Mystery at Moorsea Manor Page 3
curved around the bay in a semicircle. The mullioned
window, which opened out, was slightly ajar, and
Nancy judged that it overlooked the front door. Nancy
frowned, checking both ways down the corridor.
Except for Annabel, Hugh, and George, there was no
sign of anyone else.
Nancy strode over to the window seat and peered
down at it. Her heart skipped a beat. Was there really a
vague indentation in the cushion? she wondered. The
impression of someone's knee? Reaching down, she
ran her finger over the red velvet fabric. There was a
definite dip in it, she concluded. Clearly, someone had
just been kneeling here.
She met Annabel's troubled gaze. In a shaky voice,
Annabel said, “Someone must have leaned out the
window, seen us talking, and then dropped the horse
on purpose.”
“Darling,” Hugh said soothingly. “You don't know
that. Whoever was here could have been leaning out
the window for some harmless reason and then
dropped the horse by mistake.”
Annabel shot him a withering glance. “But before
the person so innocently dropped it, he—or she—went
into our office downstairs and stole the horse from my
desk. At the very least, the person is a thief, if not a
premeditating murderer.”
Hugh dropped his gaze. “Quite right,” he agreed.
A clock chimed from downstairs, and Nancy stole a
look at her watch. It was the middle of the afternoon. A
hush filled the house. No one besides the four of them
was in sight—not a houseguest, not a housemaid. A soft
breeze lifted the gauze window curtains, and the
leaded panes threw rainbow glints on the polished oak
floor.
“Is it all right if I look around?” Nancy asked,
scanning the hall.
“Yes, but let me knock on all the closed doors,”
Annabel suggested, “since the guests know me. Also I
have the master key. Let's also look in the linen closet.”
Nancy and George watched as she opened a nearby
door. Shelves of neatly folded sheets and towels lined
the walls. Otherwise, the closet was empty. While
Annabel and Hugh hurried to check out the rooms,
Nancy studied the upstairs hall.
A plush Oriental runner in bold colors of maroon,
mustard, and navy stretched the length of it. She took a
couple of running steps on it, listening for sounds.
“That carpet would have muffled anybody's
footsteps,” George observed, echoing Nancy's
thoughts.
Nancy grinned. In a low voice, she said, “You've
been with me on so many cases, Fayne, you can tell
exactly what I'm thinking.”
George cupped her hand behind her ear and leaned
toward Nancy. “Case?” she said in a mocking tone.
“Did I hear the word case?”
Nancy smiled as she pushed George away. “Shh! I'm
trying to think.” Once more, her eyes roamed the hall.
Every few yards, the cream-colored walls were broken
by mahogany doors—all closed except the one at the
far end of the hall.
Nancy trotted down the hall and poked her head
into the room. It was huge, with a king-size canopied
bed in the center covered with a light-blue satin
spread. Through the windows, the turquoise-colored
sea lay spread out like a bright cloth at the end of the
wide green lawn.
Nancy's eyes darted to the bureau beside the bed. A
gleaming silver picture frame reflected the afternoon
sun in a blaze of light. Inside the frame, a pudgy-faced
man with curly salt and pepper hair grinned out
impishly. He must be Tobias Jacobs—Lord Calvert's
rival, Nancy mused.
After checking the closet and bathroom in Lord
Calvert's room, Nancy joined the Petersons and
George, who were talking together by the bay window.
Annabel forced a smile as Nancy approached them.
“The bedrooms were empty—not a soul inside,” she
said. “I was just telling George that I'm so sorry your
arrival has been troubled by these peculiar incidents.
First Lord Calvert storming off and now the dropped
horse.” She gave an exasperated shrug. “I can't imagine
why these things are happening.”
Nancy bit her lip, suddenly remembering the road
sign. “I doubt this has anything to do with the tricks at
the inn,” she began, “but I think the police should be
told about it.”
After Nancy described the road-sign incident,
Annabel promised to alert the police the moment she
returned to her office downstairs. “Sounds a bit
dangerous for motorists,” Annabel commented. “I'm
sure they'll want to switch that sign back right away.”
“Have any other strange incidents happened around
here?” Nancy asked.
Annabel's hazel eyes grew dark as she slumped
down on the window seat. “Actually, yes,” she began.
“Yesterday evening, one of our guests ordered the inn's
Wednesday dinner special, lamb marinated in plum
sauce. Somehow, he received tough meat loaf with a
dollop of whipped cream on it instead! Neither Hugh,
nor I, nor any of the kitchen staff could imagine how
that happened.”
“Weird!” George exclaimed. “It's like some sort of
practical joke.”
“Yes,” Hugh said darkly. “And a really bad one at
that. You see the guest, Nigel Neathersfield, happens
to be a quite well-known restaurant critic. A good
report from him about our food would mean a lot of
wonderful publicity for us. Needless to say, a bad
report could sour our hard-earned popularity
overnight.”
“It seems so unfair that one person's opinion could
undo all your hard work,” George said.
“Well, that's the way this business is,” Annabel
remarked with a resigned shrug. “Cutthroat. Nice inns
and restaurants like ours depend on word of mouth,
which can be very fickle. One not-so-great meal or one
bad hotel experience can really change a place's luck.
We may be the trendy hotel to stay in right now, but
who knows what might happen next month?”
“It sounds as if this person knows personal details
about your guests,” Nancy pointed out. “Lord Calvert's
history with Tobias Jacobs, for instance—and I'm sure
Nigel Neathersfield was chosen for the dinner joke
because he's a restaurant critic.”
The Petersons nodded in agreement. “Fortunately,
Nigel didn't storm off the way Lord Calvert did,”
Annabel said. “He accepted our apologies and believed
us when we told him we were in the dark about what
had happened. Still, he wasn't happy.”
“Who was the last person to see his plate after the
lamb was put on it?” Nancy asked.
“Me,” Annabel answered. “I do most of the cooking,
with two assistants, Peggy and Faith. With Nigel's dish,
I remember arranging the lamb, vegetables, and
garnish on his plate and then putting it on the counter
for the waitress to pick up and serve.”
“Didn't she notice that the dish looked kind of . . .
odd?” George asked. “I mean, whipped cream on meat
loaf? Come on.”
“She was new—helping out just for the evening,”
Annabel explained. “She wasn't too aware of things.
Usually, Hugh waits on our guests, but last night he
was attending to the birth of some lambs. Someone
must have switched the meal on the pantry counter
when everyone in the kitchen was too busy to notice.”
“A fast piece of work, too,” Hugh grumbled. “We
don't leave plates unattended for more than a minute
at the most. We like to serve them piping hot.” He shot
Nancy an uneasy look. “Who could be playing these
tricks on our guests?”
Nancy pursed her lips, thinking. The person might
be another guest, she reasoned, or else someone who
was lurking around Moorsea Manor. The trouble was,
she mused, these incidents weren't just silly, harmless
tricks. That dropped horse was no joke.
“Mmm, what's that delicious smell?” George asked.
She sat up in bed, stretching after her nap. Sunlight
slanted through the windows onto the chintz curtains
and matching bedspreads. The ceiling of their room
was low and crossed by dark wooden beams. Even so, it
felt spacious and airy.
Nancy yawned from the canopied twin bed next to
George's, then immediately looked at her watch.
“Wow! It's already eight, George. The sun sets later
here because we're so far north. I bet we're missing
dinner.” Throwing off the covers, she jumped out of
bed, then quickly began digging through her suitcase.
“The jet lag made us do it,” George quipped. “Let's
hurry down before all the food's gone.”
The girls quickly dressed, then headed downstairs
for dinner. But as they reached the foyer, guests were
already streaming out of the dining room.
“Nancy, George,” Hugh said, rushing up. “We saved
you some supper. It's being kept warm in the kitchen.”
“How about a game of backgammon later?” a
childish voice asked. Glancing to her right, Nancy saw
a blond-haired girl of about twelve gazing at her
earnestly.
Nancy gave her a thumbs-up. “And my friend,
George, will play the winner,” she promised.
After eating roasted chicken and a fresh garden
salad, Nancy and George joined the other guests in the
living room. A fire roared in a cavernous stone fireplace
while guests lounged around the room in armchairs or
sofas—talking, reading, or playing board games. A
stout man with mahogany-brown hair and a nose like a
hawk's beak jumped up from his chair. “Hullo, girls,”
he said, extending his hand. “I'm Desmond Macmillan-
Brown, and this is my wife, Lucy.”
An athletic-looking woman with bright pink cheeks
stood up and shook hands with the girls. “And this is
our daughter, Ashley,” she added in a loud, hearty
voice, beckoning to the blond girl who was setting up
the backgammon board.
Nancy smiled. “I'm Nancy Drew, and this is my
friend, George Fayne,” she explained.
“And please meet Georgina Trevor and Nigel
Neathersfield,” Mr. Macmillan-Brown added.
Georgina, who Nancy judged was in her early
forties, looked up from her book with a tremulous
smile. Running a hand distractedly through her graying
auburn hair, she quickly dropped her gaze without
saying a word. But Nigel Neathersfield, the restaurant
critic, shot forward from his jigsaw puzzle to meet the
girls.
“Well, you have the whole cast of characters here
tonight, except Malcolm,” he said, sweeping the room
with his arm.
“Malcolm?” George echoed.
“Aye, Malcolm Bruce, the handsome Scot,” Nigel
said, imitating a Scottish brogue. “He's probably off
partying at the Wily Fox, the hot spot in Lower
Tidwell. He just arrived today, but even one evening
here would probably be too dull for him.”
Nancy perked up, curious to learn more about
Malcolm, when Ashley announced the beginning of the
backgammon game. Oh well, Nancy mused as she took
a seat opposite Ashley, George and I are sure to meet
Malcolm sooner or later.
No sooner had she sat down when a cute sandy-
haired guy about her age strode into the room. Ashley
jumped up eagerly and ran over to him, then tugged on
his sleeve to bring him to meet Nancy and George.
“It's so exciting to have Malcolm here,” Ashley gushed
after introducing him to the girls. “In case you don't
know, Malcolm is a star on tellie, a show called In My
Face here in England. Mum and Dad sometimes let
me watch it.”
“Ashley, you flatter me too much,” Malcolm said
with a charming grin. Then he turned toward George
and said in a low voice, “I'm glad to see that things are
finally livening up around Moorsea. Can I interest you
in some backgammon, George? Then the winners of
each game can play.”
“Cool—a tournament,” George said happily. “Okay,
sure, let's get started.”
The next morning at breakfast George leaned
toward Nancy and murmured, “At least there were no
more weird incidents at the inn last night.”
Before Nancy could respond, Ashley Macmillan-
Brown skipped over to their table.
“It's Friday—hooray!” Ashley said, clapping her
hands. “I've been looking forward to it all week.”
Nancy smiled at the slender girl with dancing gray
eyes. “What's so special about Friday?” she asked.
“You'll see,” Ashley teased. She darted back to her
parents' table.
Nancy and George traded glances. But no sooner
had they finished a delicious breakfast of scrambled
eggs, bacon, and hot cross buns than Annabel strode
into the room.
Standing in front of the huge marble fireplace,
Annabel said, “Good morning! I hope all of you will
join me for my weekly treasure hunt. It's my favorite
special event here at Moorsea Manor, and I hope you'll
like it, too. Anyone who's interested, please assemble in
the front hall at ten o'clock.”
Ashley ran back to Nancy and George. “It's Mrs.
Peterson's most popular event,” she told them
confidentially. “I can't wait.” Ashley leaned over their
table and scooped up the last remaining hot cross bun.
She asked George if she could have it.
George nodded and Ashley took off again. “A
treasure hunt?” George asked Nancy. “I wonder what
it's all about.”
“I read about it in the inn's brochure,” Nancy said.
“Apparently, Moorsea Manor has a bunch of special
events, like a round-robin tennis tournament, a croquet
competition, and on Frid
ays this treasure hunt. I'd
forgotten all about it till now.”
“So what's the treasure?” George wondered.
“Not money, definitely, but something like a gift
certificate at Wool Gathering or a basket of homemade
jams,” Nancy explained. “After all, the hunt's mainly
for fun, so I doubt the Petersons would want their
guests to get too cutthroat about winning.”
“I remember treasure hunts at birthday parties when
we were kids,” George mused. “They were a blast.”
Nancy smiled. “I'm sure this one will be more
challenging, since it's designed for grown-ups. Annabel
makes up six clues for each person, except the sixth
clue is the same for everyone. The first person to find
the sixth clue wins.”
“May the best guest win,” George said, raising her
glass of orange juice in a toast.
At ten o'clock, Nancy and George filed into the
downstairs foyer along with the other guests. Maisie
hopped around on her big soft feet, angling for
attention.
Standing by the front door, Annabel quickly
explained the rules. Then she added, “About three-
quarters of a mile north of the house is a peat bog. It's
extremely dangerous, so please don't venture off any
obvious paths. All the clues for the hunt will be hidden
within a half-mile distance of the house.” She flashed
the group a reassuring smile. “Good luck to all. And I
hope everyone has a wonderful time—that's the main
thing.”
Annabel distributed a small folded paper to each
guest. The guest's first name along with the number
one was written neatly in black marker on the outside
of the paper.
Nancy and George wandered outside, opening their
papers.
“Hmm,” Nancy said. “Clue Number One. Proceed
to the feed bucket in the black lamb's stall.' ” She shot
a look toward the sheep barn. “Well, I guess I'm
headed thataway.” She pointed toward the large stone
building several hundred yards to the right of the
house.
“And I'm off to the sundial in the rose garden,”
George added as she studied her clue.
The two girls wished each other luck, then headed
their separate ways. Nancy jogged toward the barn.
Inside, the air smelled sweetly of hay. Stalls were lined
up across from one another, with a wide center aisle.
Nancy judged there were about thirty stalls in all.
How am I ever going to find the black lamb's stall?
she wondered. Most of the stalls were empty—