Behind Riddlesdale Lodge the moor stretched starkly away and upward. The heather was brown and wet, and the little streams had no colour in them. It was six o’clock, but there was no sunset. Only a paleness had moved behind the thick sky from east to west all day. Lord Peter, tramping back after a long and fruitless search for tidings of the man with the motor-cycle, voiced the dull suffering of his gregarious spirit. ‘I wish old Parker was here,’ he muttered, and squelched down a sheep-track. He was making, not directly for the Lodge, but for a farmhouse about two and a half miles distant from it, known as Grider’s Hole.
A country house, a murder, a missing motorcycle, a moor, and a solitary farm house.
What could possible go wrong?
Well, if literary precedent is anything to go by, we should brace ourselves for either(show spoiler)
I am not sure which one is scarier. ;)