Mystery at Moorsea Manor Read online

  A sudden loud vrooming sound tore through the air.

  Nancy jumped. A vacuum cleaner! She realized with

  relief that the maid must be there to clean Malcolm's

  room.

  With her ear to the door, she listened to the maid's

  movements outside. After a while the vacuum cleaner

  stopped, and Nancy heard the sound of running water

  on the other side of the closet wall. The maid must be

  in the bathroom, she reasoned—now is my chance!

  She cracked open the door and cautiously peeked

  out. No one was there. Casting a look behind her, she

  caught sight of a woman in a neat blue dress vigorously

  mopping the bathroom floor.

  Nancy's sneakers made no noise as she sprang across

  the bedroom and slipped through Malcolm's door.

  Seconds later she was at the bottom of the front stairs,

  pausing to catch her breath in the empty hall.

  A man's hearty laugh blew in with the air from an

  open window. Then the front door flew open. George

  and Malcolm burst inside, their cheeks flushed from

  tennis.

  “Nancy!” Malcolm said, his eyes sparkling. “Why

  didn't you warn me about your friend here? She

  belongs with the pros at Wimbledon—not trouncing

  innocent lads like me.”

  Nancy's thoughts shifted to the road sign in

  Malcolm's closet. Innocent? she wondered. Well, we'll

  see about that.

  George smiled at Malcolm. “I'll bet you were off

  your game today, Malcolm. If you hadn't double-

  faulted, I'd have been creamed for sure.”

  Malcolm's dimples deepened. “Shall we play again

  tomorrow, George? I'll have no self-respect if I don't

  try to save face.”

  “Done,” George agreed, slapping Malcolm five. As

  Malcolm headed upstairs to change, Nancy tugged on

  George's arm and said, “It's already twelve-thirty,

  George. Do you want to drive into Lower Tidwell to

  get some lunch? I know they've got a buffet here on

  the front lawn, but I'd like to fill you in on some things

  I've discovered.”

  George nodded in understanding. “Sure thing, Nan.

  Just let me catch a quick shower.”

  Twenty minutes later Nancy and George were

  munching cucumber sandwiches and scones with

  clotted Devonshire cream and raspberry jam, and

  washing it all down with tea at the Marigold in the

  center of town. Lace curtains framed the windows of

  the cozy room, and vases of yellow marigolds decorated

  the tables.

  Nancy placed a spoonful of clotted cream on a

  scone, then covered it with jam. “This is a real

  Devonshire specialty—clotted cream,” she declared. “I

  know we should be eating a heartier meal at lunch, but

  I couldn't resist ordering a typical Devonshire tea. I

  mean, we might not have the chance later on today if

  the case heats up.

  George grinned. “I'm just glad the waiter agreed to

  serve it to us now. Mmm—delicious,” she added,

  eyeing Nancy's scone, “like having whipped cream on

  your scone instead of butter.”

  “That's why the English call this a cream tea.' ”

  After finishing her scone, Nancy filled George in on

  the details of the case so far. George frowned. “I don't

  know, Nancy,” she said, putting down her cucumber

  sandwich to speak. “I don't blame you for being

  suspicious of Billy Tremain, but Malcolm? He's a really

  nice guy, and I think it's unfair to suspect him of these

  pranks. I mean, what could his motive be?”

  “Maybe we just don't know his motive yet,” Nancy

  pointed out. “But that sign in Malcolm's closet is proof

  enough for me that he likes to play practical jokes—

  even if we haven't found any clues that he did the stuff

  at Moorsea.”

  George frowned, and then shrugged it off. “Maybe

  the real person is trying to frame him,” she remarked.

  “Frame him?” Nancy said doubtfully. “By putting a

  road sign in a closet that no one would be likely to

  find? I don't know about that, George.”

  “Have you told Annabel and Hugh about the sign

  yet?” George asked.

  “No. I don't want to stir things up, and they might

  want to call the police. The person might get scared

  away before we can find more proof.”

  The girls finished their meal in silence. On their way

  back to Moorsea Manor, Nancy said, “I'd like to spend

  the afternoon hunting for evidence in Billy Tremain's

  farmhouse. Are you game for a walk across the moors?”

  George brightened. “Sure am,” she replied.

  As Nancy and George stepped out of their car at the

  inn, wisps of fog were curling up from the sea cliff at

  the edge of the lawn. “It looks like the afternoon might

  get foggy,” Nancy commented.

  “Let's check over that edge to see if the fog is

  coming in thick,” George suggested. “Because if it is,

  we probably shouldn't go out on the moor. I've heard

  you can lose the path and step into a bog—there are a

  bunch of them around.”

  “And I'll bet that's not an experience you'd like to

  repeat,” Nancy remarked dryly, smiling at George.

  The girls jogged to the end of the lawn. At the

  bottom of the thirty-foot cliff was the beach. Wooden

  steps zigzagged down the rocky incline to the white

  sands below, where some rowboats were pushed up on

  shore. A long dock jutted out into the sea.

  Standing at the top of the cliff, Nancy could see a

  dark bank of fog rolling in. The pungent smell of moist

  salt air surrounded her. She shivered, rubbing her bare

  arms.

  “Looks bad,” George said.

  Nancy nodded, chewing her lip. Maybe it would

  make sense for her and George to spend the afternoon

  at the inn questioning some of the staff. Someone

  might have noticed a person prowling around the inn—

  or some other detail that would provide the case with a

  much needed clue.

  Nancy told George her thoughts. Then the girls

  separated, George to question the outdoor help—the

  shepherd and his helpers, the gardeners, and the

  shopkeepers at Wool Gathering and the Bakery—and

  Nancy to interview the household staff.

  Promptly at six the guests at Moorsea Manor were

  assembled for drinks before dinner around a roaring

  fire in the living room. Mementos of the sea, from

  unusual shells and driftwood on the mantle to oil

  paintings of smugglers hiding their loot in seaside

  caves, decorated the room.

  With a ginger ale in one hand and some cheese on a

  cracker in the other, Nancy shivered in her short

  peach-colored sundress. Stepping close to the fire, she

  said, “I didn't quite plan for these chilly English

  nights.”

  “Neither did I,” George said, glancing down ruefully

  at her sleeveless red shift.

  Nancy took a sip of her soda, then asked, “But tell

  me, how was your afternoon on the case?”


  “Frustrating,” George answered with a shrug. “No

  one I talked to noticed anything suspicious going on at

  the inn during the last few days.”

  “Same here,” Nancy said, her eyes searching the

  room. The other guests seemed edgy. Some were

  chatting nervously in low tones; others were standing

  alone, fidgeting with drinks or hors d'oeuvres. They all

  looked as if they expected something horrible to

  happen at any minute.

  Nigel Neathersfield strolled by, handing out menus.

  “Peggy, one of the cooks, just gave these to me to

  distribute,” he explained to Nancy and George. He

  studied the menu. “I say, ladies, the chow looks great

  tonight—sheep's-milk cheese wrapped in grape leaves

  as an appetizer, organic baby greens from the kitchen

  garden for the salad, lamb chops with fresh mint from

  the herb garden, and chocolate soufflé with ginger-

  flavored whipped cream for dessert.” He shot the girls

  a confidential look and added, “Though I'm half-

  expecting a bomb to explode in my soufflé.” He

  chuckled wryly as he moved away.

  Nancy peered at the menu, delighted at the

  delicious dinner it promised.

  “Well, if it isn't my two favorite girls!” a flirtatious

  voice murmured over her shoulder.

  Nancy wheeled around. Malcolm Bruce, wearing a

  jacket and tie, was smiling broadly at her and George, a

  glass of soda in his hand. “I feel much better,” he went

  on with a sly wink at George, “now that I've had the

  afternoon to recover from our game. It's a shame the

  fog came in—I would have suggested a boat ride this

  afternoon.”

  “A boat ride? No, no, no!” said a tremulous voice at

  Nancy's elbow. Turning, she saw a demure Georgina

  Trevor in a ruffly knee-length dress patterned with

  pink and orange flowers. Georgina's reddish gray hair

  fell in wispy ringlets around her face as she shook her

  head gravely.

  “Boats have been lost at sea in a fog like this one,”

  Georgina went on. “You must never, never go outside

  in the fog—at sea or on land.”

  “I hear the moor can be treacherous in a fog on

  account of the quagmires,” Malcolm remarked.

  “Well, the quagmires—and the ghosts,” Georgina

  pronounced.

  “Excuse me?” George said.

  Georgina dropped her gaze under the others'

  surprised stares. “Yes, the ghosts,” she repeated

  nonchalantly. “Would you like me to tell you a ghost

  story about Dartmoor?”

  Nancy glanced at the fog swirling outside the

  window. A line of fir trees screening the side of the

  house loomed through the mist like giant shadows

  laying siege. Otherwise, she could see nothing.

  “Dartmoor seems like a perfect setting for ghost

  stories,” Nancy commented to Georgina.

  “Maybe too perfect,” Malcolm said with an anxious

  chuckle.

  “Dartmoor abounds with ghost stories—and

  rightfully so because ghosts adore it,” Georgina

  declared. “Moorsea Manor may not lie within

  Dartmoor, yet the atmosphere of the nearby moors

  reaches out to us. Let me tell you a true story. A friend

  of mine, when she was a little girl, lived in a nearby

  town. One foggy night she woke up, unable to sleep.

  She had a horrible feeling that all was not well.

  Suddenly a piteous whining sound filled the room. To

  her amazement, a lovely, sweet-looking terrier was

  sitting at the foot of her bed, whimpering as if its heart

  would break. She reached forward to cuddle it, but it

  disappeared the moment she touched it—”

  “Pardon me,” a man's voice broke in. Mr.

  Macmillan-Brown shuffled up between Nancy and

  George. “Has anyone seen either Peterson or his wife

  lately?” he asked. He reached inside his vest pocket to

  check a pocket watch. “Usually they're here in the

  living room before six to greet guests and pour drinks.

  We've had to fend for ourselves getting drinks tonight,

  which is very annoying. Now it's almost time for

  dinner, and there's still no sign of them. Quite frankly,

  I'm getting hungry.” He puffed up his chest and

  frowned.

  Nancy felt a prickle of unease. Come to think of it,

  she hadn't seen the Petersons all afternoon—not since

  Hugh had stormed off to confront Billy Tremain. She

  hoped he and Annabel were both okay.

  At that moment Hugh burst into the room,

  interrupting her thoughts. Glancing anxiously from

  guest to guest, he announced, “Sorry for the delay,

  ladies and gentlemen, but Annabel and I have a bit of a

  crisis on our hands. Our dog, Maisie, seems to be

  missing. Annabel and I have been frantic. But we plan

  to have dinner ready for you before too long.” He

  paused, then added, “Needless to say, if any of you has

  seen Maisie this afternoon or evening, please let us

  know immediately.”

  Hugh disappeared into the front hall, and a shocked

  hush descended on the guests. After a few seconds

  everyone began to talk in low, nervous tones.

  “The plot thickens,” Mr. Macmillan-Brown

  proclaimed in a voice of doom. Nancy didn't wait to

  hear any more. Without drawing attention to herself,

  she slipped out of the room.

  Nancy crossed through the dining room and headed

  toward a swinging door that lead to the kitchen. The

  dining room table and a small side table were already

  set with white linen tablecloths, gleaming silverware,

  and crystal. A fire flickered gaily in the fireplace. A

  stag's head with antlers stuck out from the wall above

  the mantle. Its startled-looking eyes surveyed the

  empty room.

  Nancy's platform sandals clicked on the hardwood

  floor as she entered a large butler's pantry, where

  Hugh was garnishing the first-course plates with sprigs

  of fresh parsley. His fingers trembled as he worked,

  and Nancy could tell he was very upset.

  “I wanted to ask you more details about Maisie,” she

  began. “When did you notice she was missing?”

  “This afternoon. Annabel and I are beside ourselves.

  We love that dog.” He shot her an anxious look. “I want

  to show you something, Nancy.”

  He slid open the door of a dumbwaiter nearby and

  handed Nancy a brown leather dog collar. “It's

  Maisie's,” he explained. “I found it earlier on her dog

  bed in the kitchen, and I stashed it in the dumbwaiter

  for safekeeping. None of the kitchen help has the

  slightest idea who put it on her bed.”

  It wasn't the collar that caught Nancy's attention—it

  was the note attached to it by a piece of string, written

  in block letters. “Begone from Moorsea Manor,” she

  read, “if you ever want to see your stupid mutt again.”

  9. Behind Closed Doors

  Nancy examined the note, which was written on

  Moorsea Manor stationery. Begone? s
he mused. Give

  me a break. I mean, how many people in this century

  talk that way?

  She met Hugh's anguished gaze. “I didn't tell the

  other guests this,” he said, “but Annabel's upstairs in

  bed. She's too upset to oversee dinner tonight, so

  Peggy is handling the meal. Annabel wouldn't want

  anyone to think she's shirking her duties, though, so

  please don't tell the other guests.”

  “I won't,” Nancy said. Her stomach churned as she

  thought of Maisie being kidnapped by someone.

  “Please, Hugh,” she went on, “tell me everything you

  can remember about where and when you last saw

  Maisie. You noticed she was missing this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Annabel last remembers seeing Maisie after

  the treasure hunt when everyone was gathered in the

  front hall describing their accidents. But she can't

  remember seeing her after you spoke with us about

  Billy Tremain being in the barn. Oh, and by the way,

  Nancy, I couldn't find Billy after I left you and Annabel

  so rudely.” He flashed her an apologetic half-smile.

  “I don't blame you for hurrying away to look for

  him,” Nancy said. “Billy was trespassing. And if he is

  guilty of the pranks, that means he has Maisie with him

  now.” Fingering Maisie's collar, Nancy asked, “Exactly

  when did you find this?”

  “About five o'clock,” Hugh answered. “Long after

  we first realized she was missing, which was shortly

  after I returned from scouting for Billy. It's very

  unusual that Maisie would be gone even for an hour—

  she's a real homebody, she doesn't roam.”

  Nancy cast her mind back over the events of the day.

  After interviewing the staff, she had taken a long walk

  on the beach and then headed upstairs to dress for

  dinner. She hadn't noticed anything suspicious at all.

  “So you and Annabel called Maisie for a while?” she

  asked.

  “Yes, we called her and looked everywhere we could

  think of—the barn, the shops, the beach, everywhere.

  And then we found the note and collar.” Hugh was

  almost pleading with Nancy. “What on earth is going

  on?”

  “I don't know,” Nancy said. “But I promise I'll get to

  the bottom of this. And I promise to find Maisie.”

  Nancy stared down at the note. “Would it be okay if I

  keep this? I'd like to investigate it later.”

  At dinner Nancy and George invited Malcolm to