down narrow lanes bordered by rose-covered stone
walls.
“This must be the outskirts of Lower Tidwell,”
Nancy remarked. As she spoke, they passed a post
office, a pub called the Wily Fox, a bookstore, a
grocer's, and a single modern building.
“Outskirts—no way,” George countered. “This is
Lower Tidwell. Or should I say was?”
Through her rearview mirror, Nancy could see the
village quickly receding. She smiled. “Then let's get
back on the A road. We just have another two miles to
go.”
A few minutes later a paved driveway appeared on
their right. Nancy slowed and turned into the open
wrought-iron gates. Carved into the walls on both sides
of the drive were the words Moorsea Manor.
“Well, it's about time,” George said.
Nancy smiled to herself. Despite George's wry tone,
Nancy noticed that her friend was sitting forward in
her seat, her brown eyes sparkling with eager curiosity.
“Look, Nan,” George said excitedly, as if reading
Nancy's thoughts. “The grounds are like something out
of a movie. They're so grand— and we haven't even
seen the house yet.”
The long driveway curved through a parklike area of
majestic old trees scattered over wide lawns. Meadows
dotted with sheep opened on the right. Soon, two large
stone buildings appeared. Behind them, another field
filled with sheep rose into a wooded hill.
“Those must be the barns,” Nancy commented.
“The big one is probably for the sheep. I'll bet the
small one's for the horses.”
Next to the barns were a complex of greenhouses,
vegetable gardens, and a couple of small stone
buildings with signs saying Bakery and Wool
Gathering.
“Didn't the brochure say that the estate sells its own
bread and cakes to the public?” George asked. “And
also woolen handknits like sweaters and scarves? Well,
those must be the shops.”
“This place is like some sort of feudal village,” Nancy
commented. “It has everything. Now all we need is the
manor house.” Just as she spoke, a tennis court came
into view. On the other side of it was a stone wall with
a high arched entrance through which Nancy caught
glimpses of brightly colored flowers—the garden, she
guessed.
George brightened at the sight of the tennis court.
“I've seen everything except a baseball diamond,” she
remarked.
“Baseball's way too American for Moorsea Manor,”
Nancy said. “But I wouldn't rule out cricket.”
Several moments later a large stone house rose up
behind a row of tall pine trees. With its splashes of ivy
around windows and balconies, it seemed to be full of
history, as if it had sheltered many families throughout
the centuries and planned to give shelter to many
more. Climbing roses crept up beside all the lower
windows. The tiny leaded panes of the old windows
sparkled in the afternoon sun as the girls drove closer.
“Wow,” George said. “It's beautiful. And even
though it's big, it looks like it could be cozy on a long
winter evening.”
Nancy grinned as the soft late-summer breeze blew
through the car. “Well, I'm glad we won't have to test
that theory on this vacation.”
Nancy pulled the car up in front of the house. A
short flight of marble steps led up to a large oak door
with an elegant fan window above it. She turned off the
ignition, relieved that the long trip was finally over.
Just then the oak door burst open. A tall, gray-haired
man in his sixties wearing a perfectly pressed suit
stormed out of the house. His pale blue eyes were slits
of fury as he stared into the distance. His lips were
drawn together in a tight angry line.
Before Nancy and George could move, a pretty
young woman with long red hair followed him out the
door. Dressed in white slacks and a hot pink sleeveless
blouse, she tilted her face toward him with a puzzled,
anxious frown.
The man whirled around, facing her. “A likely story,
insulted in my life. I'm leaving this hovel, and the
sooner the better!”
3. A Shadow at the Window
Nancy and George exchanged glances.
“Nancy!” the man shouted in a bossy tone. “Come
here this instant!”
Nancy started, shooting a puzzled gaze toward him.
Before she had a chance to make sense of the situation,
a stout older woman bustled out of the house, followed
by a young, dark-haired man carrying two suitcases.
“Ah, there you are, Nancy, dear,” the man said,
patting the woman on the back of her starched white
blouse as if she were a child. “Let's not linger. The
fewer words we exchange with these wretched people,
the better.”
“But, darling, I want to make sure I've got
everything,” the woman said. Her hands fluttered
around her head in an agitated gesture. “My hat! I
must have left it upstairs.”
At that moment a large English sheepdog bounded
out of the house. Clenched in its jaws was a large straw
sun hat trimmed with fake flowers.
“Maisie!” the red-haired woman said in a horrified
tone. “Drop it!”
The dog eyed the woman from under its mop of
hair. Then it shook its head hard, wrestling the hat to
the ground and ignoring the order.
“My brand-new hat!” the older woman exclaimed,
wringing her hands. “Put it down, you miserable
creature!”
In one deft move, the red-haired woman pried the
hat from the dog's jaws and handed it to the older
woman. “I'm so sorry—” she began.
“Hmmph! I can assure you that that's the least of the
insults we've endured,” the man spat out. His wife
stared in distress at the shredded brim of her hat as if
she wasn't so sure.
“Come along, Nancy dear,” the man went on, “and
you, too, Peterson. You can take our belongings to the
car.” He cast a withering glance over his shoulder at
the dark-haired man who was hefting the suitcases
down the front stairs. “There's simply nothing more we
need to discuss here.”
The older man and his wife descended the stairs and
headed toward a small parking area at the side of the
house. The younger man rolled his eyes at the red-
haired woman before trudging along obligingly behind
the older couple.
“Whew,” George muttered. “Well, here we are.”
“I wonder why that man's so mad,” Nancy said,
unstrapping her seat belt.
George shrugged. “I don't know, but I sure am glad
he's leaving.”
Nancy opened her door and stepped outside into the
soft afternoon air. The smell of roses wafted gently on
the breeze.
Nancy and George walked toward the red-haired
woman. Preoccupied, the woman held the dog's collar,
frowning into the distance.
“Settle down, Maisie,” she whispered as the dog
whined and strained to follow the others. “Don't fret.
Those nasty people will leave in a minute, and we
won't have to see them ever again.”
Nancy cleared her throat, and the woman raised her
head abruptly. Without any warning, the dog jumped
toward Nancy, paws outstretched. Like a dancing bear,
it waddled upright on its hind legs for a moment,
panting eagerly.
“Maisie!” the woman cried, clinging desperately to
the dog's collar. “Down!”
“That's okay,” Nancy said. As soon as the dog sat,
Nancy reached down to pat her. “I love dogs.”
“So do I,” George echoed. “And what a cutie. Her
name is Maisie?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, this is Maisie—she's only
ten months old, but almost full grown and bursting
with energy, as you can see.” Then, as if taking in the
girls for the first time, the woman squared her
shoulders, smiled, and extended her hand. “And I'm
Annabel Peterson. You must be Nancy Drew and
George Fayne.”
After shaking hands with the girls, Annabel went on,
“I'm so sorry you had to witness that little scene. We
must have seemed horribly rude not rushing to
welcome you the moment you arrived. What an awful
introduction to Moorsea Manor.” She gave them a
charming smile. “Usually, Hugh and I manage a bit
better than that.”
Judging by the tiny lines across her forehead, Nancy
guessed that Annabel was about thirty. A simple black
band secured her long red hair, which swept elegantly
down her back, and her large hazel eyes shone out at
the girls from under thick lashes. A dusting of freckles
covered her ski-jump nose, giving her a youthful air.
Nancy smiled. “You don't have to apologize. That
man would make anyone feel uneasy. I thought he
seemed kind of—” She paused, searching for the
perfect word to describe the man's unsettling anger.
“Wacko,” George cut in. “Pardon me for being so
blunt, but that guy was really off his rocker. Who was
he, anyway?”
“His name is Lord Calvert,” Annabel replied. She
shook her head as if trying to banish him from her
mind, then forced a grin. “Here, let me help you with
your bags,” she offered cheerfully. “You girls must be
positively exhausted.”
Nancy suddenly wasn't tired. She was feeling too
curious about Lord Calvert's strange behavior to let the
subject drop.
“Oh, thanks,” Nancy said, responding to Annabel.
“But first, please tell us more about Lord Calvert, if
you don't mind. Why was he so mad?”
Annabel drew in a deep breath. “Well, I hate to
color your arrival at Moorsea by telling you an
unpleasant story,” she began. “But if you insist . . .” Her
eyebrows drew together in a troubled frown as she
went on. “As you no doubt noticed, Lord Calvert is a
rather pompous old man. He's a long-standing member
of Parliament, and he never, ever lets you forget it.”
She paused, flashing the girls a wry half-smile. “At
least, he didn't let me forget it during the very brief
time he was here.”
“He's a member of Parliament?” George asked.
“Yes, in the House of Lords,” Annabel explained.
“Parliamentary members vote on various issues
affecting our country, similar to the way your Congress
operates. There are a few differences, though. One big
difference is that a lord inherits his seat in Parliament.
In the United States, of course, senators and
congressmen are elected, as are our members of the
House of Commons.”
“So Lord Calvert thinks he's a big shot?” George
prompted.
“That's putting it mildly,” Annabel replied. “He can
do no wrong, while others can do no right.”
“You say he was here only briefly?” Nancy asked.
“What happened in such a short time to make him fly
off the handle like that?”
At that moment Maisie, who had been sitting
obediently beside Annabel, shot down the stairs, letting
out a series of eager, high-pitched barks. Turning,
Nancy saw the young, dark-haired man who had
helped Lord and Lady Calvert with their bags. He
leaned down, tousling the puppy's mop of white hair
that hung over her sharp black eyes.
Joining Annabel, he said, “Hello, darling. That was a
pleasant little incident, wasn't it?” He gave a wry
chuckle, then fixed his blue-eyed gaze on Nancy and
George.
Annabel immediately introduced them to her
husband, Hugh Peterson.
“Take my advice,” Hugh said to Nancy and George,
“and pretend you had amnesia from the time you drove
into Moorsea until this moment. That way, your first
impression of the place will be a good one.” He gave
his wife a fond smile, then hopped down the stairs to
the car and popped open the trunk. Within seconds he
had disappeared into the house, carrying Nancy's and
George's suitcases.
“Please go on with your story, Annabel,” Nancy
urged. “You were just about to tell us why Lord Calvert
was so mad.”
Annabel arched an eyebrow. “It was such a little
thing—but also very odd. As I was saying, he and his
wife had just arrived, planning to stay the weekend,
and Hugh and I had just shown them up to their room.
It's our nicest room—large and airy, with a fantastic
view of the sea. Of course, we thought they'd love it.
And they did, until”—she paused, and her expression
clouded over—“until Lord Calvert looked at his
bureau. He nearly had a heart attack.”
“But . . . why?” Nancy asked.
Annabel shook her head, puzzled. “I don't know how
it got there, but right on top of his bureau was a large
framed photograph of Tobias Jacobs. He's Lord
Calvert's longtime parliamentary rival.”
“His rival?” George echoed.
Annabel nodded grimly. “Jacobs and Calvert have
been feuding for years on almost every political issue.
At this point, they hardly speak. Lord Calvert was
convinced that Hugh and I had placed that photo on
his bureau as a practical joke because we secretly
share”—she paused for a moment, then said—“how
did he put it? Because we secretly share the same
ridiculous political ideas as that hothead Jacobs.' ”
“He can't be serious,” Nancy said. “Why would you
want to play a joke on one of your guests?”
“Of course, we wouldn't,” Annabel said. “But Lord
Calvert was so mad he couldn't think straight. That
photograph had the same effect on him as the color red
has on a bull. He completely lost his temper.�
��
“Whew. I'll say,” Nancy agreed. “You'd think
Moorsea's great reputation would have counted for
something with him.”
Annabel shrugged. “Apparently not. But he's such
an egomaniac, maybe it's just as well he's gone. Though
I hate to sound unwelcoming toward my guests.”
“Well, I won't be losing any sleep over the old coot,”
Hugh said flatly as he emerged from the house.
“Not when we've got more pressing worries,”
Annabel said. Then furrowing her brow, she mused,
“For instance, since we didn't put the picture on his
bureau, who did?”
Nancy thought for a moment. Was someone out to
annoy Lord Calvert in particular? she wondered. Or
was the person who put the photo on the bureau really
trying to upset the Petersons? Turning to Annabel, she
asked, “Have there been any other strange things
happening around Moorsea Manor lately? Has any
other guest complained about anything?”
Annabel and Hugh exchanged thoughtful glances.
Annabel frowned, then looked back at Nancy. Just as
she was about to answer the question, a dark-colored
object shot down from above. Missing Nancy's head by
an inch, it crashed onto the marble stairs.
Everyone jumped. The object skidded to a halt by
Annabel.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then
Annabel bent down to pick it up. Wide-eyed, she
turned it around in her hands. Nancy could see the
object was a bronze horse, about six inches high. The
sheen had worn off its surface, and several small dark
splotches shone through. It's definitely an antique,
Nancy thought.
“My paperweight,” Annabel murmured, frowning in
confusion. “My father brought it back from India when
he was a young man. I keep it on my desk.”
Nancy looked up at the second-story window
directly above them. A dark shadow quickly retreated
from view.
4. Treasure-Hunt Terror
Nancy sprang into action. With the others on her heels
and Maisie barking, Nancy flung open the main door
and ran into the house. A wide curving staircase with a
polished dark-wood banister rose up from the marble
foyer. In five quick bounds, Nancy reached the
staircase and sprinted up to the second floor.
At the top of the stairs, a large bay window opened
out from the upstairs hall. A cushioned window seat