Mystery at Moorsea Manor Read online

  probably because during the day the sheep were

  outside grazing, she thought.

  At the far end of the barn, Nancy stopped, her heart

  filled with delight. In the last stall five or six lambs

  frolicked, eagerly throwing themselves at one another,

  their ungainly legs splaying out around them.

  Nancy glanced into the stall across the aisle. Inside,

  a tiny black lamb slept, curled up against its mother's

  belly. She unlatched the gate and slipped inside.

  Peering into the feed bucket, she drew out another

  folded piece of paper with the number two written on

  the outside.

  “ Hurry to the hollow of the oak tree beyond the

  beehives,' ” she read.

  Nancy stuck the clue in the pocket of her blue jeans

  skirt and ran out the backdoor of the barn. Nearby, she

  spotted a picket fence. Inside were some large white

  boxy structures. Beehives, she realized, catching sight

  of a warning sign nailed to the gate.

  About twenty feet beyond the enclosure was a huge

  oak tree. Skirting the picket fence, Nancy rushed over

  to the tree and stuck her hand inside a large hole in the

  trunk at about eye level.

  “ Have a look at the mane of the brown- and white-

  spotted pony in the far pasture,' ” she read after

  opening up the clue.

  Several minutes later Nancy climbed a stile and

  went into a pasture she hoped was the far one. Nestled

  against a patch of woods, it seemed almost a half mile

  from the house.

  Three ponies and two horses grazed there

  peacefully. Clipped to the mane of the brown-and-

  white pony was a piece of paper. Before Nancy could

  remove it, a loud scream erupted from the nearby

  woods. “Help!” a voice cried. It was George!

  Nancy sprinted over the pasture fence toward the

  scream. Once in the woods, she came to an open

  marshy area. To her complete horror, George was in

  the marsh sinking into the ground—it was already

  above her knees.

  George was struggling to remove her legs, her arms

  flailing. Each time she tried to take a step, she sank

  farther into the black squelchy water of the bog. In a

  minute she'd be in over her head!

  5. The Clue in the Quicksand

  “Nancy, help me!” George shouted, her face showing

  her panic. She leaned toward Nancy, falling forward in

  the bog.

  “Hang on,” Nancy urged as George floundered in

  the soupy water. “I'll get you out.”

  Nancy cast a quick look around her and spied a long,

  sturdy-looking stick in the underbrush to her left. After

  making sure that the ground she stepped on was firm,

  Nancy retrieved the stick. Then she used it to poke the

  earth in front of her as she made her way carefully

  toward George.

  The ground in front of her looked hard, with a

  greenish brown mossy surface. It might have been a

  forest path, but Nancy quickly realized the moss was

  just a thin cover hiding a treacherous bog. She could

  see how George had been fooled.

  It's no use, she thought with dismay, testing the

  ground with her stick. It plunged through the moss into

  murky impenetrable swamp all around George,

  bringing up weedy tendrils of vegetation and black

  muck. There was no way Nancy could get close enough

  to help. By now, George had sunk in up to her hips.

  “Hey, Nan, I'm going in fast,” George said in

  despair. Nancy's heart thudded in her chest—George

  sounded so unlike her usual confident self.

  A wide, flat stump a couple of feet away from

  George caught Nancy's eye. That just might work, she

  thought hopefully.

  Nancy didn't waste a moment considering the

  danger she might face. Taking a deep breath, she made

  a flying leap onto the stump, holding tightly to her

  stick.

  To her relief, the stump held firm as she landed on

  its flat center. Putting down her stick, she commanded,

  “Here, George, take my hands!” Then she leaned over

  and extended both arms toward George.

  George grabbed on. Nancy pulled hard, trying to

  keep a grip on George's wet, slippery hands. But after a

  minute of straining to lift her out, Nancy realized she

  didn't have the strength to haul George from the bog.

  “I'm going to try something else,” Nancy announced,

  getting down on her knees. Careful not to lose her

  balance, she leaned forward, gripping George under

  both arms.

  Nancy gave a ferocious yank. Bubbles erupted from

  the water as George moved forward an inch.

  “It's working,” Nancy grunted. “Come on, George.

  Try to help me. Pitch toward me. You can do it.” She

  gritted her teeth and hauled, trying to ignore the

  pounds of muck that seemed determined to trap

  George forever in their depths.

  A loud sucking sound and a horrible stench of

  rotting vegetation filled the air. Nancy, her arms

  around George, almost collapsed backward with relief.

  George was finally free!

  “Ugh!” George groaned, clambering up next to

  Nancy on the stump. Her blue jeans were covered in

  slick black mud, and her hands were trembling

  uncontrollably. Otherwise, she seemed unfazed by her

  ordeal and grinned at Nancy gamely.

  “Well, Nan,” George said in a voice that was hoarse

  from shouting for help. “What do you say we get out of

  this joint? I'm not sure a basket of homemade jams is

  worth all this hassle.”

  Nancy shot George a lopsided smile. “That's the

  understatement of the year.” Then her blue eyes

  studied George's mud-streaked face with concern. “But

  seriously, are you all right? That was a deadly patch of

  quicksand.”

  George shuddered. “I had no way of knowing I was

  about to step into that stuff. At first, the ground under

  me was just a little wet and springy. Then suddenly, I

  plunged right through. No matter how hard I tried, I

  couldn't get out—it was as if invisible hands were

  dragging me down.”

  Nancy's gaze swept the bog. A number of dead trees

  were sticking up from the blanket of moss, like an army

  of thin gray ghosts. She shivered—she couldn't stand

  another second in this place. “Let's get out of here,”

  Nancy said, tugging on George's T-shirt sleeve.

  Carefully the two girls stood up. Nancy picked up

  her stick. Once more, she used it to find solid ground.

  “So tell me, George,” Nancy began, once the two

  were standing safely at the edge of the pasture. “How'd

  you get into that mess, anyway?”

  George dug a clue out of her jeans pocket. “My

  fourth clue sent me to that stump in the bog. Before I

  saw that there was no clue there, the ground just

  swallowed me up. It was a totally weird feeling—I had

  no idea I was anywhere near the bog. I mean, it didn't

  occur to me that Annabel would write a clue that

>   would send me into danger.”

  Nancy frowned as George handed her a piece of

  paper with the number four written in black marker on

  the outside. Sure enough, on the inside, in neat black

  print, the clue instructed George to proceed to the

  “first wide stump in the woods beyond the horse

  pasture, in front of the group of dead trees.”

  Nancy compared the writing with one of her clues.

  It looked the same, she thought, but the block print

  would be easy to imitate. She shot George a level look.

  “George, Annabel never would have made up a clue

  that sent you into that bog.”

  George's brown eyes searched Nancy's face. “Are

  you hinting that this is another trick someone's playing

  on the guests at Moorsea?”

  Nancy nodded grimly. “Someone must have

  switched Annabel's clue with this one, which

  deliberately led you into danger.” She pushed the clue

  back into George's fist. “These tricks may have started

  off being silly, but they're getting dangerous now.”

  “Yeah, that paperweight horse barely missed your

  head yesterday,” George pointed out. “You could have

  been really hurt.”

  “Let's get back to the house right away,” Nancy

  pressed. “We've got to tell Annabel what happened.

  Other people could have gotten bum clues, too.”

  As Nancy and George made their way back to the

  house, Nancy felt a prickle of dread at the thought of

  what other guests might have encountered on the

  treasure hunt.

  Near the sheep barn, Nancy saw a swift movement

  out of the corner of her eye.

  “Isn't that Ashley?” George asked, pointing toward

  the beehive enclosure.

  Just as George spoke, Ashley Macmillan-Brown

  slipped through a gate in the picket fence.

  “Ashley, get out of there!” Nancy yelled. Didn't she

  see the warning on the gate? If Ashley got too near the

  bees, they might want to protect their hives and attack

  her.

  Nancy ran toward Ashley, hoping the young girl

  would hear her warning.

  A loud scream erupted from inside the fence.

  “Ashley!” Nancy shouted again.

  Ashley screamed again. Then she tore back through

  the picket gate and moved toward Nancy and George.

  A long dark line of bees shot out from the nearest

  hive. Swarming into an angry cloud, the bees headed

  straight for Ashley.

  6. Manor House Mayhem

  Ashley dove into Nancy's arms, cowering. The buzzing

  black cloud swooped up and away as Nancy hustled the

  girl into the barn.

  “Are you okay, Ashley?” Nancy asked once they

  were safely inside.

  “Did you get stung?” George asked, slipping through

  the door behind them.

  “Ow,” Ashley said, wincing as she rubbed her left

  leg. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she immediately

  wiped them away. She looked away from the older girls

  in embarrassment. “I . . . I got a couple of stings on my

  leg when I first went in. I guess the bees were just

  trying to warn me away.”

  Nancy could tell Ashley was trying her best to be

  brave. “Did your clue send you near the beehives?”

  Nancy asked her gently.

  Ashley nodded, looking puzzled. “I was having so

  much fun. Then my third clue sent me inside the

  picket fence. But Annabel knows there are beehives

  there. Why would she have done that?”

  “She wouldn't have,” George said flatly. “We think

  some other person made up clues to endanger the

  guests.”

  Nancy searched Ashley's shocked face. “Did you

  notice a Keep Out—Bees sign posted on the fence by

  any chance?” she asked.

  Ashley shook her head. Nancy peered out of the

  barn door, scanning the sky for bees. Then she

  motioned to the others that it was safe to follow.

  Outside, she pointed toward the picket fence and said,

  “Earlier, I saw a Keep Out sign on the fence, but now

  it's gone.”

  Nancy examined Ashley's clue. Like George's, its

  block print looked exactly like the writing on the

  regular clues.

  “We've got to get back to the house and tell Annabel

  about this,” George said with a weary sigh.

  “She's going to have a fit,” Ashley predicted.

  Back at the manor house, several frantic guests were

  pacing the front hall while the worried-looking

  Petersons were trying in vain to calm them.

  Georgina Trevor wandered aimlessly in circles, her

  hands fluttering around her heart. “I tell you,” she

  muttered in a high childlike voice, “my nerves are

  simply shot.”

  Ashley dashed toward her mother. “Ashley, darling!”

  Mrs. Macmillan-Brown exclaimed, enveloping her

  daughter in a bear hug. “Daddy and I had the most

  awful fright. And Miss Trevor, too.” She paused to

  stare at George. “My goodness! Look at you, George—

  all covered with mud.”

  Ashley tugged at her mother's sleeve, then pointed

  toward the red, swollen marks on her leg. Her mother

  caught her breath, looking at them aghast. “Ashley,

  what happened?”

  First Ashley and then George quickly related their

  ordeals to a rapt audience. While Annabel hurried off

  to fetch a mixture of baking soda and water to soothe

  Ashley's bee stings, Hugh continued to console the

  guests.

  Nancy turned to the elder Macmillan-Browns.

  “Please tell me—what was your awful fright?” she

  asked them curiously.

  Mr. Macmillan-Brown fixed his round blue eyes on

  Nancy. “We were having a fine time on the hunt,” he

  explained, “until one of our clues sent us into the stall

  belonging to the most ferocious ram at Moorsea. We

  barely escaped with our lives.” He shot a scathing look

  at the Petersons. “It turns out that miserable heap of

  wool has to be kept in isolation because of his ill

  temper. But were we told that earlier when it would

  have mattered? No!”

  “Now, now, Desmond,” his wife said, picking a piece

  of straw off a muddy spot on his polo shirt. “Annabel

  and Hugh are not to be blamed. They're as much in

  the dark as we are.”

  “Yes, but they didn't have to stare down a gigantic

  live sweater with the meanest temper in town!” he

  retorted.

  “And I,” Georgina Trevor broke in. She paused

  dramatically for a moment while everyone's attention

  shifted to her. “I slipped on a loose slate-roof shingle

  while trying to make my way to a drainpipe—following

  my clue's instructions, of course. I nearly slid off the

  roof to certain death on the stone driveway far below.”

  She fished in the pocket of her dowdy-looking A-line

  skirt. “Now what did I do with that clue, anyhow? Oh,

  well—I can assure you it sent me astray.”

  “Miss Trevor,” Annabel said, returning to the room

  with some sal
ve for Ashley. “Once again, I'm so sorry

  that you almost fell. But I promise that neither Hugh

  nor I wrote up that clue. We would never have sent

  you onto the roof—it's almost vertical.” She flicked

  back her long red hair with an air of helpless

  frustration.

  “Well, someone did,” Georgina said, peering

  stubbornly at the Petersons.

  “That's right, someone did,” a man's voice cut in.

  Everyone turned to look at Nigel Neathersfield, who

  had been pacing in grim silence in front of the marble

  fireplace.

  “I was lucky,” he went on, running a hand through

  his thick blond hair. “The Macmillan-Browns warned

  me off the hunt before I met with any trouble.” His

  short, thin body gave an involuntary shiver as he

  scowled at the Petersons through tiny black eyes. “But

  I shudder to think what my fate might have been if I'd

  continued to follow my clues.” He paused for a

  moment, then added portentously, T wonder if that

  same person who so kindly provided me with a meat

  loaf dinner the other night is at work again.”

  “We have no way of knowing if it was the same

  person,”

  Annabel

  protested.

  “Please,

  Mr.

  Neathersfield, try to believe that my husband and I are

  very upset by these tricks, too. We will do whatever we

  can to make things right around here again.”

  “Oh, I don't doubt you on that score,” Nigel

  declared. “I'm sure you'd do anything for the sake of

  your business. Still, I feel it's my duty to report these

  events in my paper when I return to London on

  Sunday evening. The public has a right to be warned

  about what they might encounter here. In fact,” he

  continued, gazing nonchalantly at Annabel's stricken

  face, “maybe I should demand my money back now

  and clear out. I don't want to endanger myself—nor

  would I want to face another dinnertime disaster.”

  “Please, Mr. Neathersfield,” Annabel begged,

  flashing Hugh a frantic look, “give us a chance. Stay

  calm, and we'll get to the bottom of this mystery

  straightaway.”

  “I expect no less,” Nigel said tartly, turning on his

  heel and striding up the stairs.

  “Annabel,” Nancy said in a low voice, “may I talk to

  you privately?”

  “Certainly,” Annabel answered. After assuring her