“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.”
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.”