Mystery at Moorsea Manor

  Contents

  1. Too Steep to Handle

  2. An Angry Exchange

  3. A Shadow at the Window

  4. Treasure-Hunt Terror

  5. The Clue in the Quicksand

  6. Manor House Mayhem

  7. A Mysterious Sign

  8. Missing!

  9. Behind Closed Doors

  10. Disaster on the Moor

  11. A Figure in the Mist

  12. Midnight Strikes

  13. The Haunted Hallway

  14. Swept to Sea

  15. Strong Swimmers

  1. Too Steep to Handle

  George Fayne woke up with a start as her friend Nancy

  Drew slowed the car. “Are we there yet?” George

  asked hopefully. “I mean, it's been hours since we left

  Heathrow Airport.”

  Eighteen-year-old Nancy rounded a curve in the

  narrow road, then shot George a quick grin. “How

  would you know how long it's been? You've been

  sleeping the whole time.”

  George yawned, then peered impatiently out the

  window at the steep green hills rushing by. “Give me a

  break, Drew. After that marathon flight from Chicago

  to London, I'm allowed some shut-eye.” She paused,

  then added, “Anyway, it seems like this whole trip has

  taken forever. I can't wait to see Moorsea Manor.”

  Nancy smiled. “I'm eager to get there, too. From

  Aunt Eloise's description, the place sounds awesome—

  a luxury inn on a four-hundred-acre sheep farm with

  tennis courts and four-star cooking. The Petersons

  grow all their own vegetables and herbs. And the

  picture in Aunt Eloise's brochure shows a cool-looking

  gray-stone manor house on a bluff above the sea.”

  “I guess that's why the place is called Moorsea,”

  George broke in. “Because it's between the sea and the

  moors.”

  “Uh-huh,” Nancy said. “It's between the English

  Channel and Dartmoor, the largest national park in

  Devonshire. Dartmoor is supposed to have some great

  places to hike, and even though Moorsea isn't actually

  in Dartmoor, you can ride or hike to nearby moors.

  Dartmoor has kind of a creepy reputation. There are a

  ton of ghost stories about it. Lots of mysterious things

  seem to happen there.”

  George frowned skeptically. “I guess that Sherlock

  Holmes story, The Hound of the Baskervilles, did take

  place there, didn't it?” She shrugged, then continued,

  “Anyway, everyone was super impressed when I told

  them where we're staying. The man I sat next to on the

  plane told me there's a real buzz going on about Moor-

  sea in London. He said it's the cool place to weekend.”

  Nancy nodded, remembering the conversation.

  “Moorsea Manor is incredibly popular. Aunt Eloise

  made her reservation to stay there months ahead of

  time.”

  “I feel bad for your aunt Eloise,” George went on,

  sitting up straight. “She must have been so

  disappointed when she sprained her ankle and had to

  cancel at the last minute.”

  “You're not kidding,” Nancy agreed. “But she was

  glad we could take her place on short notice. And I'm

  glad, too. I'm really up for a vacation.”

  “Ditto,” George said, with a toss of her short dark

  hair. Then she flashed Nancy a knowing smile. “Let's

  hope it really is a vacation, if you know what I mean,

  Nan.”

  Nancy laughed. “I think I can guess,” she said slyly.

  Though she was still a teenager, Nancy was already an

  accomplished detective. George and Bess Marvin,

  Nancy's other best friend and George's cousin, often

  helped Nancy solve mysteries that had stumped much

  older detectives.

  “It's just that wherever you go, Nan, a mystery

  usually follows,” George added with a grin.

  Nancy's blue eyes sparkled. “I promise you, George,

  that I'll do my best this time to have a mystery-free

  vacation.”

  Rolling her eyes, George said, “Yeah, right. It's too

  bad Bess couldn't join us. She might have helped me

  keep you in line.”

  At that moment Nancy caught sight of a wide

  expanse of blue glittering in the distance. Tiny white

  patches constantly appeared, then disappeared, on the

  smooth surface. “Look, George,” she said, “there's the

  sea—with white-caps even. We might be able to take a

  boat out once we get to Moorsea. I'll bet there's a good

  wind today.”

  “Super!” George exclaimed happily. “Do you think

  they'll have other sports besides tennis and boating?”

  Nancy grinned. Typical George, she thought—

  always thinking about sports. “Let me see,” she

  answered. “Well, there's riding, hiking, croquet,

  biking—you name it. When Annabel and Hugh

  Peterson turned their manor house into an inn, they

  went all out. That's why it's got such an awesome

  reputation.”

  “What else did your aunt Eloise tell you about

  Moorsea?” George asked curiously. “Didn't you say she

  had a friend in common with the Petersons who gave

  her the low down on it?”

  “That's right,” Nancy said, gripping the steering

  wheel tightly as she negotiated another hairpin curve.

  “According to Aunt Eloise's friend, Annabel inherited

  Moorsea from her parents, Colonel and Mrs.

  Trevellyan, five years ago when they died. It has been

  in Colonel Trevellyan's family since the seventeen

  hundreds.”

  “Wow. And to think the Fayne estate has been in the

  family since the nineteen hundreds,” George quipped.

  Nancy smiled. “Some places in England have been

  owned by the same family for even longer than

  Moorsea has.” She pushed a lock of her shoulder-

  length reddish blond hair behind an ear and stole a

  quick look at George. “But Annabel almost lost

  Moorsea,” she continued. “After her parents died, she

  had to settle all the debts and inheritance taxes. She

  was really strapped for cash and couldn't pay the taxes

  on the place.”

  George let out a low whistle. “I'll bet the real estate

  taxes on four hundred acres are astronomical.”

  “I'm sure they're enormous,” Nancy replied. She

  glanced out the window at endless green hills dotted

  with rocks and high granite outcroppings. Every now

  and then patches of forest, dark and forbidding even in

  the bright afternoon sun, would flash by, nestled in

  valleys

  or

  alongside

  hills.

  Nancy

  shivered,

  remembering the tales she had heard about nearby

  Dartmoor—its ghosts—and also about the dangerous

  thieves and smugglers who had roamed the Devonshire

  coast years ago.

  A sudden bend
in the road caught Nancy by

  surprise. With a quick turn of the steering wheel, she

  managed to keep the car in control as she rounded the

  curve. “Whew,” she said, “these roads aren't easy.

  Especially since I'm not used to driving on the left-

  hand side.”

  “I keep wanting you to move over to the right, like in

  the States,” George said, “but then, of course, we'd hit

  another car.”

  Nancy smiled. “Luckily, the roads seem pretty

  empty, but I'll do my best not to hit another car,

  George, and to remember to stay on the left. Anyway,

  the Petersons loved Moorsea Manor,” she went on,

  “and they were desperate to keep it. The thought of

  her childhood home being sold off to raise taxes

  practically killed Annabel. So the Petersons came up

  with this plan—they used the rest of Annabel's

  inheritance to turn Moorsea Manor into a money-

  making luxury inn.”

  “Well, it sounds like they succeeded,” George said.

  “If it's as popular as everyone says, they must be

  making a fortune on it.”

  “I don't know about that,” Nancy said, pursing her

  lips. “I'm sure most of the money they make gets

  poured back into the inn. The Petersons raise all those

  sheep, and they even make their own cheese and

  process wool right on the farm. They've got stables,

  vegetable

  and

  flower

  gardens,

  first-class

  accommodations, and a fabulous restaurant. It must

  cost them a fortune to run.”

  “True, but I'm sure they're operating in the black or

  else they'd have lost Moorsea by now,” George

  reasoned.

  Nancy nodded in agreement, then added, “But the

  Petersons aren't running the business just for the

  money. I've heard they love being innkeepers. In fact,

  what makes Moorsea so special for visitors isn't just the

  amazing setting and the luxury. It's the Petersons as

  hosts.”

  “What's so special about them?” George asked.

  “They're supposed to be friendly and warm and also

  incredibly stylish and fun,” Nancy told her.

  “Apparently, the Petersons have this knack for making

  guests feel as if they're totally special, as if they've all

  been invited to a private house party.”

  As Nancy spoke, the narrow road, which was now

  running between two enormous privet hedges that

  blocked all views, suddenly widened into a fork. Nancy

  paused and peered at a sign up ahead that was on the

  right-hand side of the fork.

  “Hmm,” George said, squinting into the sunlight.

  “That sign says A Road, Avoiding the Ramsgate Hill.'

  But the road to the left is unmarked.”

  Nancy leaned forward. “Not totally,” she said,

  pointing to the left-hand side of the fork. “See that hole

  in the ground? It looks like there could have been a

  sign there.”

  “You're right,” George said. “I wonder what

  happened to it.”

  “Me, too,” Nancy said, then shrugged. “Well, we

  probably want the A road as it's the main road—and

  we've been on it since leaving the highway from

  London. The other road might be a B road, which are

  usually smaller and windier.”

  “I wonder what the Ramsgate Hill is,” George said.

  “Sounds like it must be something major if a sign

  mentions a way to avoid it.”

  Nancy arched an eyebrow as she stared at George.

  “That doesn't sound like you, Fayne—to be scared of a

  hill.”

  George laughed. “I'm curious to see it, actually.

  Let's see which road goes by Moorsea Manor.” After

  rummaging in the glove compartment, she took out a

  colorful brochure and quickly scanned it. “Well, the

  driveway to Moorsea Manor is definitely off the A road.

  We're supposed to turn right on it two miles after

  leaving Lower Tidwell. Obviously we should stay on

  the A road. But I wonder how much farther it is to

  Lower Tidwell? The brochure says it's about four hours

  from London.”

  Nancy glanced at her watch. “We've been on the

  road four hours. It's one o'clock now. We should be

  getting there any second.”

  “Hooray!” George said, in a tone of relief. “So what

  are we waiting for? The A road it is.”

  Nancy pressed the accelerator of the small silver-

  colored sedan, guiding it onto the right-hand fork.

  After she took the turn, the road suddenly narrowed.

  “Weird,” she commented, eyeing the high privet hedge

  that was now inches from her window. “If this is the

  main road, I'd hate to see what the other road is like.”

  “We'd have been squished, for sure,” George said.

  Twigs from the hedge scraped against her half-opened

  window, shedding tiny leaves into her lap as the car

  went by.

  The road veered sharply left. Nancy swung the

  steering wheel hard. With its wheels squealing, the car

  followed the curve.

  Nancy's eyes widened in disbelief. Before she had a

  chance to realize what was happening, she was heading

  up the steepest hill she'd ever driven on. The car

  appeared to shoot straight into the air, at what seemed

  to be a ninety-degree angle, although Nancy realized

  that would be impossible. Are we going to flip over

  backward? she wondered.

  The car skidded. Nancy caught her breath, her

  thoughts racing. If these wheels can't get traction, she

  realized, the car will slip backward—all the way down

  the long, steep hill.

  2. An Angry Exchange

  The car clung to the road. The smell of burning rubber

  from the whirring tires stung Nancy's nostrils.

  “Come on!” Nancy said, willing the car to go

  forward. She gritted her teeth and pressed the

  accelerator as far as it would go. For one sickening

  moment the engine let out a high-pitched whine, as if

  it was about to give out. Nancy glanced over at George,

  her heart in her mouth.

  George stared wordlessly at Nancy, her face sheet

  white.

  Once more, Nancy gunned the motor. The car

  lurched forward. Then, like a rocket bursting into

  space, it shot up the hill. With its wheels screaming for

  traction, it hurtled to the top, where the road

  immediately flattened out and the privet hedge

  abruptly stopped.

  Nancy blinked in amazement. They were on a

  promontory overlooking the sea, with views of the

  water for miles. Closer to them, flocks of birds dipped

  over the hillsides, their swift dark shadows racing over

  the purple gray heath.

  Nancy pulled the sedan to the side of the road.

  Taking a deep breath, she hunched over the steering

  wheel to steady her racing nerves. Then she stole a

  glance at George.

  George was looking at Nancy as if she'd seen a

  ghost. “If that sign told us to go this way to avoid the

  othe
r hill,” George said, “I'd hate to think what that

  other hill is like!” She cast a glance back over her

  shoulder.

  “There couldn't be a worse hill in the whole of

  England than the one we just went up!” Nancy

  exclaimed. She paused, then added thoughtfully, “I

  wonder if that sign was meant for the other fork.”

  George furrowed her brow. “Meant for the other

  fork?” she echoed. “But the sign was definitely on the

  right.”

  “But remember the hole in the ground on the left?”

  Nancy asked. “I wonder if the sign really belonged

  there but somehow got switched.”

  “Switched?” George said, considering. “That hill we

  went up was a monster, all right. I'll bet it was the hill

  the sign meant.”

  “Uh-huh. I just wonder whether the sign was

  switched on purpose.”

  “I don't know, Nan,” George said doubtfully. “I

  know you love to solve mysteries, but there's probably

  a simpler explanation here. Maybe a road-construction

  crew took the sign down while working and then

  replaced it at the wrong fork by mistake. Simple

  enough, huh?”

  Nancy frowned. “I don't think road-construction

  crews are that clueless, George. Their companies could

  be sued big time if someone got hurt because they

  were careless. Plus, there was a hole where the sign

  was meant to go, and a road crew would have seen that.

  I'll bet that sign was switched on purpose—maybe by

  some kid on a dare.”

  “We'll probably never know,” George said.

  Nancy shrugged. “We should at least tell the police

  about the sign once we get to Moorsea.” She pulled up

  the sleeve of her lavender shirt and checked her watch.

  “I'm really anxious to get there. It's past lunchtime

  already, and I could use one of those soothing cups of

  tea the English are so good at making.”

  “Or maybe a quick jog by the sea to take the tension

  away,” George said, as Nancy pulled the sedan back

  onto the narrow road. “One thing's for sure,” she

  added. “If that hill was the price we had to pay to get

  this awesome view, then maybe it was worth paying.”

  Nancy chuckled. “Maybe.”

  Five minutes later the girls reached a cluster of

  ancient stone houses with thatched roofs. Far below,

  the English Channel sparkled a bright blue green. The

  briny smell of the sea filled the air as Nancy drove