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
Mystery at Moorsea Manor Page 1