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,
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