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.”
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.
Reaching the library, she found Madeline busily fastening miniature candlesticks on the Christmas tree among the green and gold glass balls and red heart-shaped sachets.
Upon seeing the tiny candles, Cecily’s heart skipped a beat. “What are you doing?”
Madeline turned with a guilty smile. “It just didn’t look right without the candles. Don’t worry, Cecily dear, we won’t light them.”
Cecily took a deep breath. “I certainly hope not.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s the baby?”
“Over there.” Madeline nodded at the deep armchair facing the French doors. “She’s sleeping, so I thought I’d leave her there while I run into the ballroom and change over the greens. The ones I put in there a few days ago are looking extremely dried up. That’s the problem with them being out of water. I wish there were some way to keep them watered while they are hanging on the wall.”
“I’ll keep watch over Angelina.” Cecily glanced at the tree again. “I’ll put the rest of the candles on while you’re in the ballroom.”
Madeline smiled. “That’s a very good idea. It will help you overcome that awful phobia you have.” Her smile faded. “I don’t suppose you found out who killed that lovely honeymoon couple?”
Cecily shook her head. “P.C. Northcott was convinced it was the Mayfair Murderer, but he’s been caught now, so I don’t know if the constable will decide to continue the investigation or wait for Inspector Cranshaw.”
Madeline studied her face. “You’re not going to pursue it yourself?”
“I don’t know that I can.” Cecily picked up a candlestick and fastened it to the branch with unsteady fingers. “I have an idea who it might be but there doesn’t seem to be any way to prove it.” She frowned. “Yet that little voice that always tells me I know more than I think I do is starting to make a noise in my head. I need to concentrate on what I know. Perhaps I can think of something useful.”
“Excellent idea.” Madeline picked up the huge basket crammed with holly, cedar, and fir. “Meanwhile I’ll get these greens hung up in the ballroom.” She flipped her hand in farewell and disappeared through the door.
Sighing, Cecily picked up another candlestick. Somewhere in all the muddle in her head lay the answer. She was sure of that now. All she had to do was go back to the beginning, and try to remember everything that had happened, and all she had learned.
Hopefully, something would jump out at her and she could go from there.
Deep in concentration, she fastened the candlesticks one by one, her mind focused on her conversations with Mick Docker and Stan Whittle. Barry Collins had said that he couldn’t remember seeing Mick Docker for a while the night Ellie died. She needed to talk to Mr. Docker one more time. Stan Whittle, too, since he had left the pub well before closing time.
Samuel said he heard Mick Docker arguing with Ellie that night. It was possible, however, that Samuel had mistaken Stan’s Scottish accent for Mr. Docker’s Irish accent. Then again, how had either one of them been able to get into the Pennyfoot to kill the Danvilles, and why?
Unless her theory was right about wanting to make it look like the work of the Mayfair Murderer. After all, everyone was at the pantomime that night. In that case, it wouldn’t have been quite so difficult to enter and leave the building without being seen.
Hearing a slight sound behind her, Cecily turned her head. Thinking Angelina was waking up, she waited to see if the child would cry. She could hear no further sound, however, and turned back to fasten the last candlestick.
What if it wasn’t either Mick Docker or Stan Whittle? She had concentrated so much on those two, she really hadn’t considered anyone else. Who else would have wanted to kill Ellie? That’s what she needed to know, for that’s where it had all started. Find the motive behind that murder and she’d find the clues to the rest. She was sure of it.
For some reason, the handkerchief she’d found kept popping into her head. She reached into her sleeve and drew it out again. It was a very pretty handkerchief, edged in fine French lace, with the initials embroidered with a deep purple silk thread.
She raised it to her nose to see if she could detect a fragrance and was rewarded with the smell of rosewater. She was about to unfold the handkerchief, when the door opened and Madeline floated into the room, her floral frock swirling around her bare ankles.
At the same time Cecily felt a distinct draft-more like a blast of cold air. She glanced over at the French doors and was stunned to see them standing open.
Madeline came to a halt, her gaze fixed on the armchair. For a moment she looked like a statue, her face white and set in stone. Then, in a strangled voice Cecily hardly recognized, she spoke one word. “Angelina.”
With a harsh cry of disbelief, Cecily rushed across the floor to the armchair. The baby’s fluffy pink blanket lay on the seat, with a little pink bonnet lying on top of it. A wave of nausea made Cecily clutch her stomach.
Inconceivable as it seemed, Angelina had disappeared.
Pansy had just begun to lay the tables for the midday meal when Gertie rushed into the dining room, hair flying out from under her lopsided cap. “Quick,” she said, breathless and panting, “go and find Samuel.” She held out a pink baby’s bonnet, the ribbons dangling almost to the floor. “Give him this and tell him to shove it under his dog’s nose.”
Pansy frowned. Gertie was always playing tricks on her, but this was really stupid, even for her. “What for?”
“Ms. Pengrath… I mean Mrs. Prestwick’s baby. It’s been stolen!”
Still unsure if this was a joke, Pansy shook her head. “Go on with you.”
“Pansy, it’s true. The baby’s gone and madam wants Samuel to look for her. She said the dog might help if it smells the bonnet.”
Staring into Gertie’s face, Pansy thought she saw tears glistening in her eyes. Gertie never cried. Not even when her husband died. Her heart beginning to pound, Pansy took the bonnet. “All right, I’ll find him.” She started for the door, then paused. “What about the tables?”
Gertie threw a hand up in the air. “Never mind the flipping tables, just go! Everybody’s going out to search for the baby. I have to find Clive and tell him. Come on!” She rushed past Pansy and flew down the hallway faster than Pansy had ever seen her move.
Picking up her skirts, Pansy raced after her. No one was in the foyer when they ran across it, and they both burst out onto the steps together. Gertie went one way, toward the rose garden, while Pansy ran as fast as she could to the stables.
Samuel was cleaning one of the motorcars when she dashed inside. He looked up in surprise as she skidded to a halt. She was so out of breath she couldn’t get out the words, and she gulped air into her lungs as she shoved the bonnet into his hand.
He looked down at it as if he expected it to bite him. “What’s this?”
“It’s Mrs. Prestwick’s baby’s bonnet.” Still gasping for breath, Pansy held on to her side. “Someone stole her. Madam wants you to give it to Tess so she can find the baby.”
Samuel looked from the bonnet to her and back again. “Give it to Tess?”
Pansy puffed out her breath. “You know, make her smell it so she can follow the scent.”
“Oh!” Samuel nodded. “But if someone is carrying the baby, how can Tess follow the scent?”
Pansy felt like crying. “I don’t know! Just try it. That poor little baby is missing and heaven knows where she is and we have to f-find her…” She didn’t realize she was crying until tears started rolling down her cheeks.
Samuel dropped the rag he was holding and put his arm about her shoulders. “Hold on, hold on. Oh, God, don’t tell me the killer has that little baby. This is real then?”
“Yes, of course it’s real!” Pansy sniffed and lowered her voice. “Gertie said everyone is out looking for the poor little thing. Oh, we have to find her, Samuel. Where is Tess?”
Samuel dropped his arm, turned his head, and uttered a shrill whistle. From somewhere outside a rough bark answered him, and a moment later the dog came bounding into the stable.
“Here, girl. Good dog. Come here.” Samuel held out his hand and Tess eagerly bounced toward him. He held out the bonnet, and she sniffed, then looked up at him, tail wagging, waiting for further orders.
Samuel looked at Pansy and shrugged. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Pansy wiped her nose on her sleeve. “It has to work. Show it to her again.”
Samuel bent over and held the bonnet to the end of Tess’s nose. “Here, find her, girl. Find the baby, Tess. Let’s go and find her.”
Excited now, Tess barked and ran out into the yard.
“Come on!” Samuel grabbed Pansy’s hand and tugged her almost off her feet. “We have to follow her.”
Pansy held back. “I can’t go! I have tables to lay.”
“What’s more important? Laying tables or finding a lost child?” He tugged again. “Come on. Four eyes are better than two. Don’t you want to find that little baby?”
Pansy hesitated another second or two, but then Tess barked again, more urgent this time. Putting the tables out of her mind, she followed Samuel out into the chilly air.