Kate Kingsbury - Mistletoe and Mayhem

Standing outside the door of room nine, she glanced up and down the corridor. Having satisfied herself that she was quite alone in the hallway, she turned the handle and slid inside the room, gently closing the door behind her.

The dull skies gave her little light from the window, but she resisted the impulse to light the oil lamp. She couldn’t afford to leave any evidence of her intrusion.

A quick glance around the room assured her it was empty, and she went to work right away. The first thing she looked for was the wastebasket, which she soon found by the armchair in the corner.

Picking it up, she found it crammed with balls of paper, all with scribbling on them. Frowning, she pulled one out and smoothed out the creases, then took it over to the window. It was in the same hand as the note Pansy had found, just as hard to read and just as cryptic.

Not in the garden. Too obvious. Perhaps behind the windmill.

Heart thumping with anticipation, she crumpled the paper in her hand and set it aside, then drew out another wad of paper and smoothed it out. After reading it quickly, she squished it in her hand and reached for another. Then another, and another, until she opened one and saw a name she recognized.

Unable to believe what she’d seen, she kept opening up the paper balls, each one confirming what she now knew. Of course.

J. Mortimer. James Mortimer. How could she possibly have missed it.

She threw the last ball back in the wastebasket and set it down carefully by the chair with a hand that shook. She had to tell someone. No, she couldn’t tell anyone. Unless, perhaps, Baxter. He would keep it quiet. On tiptoe she crept to the door, peeked outside, then let herself out.

Bursting into her suite moments later, she found Baxter in his usual armchair, buried in the daily newspaper. “I have something absolutely astonishing to tell you!” she cried, causing him to drop the newspaper, which fluttered to the ground.

Leaning over, he picked up the pages and, taking his time, fitted them all together again. “And I,” he said, in the pompous voice she hated, “have something to tell you.”

Sighing, she sank on a chair. “All right, you tell me first.”

He looked at her over the top of the newspaper. “You’ll no doubt be less than surprised to know that our killer is not the Mayfair Murderer. That gentleman was caught late last night, in the act of attacking his latest victim.”

“Well, I’m very glad to hear it.” She paused, then added slowly, “It doesn’t change the fact that we still have a mass murderer on our hands.”

“Indeed it doesn’t. All the more reason to take extra precautions.” He looked at her. “What is it that you have to tell me that is so terribly fascinating?”

“Oh.” She sank back. “Well, now it isn’t quite such a startling revelation. Nevertheless…” She leaned forward again. “As you have already pointed out, Mr. Mortimer is not the Mayfair Murderer. Neither is he a serial killer. In fact, he’s not a killer at all.”

Baxter raised an eyebrow. “And I assume you know this for certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“May I ask how?”

She raised her hand in an impatient gesture. “I searched his room.”

“Oh, good Lord.” Baxter’s scowl creased his forehead. “How many times-”

“He had left for his stroll, so I knew I had plenty of time.” She dismissed his displeasure with another wave of her hand. “It was quite safe, anyway. Mr. Mortimer is not whom he appears to be.”

“I’m not surprised. Normal people don’t scribble down plans to commit murder.”

“He wasn’t planning to commit a murder.” She smiled in triumph. “Only to write about one.”

Baxter’s frown changed from disapproval to puzzlement. “Write about one?”

“Yes. Our Mr. Mortimer is an author. He is here incognito.”

Now Baxter had begun to look intrigued. “A famous author?”

“Very.”

“So who is it?”

She couldn’t resist leading him on a little. “Think about it. Where have you heard the name J. Mortimer before?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Then perhaps, James Mortimer?”

He frowned. “It does sound vaguely familiar.”

“Think about a hound.”

“A hound?” He frowned some more, then sat up. “Good Lord. You don’t mean he’s-”

“Yes, I do.” The words bubbled out in her excitement. “I should have known. J. Mortimer. James Mortimer. It’s a character in one of his books. His name appears on the first page of The Hound of the Baskervilles .”

Baxter’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you telling me he’s that chap who writes in the Strand about that detective fellow… ah… what is his name?”

“Sherlock Holmes! Yes! Mr. Mortimer is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle! I found all sorts of notes in his room, with names and incidents I recognized. He must be working on another book.” She clasped her hands to her bosom. “My favorite author. We actually have him staying here at the Pennyfoot. I simply must have his autograph.”

Baxter made a choking sound. “Wait just a moment. If he’s here under an assumed name, it’s quite obvious he doesn’t want people to know who he is, which explains the hat over the face and the hiding in his room. He won’t thank you for gushing all over him, asking for his autograph and such.”

“Gushing?” Cecily folded her arms and gave her husband a hard stare. “I do not gush. I shall simply wait for an opportune moment when we are quite alone and quietly murmur my request. I, of all people, respect the privacy of our guests. You should know that.”

Obviously chastened, Baxter nodded. “I do, my dear, I most certainly do. I was merely concerned for the gentleman’s privacy and spoke without thinking.”

Mollified by his attempt to placate her, Cecily relaxed. “The only problem is that now we can rule out our esteemed guest as a murder suspect, I have to look for another suspect.”

Baxter frowned. “But what about the handkerchief? You said you found it outside the Danvilles’ suite. If it does belong to Mortimer, or Doyle, whichever it is, what the devil was it doing there?”

“The suite is on the same floor as Sir Arthur’s room. He probably dropped it while passing by the room.” Cecily gave him another triumphant smile. “I think I know why he’s carrying it around. He recently lost his wife, which is most likely why he is here in Badgers End for Christmas. He is getting away from the memories, which can be so awfully painful this time of year. I think the handkerchief belonged to his wife, and he’s carrying it to keep her with him.” Her smile faded. “In which case, he’s probably devastated by its loss.”

Baxter’s frowned deepened. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. If Mortimer is actually Doyle, why would the initials be R.M.?”

It took a moment or two for his words to sink in. Then she let out an explosive sigh of disgust. “Of course, how thoroughly stupid of me. It wouldn’t be, of course. I was so caught up in the romance of it all I completely ignored that point.” She picked up the handkerchief and studied the embroidery. “Which means I have to find out to whom this handkerchief belongs. It’s back to square one.”

A sharp tap on the door brought up her head. She hastily tucked the handkerchief in her sleeve as Baxter got up to answer the summons.

She heard Pansy’s voice in the hallway and relaxed her tense muscles. She had half expected a hysterical outburst announcing yet another death.

Baxter closed the door and returned to his chair. “Mrs. Prestwick is here and waiting for you in the library.”

“Oh, good heavens. I completely forgot Madeline was bringing fresh greens this morning. This dreadful business is completely muddling my head.” Cecily rose and hurried to the door. “Madeline will be joining us for the midday meal, so we’ll meet you in the dining room.” She waited just long enough for his nod of agreement, then darted out the door and down the hallway.