join them. Unlike the merry atmosphere that had
bubbled among the guests after dinner the previous
evening, a gloom hung over the group. Each guest took
a seat in silence. Mrs. Macmillan-Brown's forehead was
creased with worry, and even the normally cheerful
Ashley was glum. Georgina Trevor seemed even more
distracted than usual, pouring water into her already
filled glass and taking no notice of the puddle that
quickly formed below it.
Everyone started as Nigel spoke. “I wonder what
will befall the next unlucky guest, and who he or she
will be,” he remarked.
“Must you ruin my dinner by indulging in such
morbid speculation?” Mr. Macmillan-Brown said
irritably.
“I beg your pardon,” Nigel said. “But that is the
question on everyone's mind, isn't it?”
Hugh appeared through the pantry door to serve the
appetizer. As everyone began eating, occasional
murmurs of delight filled the room.
“It's lucky for the Petersons their food's so
delicious,” Malcolm said, eyeing his food happily.
“Good food makes up for a multitude of sins,” Nigel
pronounced as he leaned toward the girls' table. “I'm
delighted to say that my dinner seems to be exactly
what the menu advertised.”
Once Nigel turned back to his meal, Nancy's eyes
darted toward Malcolm. She quickly cast about in her
mind for a tactful way to question him about the road
sign. After learning that he had first arrived at Moorsea
Manor only an hour before she and George had, Nancy
asked, “Did you have any trouble driving into Lower
Tidwell on your way here, by any chance?”
Malcolm's blue eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” Nancy said innocently, “it's just that when
George and I approached the village, the sign for the B
road was missing and the A road sign was in the wrong
place.”
Malcolm blanched. “It was?” he croaked.
“Yes. You don't remember that?” Nancy asked.
“No,” he whispered. “You must have been seeing
things. I'm glad you're getting yourselves a holiday
here—I'd say you both need a rest.”
“We weren't seeing things, Malcolm,” Nancy
declared. “That sign could have caused a really bad
accident. George and I nearly rolled backward down
the hill.”
“Is that the honest truth?” Malcolm asked George
suspiciously.
George nodded reluctantly.
Malcolm dropped his gaze, staring down at his half-
eaten food as if he wished it would go away.
Nancy sat back in her chair and studied Malcolm as
he nervously picked up his fork. There was one thing
she was sure of: no one had framed him. He must have
taken that road sign, she concluded, or else he wouldn't
be acting so guilty.
After dinner Malcolm slipped upstairs, pleading a
headache, while the other guests went into the living
room. Georgina propped a book open on her lap and
peered at it, birdlike, through tiny wire-rimmed
reading glasses. The elder Macmillan-Browns and
Nigel settled around the jigsaw puzzle, quarreling from
time to time about where certain pieces fit. George,
Nancy, and Ashley sat down to play hearts, but Nancy
had a hard time focusing on her cards. Who could have
taken Maisie? she wondered, glancing outside at the
fog. I hope she's at least somewhere safe and warm on
this damp, creepy night.
Sunlight streamed across Nancy's bed, waking her
early the next morning. She sat forward as George
stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a terrycloth
robe, toweling her short wet hair.
“The fog's completely gone,” George commented,
“so Malcolm and I can play tennis. What's up with you
today, Nan?”
Last night before bed, Nancy had briefly told her
about the note on Maisie's collar. “I'm worried about
Maisie,” she said, “so I want to talk to Annabel about
her, just in case she knows something I didn't learn last
night. Then I'd like to question the Singh brothers—
the developers Annabel told me about—and maybe
look around for clues in their office, like a sheet of
Moorsea stationery for Maisie's note or something
about the treasure hunt. I was hoping you'd come with
me, George—I might need help.”
George smiled. “Sure, I'll come. Malcolm and I can
always play tennis later. But would the Singhs be in
their office on a Saturday?”
“Annabel told me they were realtors as well as
developers,” Nancy said. “And since they're in the
business of showing people houses to buy or rent, I'll
bet they work on Saturday.”
As soon as Nancy had showered and dressed, she
and George headed downstairs to breakfast. Malcolm
had entered the dining room a step ahead of them.
“Hi, Malcolm,” George said. “Are you up for some
tennis later today?”
Malcolm's face fell when he saw the girls. “Oh . . .
sure—but later,” he mumbled. Then before George
could answer, he sidled away from her and sat down
between Nigel and Ashley at the far end of the main
table.
The two girls sat down at the side table. “He's
avoiding us,” Nancy whispered.
“You're telling me,” George said, her dark eyes
flashing with annoyance.
“Maybe because we asked him about that sign,”
Nancy said. “He's obviously uncomfortable about it—
like a guilty person would be.”
“Yeah,” George agreed in a defeated tone. Then she
dug into her eggs in a brooding silence.
After breakfast, Nancy and George found Annabel
in her office, looking pale and unhappy but determined
to perform her duties as hostess of Moorsea Manor.
After questioning her gently about Maisie's
disappearance, the girls assured her they'd do
everything they could to find Maisie, expose the
culprit, and bring life at Moorsea Manor back to
normal.
Annabel bit her lip and added, “That dog has known
nothing but love all her life. I hate to think of her being
at the mercy of someone who doesn't care about her—
who might even mistreat her.”
Nancy told Annabel they were going to check out
the Singhs that morning. “Maybe we'll have a
breakthrough and find Maisie,” Nancy said hopefully,
although privately she felt the chances of that
happening at the Singhs' offices were very slim.
Fifteen minutes later, Nancy and George stepped
out of their car in Lower Tidwell in front of the single,
modern low-rise office building.
“Yuck,” George commented as her eyes scanned the
building. “This building could be in any American mall.
It's hideous.”
“That's for sure,” Nancy said.
Inside the building, Nancy and George asked the
receptionist whether the Singh
brothers were around.
“Yes,” she answered, putting down her novel with a
put-upon expression. “May I tell them who you are?”
Nancy and George introduced themselves and said
they were interested in buying a house in the area.
“Really?” the receptionist asked, with a toss of her
bleached blond hair. Then in a bored tone, she called
Devendra Singh over her telephone intercom.
Several minutes later, a tall slim man in a white
turban appeared. He wore a dark business suit with a
bright green necktie.
After introducing himself, he led the girls down a
corridor past several closed doors—offices, Nancy
guessed. Entering a large corner office with a desk free
of clutter, Nancy and George were introduced to
another man who was the spitting image of Devendra,
except that he wore a red necktie instead of a green
one.
“This is my brother, Rajiv,” Devendra explained as
they all shook hands.
“Dev and I are experts on real estate in different
parts of the county,” Rajiv said, squaring his shoulders
proudly, “so if you girls tell us exactly where you'd like
to look for a house, one of us will surely be able to help
you.”
“Actually,” Nancy began, “my father, who's in the
States, has been on the lookout for a large property to
buy in England. George and I have been staying at
Moorsea, and we heard a rumor that it might be for
sale. If that's true, my dad might be interested in
considering it.” Nancy was fudging to see the brothers'
reaction, but only a hint of surprise showed in Rajiv's
eyes.
“That's odd,” Devendra said. “I haven't heard of any
such rumor. How about you, Raj?”
“No, and I must say I don't believe it,” Rajiv
answered. Turning toward Nancy and George, he
explained, “Dev and I have approached the owners
several times about buying the place, and each time
they've firmly refused. If they do decide to sell, I
believe they'd approach us first—they know we'd give
them the best deal. We've made them a couple of
extremely tempting offers already.”
“Did you hear that rumor from another guest at
Moorsea?” Devendra asked. “Or from someone in
town?”
“Oh, from another guest,” Nancy said vaguely.
“Someone has been playing these strange pranks at
Moorsea lately, and I heard that the Petersons might
be fed up with the responsibility of running an inn.”
“Pranks?” Devendra asked. His eyes flickered for an
moment, as if he knew more than he was saying, Nancy
thought. “Like what kind?”
“The Petersons' dog is missing, for one thing,”
George offered.
Rajiv studied the girls shrewdly for a moment, then
said, “If you're so interested in the place, why not ask
the Petersons about it directly? Why come to us?”
“Because if the rumor isn't true, they might be upset
by it,” Nancy explained. “Some people think that the
prankster is harassing the Petersons so they'll lose
business and be forced to sell.”
“Ridiculous!” Devendra exclaimed.
“No one would harass the Petersons just to get
Moorsea Manor,” Devendra said scornfully. “That
sounds like a Dartmoor ghost story—amusing to hear,
but totally unfounded.”
Nancy leaned forward on the desk, doing her best to
scan it without seeming obvious. But other than a
blotter, a notepad, and a quill pen, the desk was clear.
Nancy sighed. There's no way I'll be able to search the
desk drawers with these guys watching, she thought.
Better to try to sneak in some time when they're not
here.
Nancy and George thanked the Singhs for their
information. As the brothers led them back down the
corridor toward the receptionist's desk, Nancy heard a
noise coming from behind a closed door. It sounded
like a dog whimpering. But what would a dog be doing
in someone's office?
A sudden sharp yap made Nancy jump. Maisie? she
wondered. Curious, she turned the doorknob.
10. Disaster on the Moor
Nancy opened the door, and a furry golden blur
streaked past her. A golden retriever, Nancy saw.
Catching up to the brothers, the dog leaped on them,
whining excitedly.
The Singhs whirled around. “Why did you let Doone
out?” Rajiv asked Nancy, his eyebrows drawing
together in a single black line. “He's a total disruption
to our office unless he's confined.”
“You two have no business opening a closed door in
our office,” Devendra snapped. “I'm caring for my
wife's dog today, and I don't want him to get all riled
up. He's a nuisance as it is.”
“I'm so sorry,” Nancy said, trying her best to come
up with an excuse on the spur of the moment. “I . . .
heard a dog in there. It sounded like he wanted to
come out.”
“It's not your business to let him out,” Devendra
said, glaring at her. His dark eyes narrowed with
suspicion. “You thought Doone might be the Petersons'
dog.”
“No, I didn't, I promise,” Nancy insisted. “It's just
that I like dogs and he was whining. I should have
asked your permission first.”
“You certainly should have,” Devendra said coldly.
“We'll escort you to your car now, if you don't mind.”
Once outside, Nancy and George made a bee-line
for their car. As Nancy was putting her key in the
ignition, the brothers circled the car, one at Nancy's
window and one at George's. Leaning against Nancy's
door, Rajiv glared down at her. “We don't take kindly
to being suspected of a crime, young lady. Never set
foot on this property again or we'll call the police.” He
held his fist to her window, shaking it threateningly.
On their way back to Moorsea Manor, George put
her hand to her forehead as if nursing a headache.
“Whew, those guys were something,” she exclaimed.
“They kind of flew off the handle in a major way. And
just because you let their dog out.”
Nancy frowned. “They guessed we were there under
false pretenses, and they were right. Still, I'm
convinced they're hiding something.”
“How can you tell?” George asked.
“Well, when we mentioned the pranks, Devendra's
expression changed for a moment. It was as if he knew
about them already and was worried we might find out.
I was disappointed about one thing, though,” Nancy
added. “Those guys are too neat. There were no papers
on their desk except for a notepad. Any clues would
have been hidden away in the desk.”
“And they sure weren't going to let you go through
it,” George said dryly. “I was racking my brain for a way
to get them out of there for a minute, but I couldn't
think of any excuse.”
&n
bsp; “Impossible. Those guys were guarding that office as
if they were hoarding treasure in it.” Nancy pulled the
car into Moorsea's long drive. “By the way, George,
how would you like to take a picnic lunch and ride out
to the moors to look for Maisie?”
“Ride?” George said, perking up. “You mean, as in
horses?”
“That's right,” Nancy said with a grin. “The
Petersons have those horses for guests to ride. Since
Maisie doesn't seem to be inside the house or in any of
the barns, my bet is she's off the property. The moors
are huge, and Annabel said there are some high jagged
rocks on them called tors. Someone could be hiding
her in a cave in the tors.” Nancy paused, then added,
“Also, I'd like to check out Billy Tremain's house on
the moor.”
Once George and Nancy arrived at the house, they
quickly changed into jodhpurs and boots. Then they
headed downstairs to Annabel's office to tell her their
plans. After giving the girls exact directions to Billy's
cottage, Annabel warned them to stay on the path.
“Otherwise, the moors can be dangerous,” she
explained. “There are marshes and peat bogs that look
exactly like solid ground—as George knows only too
well. In fact, some people walked onto the moors and
were never heard from again. And don't forget, even
though it's a beautiful day now, fog can roll in without
warning. And then you've really got to watch your
step.”
“What do we do if that happens?” George asked,
glancing uneasily out the front window at the sparkling
sunshine.
“Just stay where you are and wait for it to lift,”
Annabel said. “If you continue, you could easily lose
sight of the path in the fog. And the horses are happy
to stay still. They're smart animals, and they sense
when there's danger.”
“Could you do me a favor when I'm gone?” Nancy
asked.
“Of course,” Annabel said. “I'll do anything to help
you find Maisie and solve this mischief.”
Nancy smiled. “Could you, or the maid, bring me
the small message pad that's in Malcolm's room? You
know, the one with Moorsea Manor printed on it that
comes with the room? I want to check the top sheet for
indentations that the pen might have made in case he
wrote Maisie's note.”
“I'll take care of that straightaway,” Annabel
promised. “I hope you girls have a productive ride—