering glance over his shoulder at

  the dark-haired man who was hefting the suitcases

  down the front stairs. “There's simply nothing more we

  need to discuss here.”

  The older man and his wife descended the stairs and

  headed toward a small parking area at the side of the

  house. The younger man rolled his eyes at the red-

  haired woman before trudging along obligingly behind

  the older couple.

  “Whew,” George muttered. “Well, here we are.”

  “I wonder why that man's so mad,” Nancy said,

  unstrapping her seat belt.

  George shrugged. “I don't know, but I sure am glad

  he's leaving.”

  Nancy opened her door and stepped outside into the

  soft afternoon air. The smell of roses wafted gently on

  the breeze.
r />   Nancy and George walked toward the red-haired

  woman. Preoccupied, the woman held the dog's collar,

  frowning into the distance.

  “Settle down, Maisie,” she whispered as the dog

  whined and strained to follow the others. “Don't fret.

  Those nasty people will leave in a minute, and we

  won't have to see them ever again.”

  Nancy cleared her throat, and the woman raised her

  head abruptly. Without any warning, the dog jumped

  toward Nancy, paws outstretched. Like a dancing bear,

  it waddled upright on its hind legs for a moment,

  panting eagerly.

  “Maisie!” the woman cried, clinging desperately to

  the dog's collar. “Down!”

  “That's okay,” Nancy said. As soon as the dog sat,

  Nancy reached down to pat her. “I love dogs.”

  “So do I,” George echoed. “And what a cutie. Her

  name is Maisie?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, this is Maisie—she's only

  ten months old, but almost full grown and bursting

  with energy, as you can see.” Then, as if taking in the

  girls for the first time, the woman squared her

  shoulders, smiled, and extended her hand. “And I'm

  Annabel Peterson. You must be Nancy Drew and

  George Fayne.”

  After shaking hands with the girls, Annabel went on,

  “I'm so sorry you had to witness that little scene. We

  must have seemed horribly rude not rushing to

  welcome you the moment you arrived. What an awful

  introduction to Moorsea Manor.” She gave them a

  charming smile. “Usually, Hugh and I manage a bit

  better than that.”

  Judging by the tiny lines across her forehead, Nancy

  guessed that Annabel was about thirty. A simple black

  band secured her long red hair, which swept elegantly

  down her back, and her large hazel eyes shone out at

  the girls from under thick lashes. A dusting of freckles

  covered her ski-jump nose, giving her a youthful air.

  Nancy smiled. “You don't have to apologize. That

  man would make anyone feel uneasy. I thought he

  seemed kind of—” She paused, searching for the

  perfect word to describe the man's unsettling anger.

  “Wacko,” George cut in. “Pardon me for being so

  blunt, but that guy was really off his rocker. Who was

  he, anyway?”

  “His name is Lord Calvert,” Annabel replied. She

  shook her head as if trying to banish him from her

  mind, then forced a grin. “Here, let me help you with

  your bags,” she offered cheerfully. “You girls must be

  positively exhausted.”

  Nancy suddenly wasn't tired. She was feeling too

  curious about Lord Calvert's strange behavior to let the

  subject drop.

  “Oh, thanks,” Nancy said, responding to Annabel.

  “But first, please tell us more about Lord Calvert, if

  you don't mind. Why was he so mad?”

  Annabel drew in a deep breath. “Well, I hate to

  color your arrival at Moorsea by telling you an

  unpleasant story,” she began. “But if you insist . . .” Her

  eyebrows drew together in a troubled frown as she

  went on. “As you no doubt noticed, Lord Calvert is a

  rather pompous old man. He's a long-standing member

  of Parliament, and he never, ever lets you forget it.”

  She paused, flashing the girls a wry half-smile. “At

  least, he didn't let me forget it during the very brief

  time he was here.”

  “He's a member of Parliament?” George asked.

  “Yes, in the House of Lords,” Annabel explained.

  “Parliamentary members vote on various issues

  affecting our country, similar to the way your Congress

  operates. There are a few differences, though. One big

  difference is that a lord inherits his seat in Parliament.

  In the United States, of course, senators and

  congressmen are elected, as are our members of the

  House of Commons.”

  “So Lord Calvert thinks he's a big shot?” George

  prompted.

  “That's putting it mildly,” Annabel replied. “He can

  do no wrong, while others can do no right.”

  “You say he was here only briefly?” Nancy asked.

  “What happened in such a short time to make him fly

  off the handle like that?”

  At that moment Maisie, who had been sitting

  obediently beside Annabel, shot down the stairs, letting

  out a series of eager, high-pitched barks. Turning,

  Nancy saw the young, dark-haired man who had

  helped Lord and Lady Calvert with their bags. He

  leaned down, tousling the puppy's mop of white hair

  that hung over her sharp black eyes.

  Joining Annabel, he said, “Hello, darling. That was a

  pleasant little incident, wasn't it?” He gave a wry

  chuckle, then fixed his blue-eyed gaze on Nancy and

  George.

  Annabel immediately introduced them to her

  husband, Hugh Peterson.

  “Take my advice,” Hugh said to Nancy and George,

  “and pretend you had amnesia from the time you drove

  into Moorsea until this moment. That way, your first

  impression of the place will be a good one.” He gave

  his wife a fond smile, then hopped down the stairs to

  the car and popped open the trunk. Within seconds he

  had disappeared into the house, carrying Nancy's and

  George's suitcases.

  “Please go on with your story, Annabel,” Nancy

  urged. “You were just about to tell us why Lord Calvert

  was so mad.”

  Annabel arched an eyebrow. “It was such a little

  thing—but also very odd. As I was saying, he and his

  wife had just arrived, planning to stay the weekend,

  and Hugh and I had just shown them up to their room.

  It's our nicest room—large and airy, with a fantastic

  view of the sea. Of course, we thought they'd love it.

  And they did, until”—she paused, and her expression

  clouded over—“until Lord Calvert looked at his

  bureau. He nearly had a heart attack.”

  “But . . . why?” Nancy asked.

  Annabel shook her head, puzzled. “I don't know how

  it got there, but right on top of his bureau was a large

  framed photograph of Tobias Jacobs. He's Lord

  Calvert's longtime parliamentary rival.”

  “His rival?” George echoed.

  Annabel nodded grimly. “Jacobs and Calvert have

  been feuding for years on almost every political issue.

  At this point, they hardly speak. Lord Calvert was

  convinced that Hugh and I had placed that photo on

  his bureau as a practical joke because we secretly

  share”—she paused for a moment, then said—“how

  did he put it? Because we secretly share the same

  ridiculous political ideas as that hothead Jacobs.' ”

  “He can't be serious,” Nancy said. “Why would you

  want to play a joke on one of your guests?”

  “Of course, we wouldn't,” Annabel said. “But Lord

  Calvert was so mad he couldn't think straight. That

  photograph had the same effect on him as the color red

  has on a bull. He completely lost his temper.�
��

  “Whew. I'll say,” Nancy agreed. “You'd think

  Moorsea's great reputation would have counted for

  something with him.”

  Annabel shrugged. “Apparently not. But he's such

  an egomaniac, maybe it's just as well he's gone. Though

  I hate to sound unwelcoming toward my guests.”

  “Well, I won't be losing any sleep over the old coot,”

  Hugh said flatly as he emerged from the house.

  “Not when we've got more pressing worries,”

  Annabel said. Then furrowing her brow, she mused,

  “For instance, since we didn't put the picture on his

  bureau, who did?”

  Nancy thought for a moment. Was someone out to

  annoy Lord Calvert in particular? she wondered. Or

  was the person who put the photo on the bureau really

  trying to upset the Petersons? Turning to Annabel, she

  asked, “Have there been any other strange things

  happening around Moorsea Manor lately? Has any

  other guest complained about anything?”

  Annabel and Hugh exchanged thoughtful glances.

  Annabel frowned, then looked back at Nancy. Just as

  she was about to answer the question, a dark-colored

  object shot down from above. Missing Nancy's head by

  an inch, it crashed onto the marble stairs.

  Everyone jumped. The object skidded to a halt by

  Annabel.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then

  Annabel bent down to pick it up. Wide-eyed, she

  turned it around in her hands. Nancy could see the

  object was a bronze horse, about six inches high. The

  sheen had worn off its surface, and several small dark

  splotches shone through. It's definitely an antique,

  Nancy thought.

  “My paperweight,” Annabel murmured, frowning in

  confusion. “My father brought it back from India when

  he was a young man. I keep it on my desk.”

  Nancy looked up at the second-story window

  directly above them. A dark shadow quickly retreated

  from view.

  4. Treasure-Hunt Terror

  Nancy sprang into action. With the others on her heels

  and Maisie barking, Nancy flung open the main door

  and ran into the house. A wide curving staircase with a

  polished dark-wood banister rose up from the marble

  foyer. In five quick bounds, Nancy reached the

  staircase and sprinted up to the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs, a large bay window opened

  out from the upstairs hall. A cushioned window seat