Mystery at Moorsea Manor Page 5

  guests that she was available twenty-four hours if need

  be, she led Nancy into a room off the hall marked

  Reception.

  The moment she sat, she dropped her face in her

  hands and burst into tears.

  “Annabel!” Nancy said, rushing over and placing a

  comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don't cry!

  We'll figure things out.”

  “I'm sorry, Nancy,” Annabel said, wiping her tears

  away. “This sort of behavior isn't like me at all. I'm

  normally quite professional—it's just that I'm strained

  to the breaking point. Someone is clearly out to strike a

  blow at Moorsea Manor. What if a guest gets hurt?

  And what if our business is ruined?” She cast a

  desperate look around the sunny room. “I'd lose this

  place.”

  Nancy sat down in a nearby chair. She'd been

  looking forward to her vacation, but Annabel needed

  her help. Plus, she realized, that with a maniac loose at

  Moorsea, peace and quiet would be in short supply,

  even if she didn't agree to investigate.

  Annabel shot her a curious look. “But why did you

  want to talk to me, Nancy?”

  Nancy smiled. “To offer to help you find whoever is

  playing these tricks. You see,” she added modestly,

  “I'm a detective.”

  Annabel's eyes shone. “You are? What a terrific

  stroke of luck! Well, if you'll take charge of this

  investigation, Hugh and I will do whatever we can to

  help you.”

  “Let's start with a few questions, then,” Nancy said,

  sitting forward. “First, can you think of anyone who

  might bear a grudge against you?”

  Annabel pursed her lips as she thought. “Yes, Billy

  Tremain,” she answered after a moment. “He used to

  be the shepherd here, but we had to fire him two

  months ago for mishandling the birth of a pair of

  lambs. One of the lambs died because of Billy's

  carelessness. He was furious when we fired him. He

  has a very surly personality—so I wasn't sorry to see

  him go.”

  “Anyone else?” Nancy asked, filing Billy Tremain

  away in her mind as a possible suspect.

  Annabel tapped a slender forefinger against her

  cheek. “I can't think of any other person who might

  bear us a grudge, but I can think of two people who

  would be absolutely thrilled if we went out of

  business.”

  “Really? Who?” Nancy asked.

  “The Singh brothers. They're identical twins who are

  big developers in the area,” Annabel explained.

  “They're hot to get their hands on Moorsea Manor so

  they can make a killing developing the land. If our inn

  fails, Hugh and I would have to sell Moorsea—and

  those Singh chaps would be first in the queue to buy it,

  I'm sure.”

  “Can you tell me what Billy and the Singh brothers

  look like and how I can track them down?” Nancy

  asked.

  “Billy is short and stocky, with broad, strong-looking

  shoulders,” Annabel told her. “He's got dark hair,

  green eyes, and a mole on his left cheek. I don't believe

  I've ever seen him smile. He lives in a ramshackle

  farmhouse about four miles away on the moor.

  “As for the Singhs, they immigrated from India years

  ago and have an office on High Street in Lower

  Tidwell—they're realtors as well as developers. They're

  about thirty, tall and thin, dark haired and dark eyed,

  with hair-trigger tempers, I'm told. But I also hear they

  can be charming when it suits them.”

  “Is their business successful?” Nancy asked.

  “Very,” Annabel replied. “In fact, most people think

  it's too successful. The countryside around here is so

  beautiful and unspoiled, and most people want it to

  remain that way. The Singhs have bought up land and

  subdivided it without regard to natural beauty or to the

  feelings of the community.”

  “I guess their business has made lots of money,”

  Nancy remarked.

  “Lots,” Annabel said. “People around here are

  jealous of the Singhs' wealth. And they bitterly resent

  the fact that the money has been made at their

  expense—by tearing up the countryside that they all

  love.”

  Nancy nodded as she considered that information.

  “Thanks, Annabel,” she said, standing up. “I'll start by

  investigating these guys, then. I'll see what clues I can

  turn up.”

  “Please be careful, Nancy,” Annabel warned. “This

  person clearly means business—look what almost

  happened to George. And if he, or she, suspects you of

  spying—” She gave a small shudder.

  “Don't worry. I'll be careful,” Nancy assured her.

  “But please don't tell any of the other guests about my

  role. George and Hugh, of course, will be in on our

  secret—that's all.”

  Annabel extended her hand for Nancy to shake.

  “Nancy, I feel better already knowing you're on the

  case.”

  Nancy said goodbye to Annabel, then headed

  upstairs to tell George about the investigation. But

  George was not in their room. Steam coated the

  bathroom mirror, and George's muddy clothes lay in a

  heap on the floor. George had obviously just showered

  and changed, Nancy reasoned, but where could she

  have gone?

  Nancy hurried outside, scanning the lawn and

  pastures from the front stairs. Could she be checking

  out the beach? Or maybe the sheep barn?

  Nancy strode toward the barn. Inside, she heard a

  murmuring noise at the far end.

  “George?” she began, walking toward the sound.

  A young, dark-haired man jolted upright from where

  he'd been slouching over a stall door. He scowled

  angrily at Nancy, his dark eyebrows drawing together

  in a thick black line above green eyes. A large mole

  stood out prominently on his left cheek.

  Nancy did a double take. This guy perfectly matched

  Annabel's description of Billy Tremain! But why was he

  lurking around here if he'd been fired? she wondered.

  “Uh, do you work here at Moorsea?” she asked

  curiously.

  “What's it to you, miss?” he asked, squaring a set of

  powerful-looking shoulders.

  Nancy refused to lower her gaze. “I'm a guest here,”

  she answered, “and I just wondered who you were.”

  Violently punching his left palm with his right hand,

  he began to stalk toward her. “Well, I'll thank you to

  keep your questions to yourself!” he growled in a

  menacing tone.

  Nancy's heart raced. Was he actually going to attack

  her?

  7. A Mysterious Sign

  “Stop right there!” Nancy commanded, trying to take

  control of the situation. This guy looks as if he could

  tackle a bear, she thought. I'd better get ready to

  defend myself, just in case.

  She glanced to her side, spying a small shovel a few

  feet away. But before she could make a move to grab i
t,

  Billy stopped, then quickly spun around. Without

  another word, he disappeared out the backdoor of the

  barn.

  Nancy took a deep breath, then exhaled in relief.

  Annabel sure wasn't kidding when she described the

  guy's attitude, she thought grimly.

  Nancy retraced her steps out of the barn,

  determined to find George. Maybe she's at the beach,

  Nancy thought. But just as she was heading across the

  lawn toward the sea, she caught sight of George

  jogging toward her, carrying two tennis racquets.

  “Where have you been, Nancy?” George puffed as

  she reached her. “I've been hoping to scare up a game

  of tennis. These racquets belong to the inn, but I'm

  sure they'll do.”

  “I've been hunting for you, too, George,” Nancy

  said. “Annabel—and I—think that someone may be

  playing these tricks to hurt the inn. She wants me to

  investigate; naturally, I need your help.”

  George grinned. “What did I tell you? You've

  already found yourself a mystery—and it's only our

  second day of vacation. Sure, I'll help out. Do you have

  any suspects yet?”

  Nancy was about to answer when she noticed

  Malcolm Bruce, the Scottish actor, sneaking up behind

  George.

  Malcolm's bright blue eyes twinkled as he touched

  his forefinger to his lips to silence Nancy. Then he

  clapped his hands over George's eyes.

  George spun around. “Malcolm!”

  “George!” Malcolm retorted, punching her playfully

  on the arm. “I see Nancy and you are aiming to get

  some shots in,” he said in his Scottish brogue. Then he

  mimicked a tennis forehand stroke. “Well, may the best

  player win.”

  George laughed, then caught Nancy's expression.

  “Actually, Malcolm,” George said firmly, “Nancy and I

  are busy now. I'm sure we'll be getting a game in later,

  though.”

  “Busy?” Malcolm asked. “Doing what?”

  Making up a quick explanation, Nancy said, “George

  was just trying to get me to join her in a game but I've

  already told Ashley we'd play cards with her. We were

  just heading inside when you came along.”

  Nancy paused for a moment, chewing her lip in

  thought. She was hoping to track down Annabel to let

  her know about Billy, and she could certainly do that

  without George's help. “Well, I'm sure Ashley wouldn't

  mind if just I showed up,” she added. “And I get the

  feeling George is really up for some tennis.”

  “Well, then, George,” Malcolm said, flashing her a

  flirtatious grin, “I know I'm a poor substitute for

  Nancy. But if you don't mind my two left feet, I'd be

  honored if you would hit a few balls with me.”

  George's face lit up. “Two left feet, Malcolm—give

  me a break! I'm sure you'll cream me. Come on, let's

  nab that court before someone else does.”

  George and Malcolm headed toward the tennis

  court while Nancy jogged to the house to search for

  Annabel.

  Nancy found both Annabel and Hugh inside the

  reception office poring over correspondence. A look of

  alarm passed over Annabel's face as she took in

  Nancy's grave expression. Hugh closed the door and

  explained that Annabel had told him about Nancy's

  investigation. Then he and Annabel looked attentively

  at Nancy.

  “I just saw Billy Tremain,” Nancy declared, sitting

  down in a vacant chair. “At least, I think it was him.”

  She told the Petersons the details of her confrontation

  in the barn.

  “I'm sure that's who the chap was,” Annabel said in

  distress. “Your description fits him to a T.”

  Hugh pushed back his chair and jumped up, his blue

  eyes flashing angrily. “If I find Billy on our property,

  I'm going to make mincemeat of him.”

  “Be careful, darling, that he doesn't make

  mincemeat out of you,” Annabel warned as Hugh

  strode furiously out of the room. Her voice fell to a

  helpless murmur as he rushed away, undeterred.

  As soon as Hugh had gone, Nancy asked Annabel

  what she knew about the guests staying at Moorsea and

  the location of each guest's room.

  “Do you really think a guest could be responsible for

  this mischief?” Annabel asked, surprised. “After all,

  guests are the ones who have suffered these awful

  tricks. Just think of the treasure hunt. Everyone faced

  danger except for Nigel, and he suffered ridicule at

  dinner the other night.”

  “Still, I don't want to rule anyone out yet,” Nancy

  told her.

  Annabel nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I don't know

  much more about our guests than you do, Nancy. They

  all seem on the up-and-up to me. I can't imagine why

  any of them would want to drive us out of business.

  “As for the room setup, we've got six guest rooms on

  the second floor and a seventh on the third. Hugh and

  I live on the third floor, too, in a separate wing that has

  a private staircase leading up from the second floor.”

  Counting off on her fingers, Annabel went on, “The

  Macmillan-Browns are in Room One, Ashley is next to

  them in Room Two, you and George have Room

  Three, Nigel Neathersfield writes his annoying reviews

  in Room Four, Georgina Trevor hibernates in Room

  Five, and Room Six is empty this weekend because

  Lord and Lady Calvert left so suddenly. Malcolm

  Bruce stays on the third floor in Room Seven.”

  “Hmm, Malcolm Bruce,” Nancy said, as a sudden

  realization crossed her mind. “You know, Annabel, I

  don't remember seeing Malcolm at the treasure hunt.”

  “That's right,” Annabel said with a start. “He wasn't

  there. He'd asked me not to make him any clues. He

  said he wanted to sleep late this morning.”

  “So he's the only guest who hasn't been the victim of

  a prank,” Nancy went on. “Something bad has

  happened to every other guest.” She looked at Annabel

  appraisingly, then asked, “Would you mind if I search

  his room? He's playing tennis with George now, so this

  would be the perfect time to check it out.”

  Annabel sighed. “He is our guest, though, Nancy,”

  she said reluctantly. “I feel odd giving you a key to his

  room. I'm responsible for his privacy, after all. What if

  he catches you there?”

  “Don't worry, I'll make up some excuse. And I

  definitely won't tell him you gave me permission to

  search his room,” Nancy replied. “And what if he really

  is behind these pranks? We owe it to everyone here to

  check out that possibility.”

  Annabel's hazel eyes narrowed. “All right,” she said,

  reaching for a key on a row of pegs labeled with room

  numbers. “I'll trust your judgment, Nancy. There are

  two staircases leading upstairs from the second floor—

  Malcolm's is the one directly across the hall from your

  room.”

  Na
ncy thanked Annabel as she took the key. Then

  she hurried upstairs to the third floor.

  At the top of the stairs was a spacious foyer, lit by a

  large window, with a closed door facing her. Nancy

  unlocked the door and stepped into a huge sunny room

  with windows on three sides. An unmade bed draped

  in red velvet took up most of the space on her left,

  several oil paintings of country scenes hung on the

  walls, and on her right a tall antique bureau reached

  almost to the ceiling. Against a nearby wall, an empty

  suitcase lay open on a luggage rack.

  After shutting the door behind her, Nancy checked

  under the bed and on top of the night tables. Finding

  nothing, Nancy went to work on the bureau. She had to

  stand on a chair to see in the highest drawers, but after

  five minutes of careful searching among Malcolm's

  clothes, she'd turned up no clues.

  Her gaze fell on a door next to the luggage rack. The

  closet, Nancy guessed. She placed the chair back

  against the wall and opened the door. Inside, three or

  four summer sports jackets hung neatly on hangers.

  Behind them, Nancy caught a glimpse of a white object

  propped in a corner, partly hidden by the coats. What

  in the world? Nancy thought. She pushed the jackets

  aside.

  It was a white rectangular piece of wood nailed to a

  pole about her height. Black letters were painted on its

  surface.

  Nancy's jaw dropped as the words jumped out at

  her: B Road, Scenic Drive, Danger—Extremely Steep

  Incline.

  It's the road sign for the monster hill, Nancy

  realized. Malcolm must have stolen it—obviously as a

  prank. I'll bet he's guilty of the pranks at Moorsea, too,

  she reasoned.

  A key rattled in the door. Nancy froze. Malcolm was

  back! But why so soon?

  8. Missing!

  Nancy leaped into the closet and shut the door. In the

  dark, she flattened herself into a corner. The sleeves of

  Malcolm's coats tickled her face. Her heart hammered

  against her chest.

  She fixed her eyes in the direction of the door,

  hoping Malcolm wouldn't open it. To her frustration,

  there was no keyhole to look through—just a narrow

  space under the door through which a slender shaft of

  daylight shone.

  Heavy footsteps thumped across the floor toward

  the closet. Nancy held her breath, expecting the door

  to be yanked open at any second.