She smiled, touched by the sentiment. “We have two wonderful godchildren,” she reminded him. “And they will be home tomorrow, so I hope you have finished all your Christmas shopping.”
He patted her on the shoulder, then opened the door for her. “You know I always leave it until the last minute. After all, that’s why we have Christmas Eve, is it not?”
Cecily shook her head. “You men are incorrigible.”
“Which is precisely why you adore us. Come now, let us get to bed. You have a long day tomorrow, and something tells me it won’t be a pleasant one.”
“Indeed. Four families devastated by loss at Christmastime. How awful. I suppose there’s little hope of keeping all this from the rest of the guests.”
“Unlikely. We shall just have to reassure them as best we can.”
“The only way to do that is to find the killer.” Cecily sighed. “And every moment that feat seems to get farther out of reach.” She led the way down the hallway, deep in thought. If her theory about the killer proved correct, the best way to prevent more murders would be to advertise the fact that the Mayfair Murderer was responsible, thus leading the killer to believe his ruse had worked, and therefore there would be no need for any more deaths.
The problem with that line of thought was that everyone in the building would think a serial killer was on the loose and they could well be the next victims.
It seemed that whichever way she turned, she was doomed. Christmas Eve was tomorrow. All she could do was see that her guests had the best Christmas she could give them, and hope with all her heart that there would be no more of these ghastly murders.
“So, Gertie,” Pansy said, as she stacked the last dish on the pile in the cupboard, “where are you and Dan going tomorrow afternoon?”
Gertie took her time answering. The truth was, she wasn’t looking forward to her meeting with Dan as much as she usually did. She had the feeling that they were reaching some kind of turning point in their relationship, and she had the distinct impression that it wasn’t going to be in her favor.
She fervently hoped she was wrong, but if she wasn’t, she prayed it would happen after the New Year, just in case Dan was planning to break it off and leave her down in the dumps all over Christmas. She’d have to pretend to be happy and cheerful, so as not to spoil everything for the twins.
Sighing, she pulled the plug in the sink and watched the gray soapy water disappear down the drain. How she missed her babies. Though they weren’t babies anymore. They were growing so fast she probably wouldn’t recognize them when they got back tomorrow.
“Gertie? Are you all right?”
Hearing Pansy’s worried voice, Gertie snapped up her head. “’Course I’m all right. I was just thinking about my twins, wasn’t I. They’ll be home tomorrow night, just in time for the carol singing ceremony. They’ve always loved that.”
“Is Dan coming? Like he did last year?”
Gertie’s stomach seemed to drop at the mention of Dan’s name. “I expect he will. I haven’t asked him yet.”
Pansy got a funny look on her face. “Why not?”
Gertie shrugged. “I dunno. I just didn’t think about it until now.”
“Well, you’d better hurry up. You’ll have to ask him tomorrow when you see him.”
“Yeah, I will.” Gertie wiped her hands on a towel. “I think-” She broke off as the kitchen door flew open and Samuel rushed in, eyes wide and hair mussed. “Gawd, Samuel. What the bloody hell happened to you?”
Pansy let out a cry of dismay and rushed over to him. “Are you all right, Samuel? Are you hurt?”
Samuel shook his head and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. He started to speak, then shook his head again and sank back.
Gertie stared at him a moment longer then said sharply, “Pansy! Go and get the brandy from the pantry.”
She reached for a brandy snifter from the cupboard and set it on the table.
“What’s up then, mate? Seen a ghost or something?” Gertie asked him.
“Something,” Samuel muttered, as Pansy rushed back with the bottle.
Gertie poured a generous amount in the glass and put it in Samuel’s shaking hand.
“Mrs. Chubb will be cross you helped yourself to that,” Pansy said, watching Samuel sip at the spirits.
“It’s an emergency.” Gertie put the stopper back in the bottle. “That’s what it’s for-emergencies.”
Pansy sat down on the chair next to Samuel. “Oh, I thought it was to keep Michel from attacking everyone with a carving knife.”
Samuel choked on the brandy, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that!”
Pansy looked startled, then offended. “I was just trying to cheer you up with a joke, that’s all.”
She looked about to cry, and Samuel muttered something under his breath, then leaned forward to cover her hand with his. “Sorry, luv, but if you’d seen what I’ve seen you wouldn’t make jokes like that, I promise you.”
Pansy snatched her hand away. “Whatcha mean?”
Gertie felt cold all over. “Tell us, Samuel. Not someone else killed, is it?”
She felt for the edge of the table for support when Samuel nodded, while Pansy let out a shriek. “It’s that Mayfair Murderer! That man in room nine. I told you it was him! Why won’t anyone listen to me?”
Samuel grabbed her flailing hand and held on to it. “We don’t know that yet,” he said, sounding dreadfully tired.
“Yes we do!” Pansy tugged on his hand so hard the brandy he held in the other hand spilled in his lap. “He wrote a note about it. I gave it to madam but she didn’t do nothing about it and he’s still lurking about in his room waiting to kill anybody what walks by, I know it.”
Samuel stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
Pansy seemed beyond words so Gertie butted in. “Pansy found a note in his room and it said he was going to stab someone in the neck while they were asleep.”
Samuel’s eyes widened even more. “That’s exactly what he did,” he said, his voice hushed.
“See? See? I told you!”
Pansy’s voice had risen to a shriek again and Samuel held out his glass. “Here. You’d better take some of this.”
Gertie stepped forward. “Never mind that. Who the heck got killed?”
Pansy swallowed the brandy and coughed. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“It’s the Danvilles, poor devils,” Samuel muttered.
Pansy whimpered, while Gertie stared at him in horror. “The honeymoon couple? Both of them?”
In a tired voice, Samuel described the scene in the ballroom and in the Danvilles’ suite. “Horrible,” he said, when he was finished. “It felt like dead bodies all over the place.”
Pansy’s whimpering got louder.
“What’s madam doing about it?” Gertie demanded, feeling like crying herself. “I’ve got my twins coming home tomorrow night. I don’t want them here if there’s a madman running around stabbing people.”
Samuel squared his shoulders and stood up. “I’m sure madam will do her best to find out who did this. She’s really good at ferreting out murderers.”
“Well,” Gertie muttered, reaching for another brandy glass, “I hope she bloody well hurries up or we’ll all end up dead.” She winced as Pansy howled. “It’s all right, I didn’t mean it. I was just joking.”
“It’s no joking matter,” Samuel said, frowning. He pulled Pansy toward him and put his arm around her. “It’s all right, luv. I’ll take care of you. Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m here.”
Pansy snuggled up to him and Gertie felt a pang of envy. She and Dan had been like that once. What had happened to them? When did things start going wrong? Picking up the bottle, she poured brandy into the glass. Maybe it was time she had a real heart to heart with Dan. Tomorrow. That’s what she’d do. Maybe if she told him a lunatic was running around carving up people he’d want to take care of her, like Samuel and Pansy.
Her lips curved in a bitter smile. Fat bloody hope of that. Closing her eyes, she shot the entire glass of brandy down her throat.
CHAPTER 16
Mr. Mortimer was a man of habit. For the last three mornings, at precisely half past ten, he had left the building to take a leisurely stroll along the seafront. Cecily knew this because Philip, her sharp-eyed desk clerk, had watched the odd gentleman with great interest, and had been only too eager to share his observations.
Mr. Mortimer had returned each morning after a half hour or so. Having watched him leave through the front door a few minutes earlier, Cecily estimated that she had at least twenty minutes to search his room. She could do it in even less if she hurried.
This was probably the best time to carry out her intention, or at least make the attempt. Baxter would have a fit if he knew what she was about to do, so it was just as well he was occupied for the time being.
She would be taking a risk, of course. Then again, one accomplished very little without taking a risk or two. This was something that must be done, and could only be done by her. Squaring her shoulders she opened her door and marched purposefully down the hallway.
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.”