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—