Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up Read Free

fire broke out downstairs in the servants’ hall. The fire was quickly doused, but the appalling odor spread through the house until it was unbearable. He shook his head, angered and amazed by how rapidly paraffin could stink up a place this size.
    Another wave of sick rage swept him, and he smacked his fist against the desktop. He’d wanted to see the look on all their faces when he produced his treasure. But his stupid wife had insisted the odor was so bad that everyone had to go, and though they’d been polite, the guests had fled the premises faster than rats deserting a sinking ship.
    Someone was going to pay for spoiling his big moment. God almighty, he’d only invited them for tea so he could flaunt it. He grimaced and balled his hands into fists. Elena was going to pay as well. This was all her fault. If she and Leon had kept their mouths shut and pretended not to notice the odor, he’d be reveling in his triumph right now.
    He glanced up at the swords mounted over the top of the double doors. Good gracious, the bottom one was gone. Alarmed, he shot out from behind the desk and stared at the display. He concentrated on the order of the swords, trying to recall exactly which one had been in that spot.
    The Katana was still there with the Chinese Won dynasty sword just below it and the Mongolian . . . Oh my Lord, the Hwando was gone.
    “I see that you’ve noticed I’ve borrowed one of your swords,” a quiet voice said from behind him.
    McCourt whirled about, his eyes widening in disbelief just as the blade of his missing sword slashed into his neck. He grabbed at his wound as blood spurted from the severed artery on his left side. The blade came down again, this time on his right. He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a weak croak. The room began to go dim, and he sank to his knees.
    “Don’t bother shouting for help. Everyone is outside,” the voice continued. “But it’ll be over soon, and you won’t suffer unduly. I’m not a monster, you know.”
    McCourt blinked hard, trying to keep the face of his killer in focus, but it was impossible. His eyelids closed, and he slumped to the floor.
    It didn’t take Daniel McCourt’s killer very long to finish what had to be done. Then he dropped the bloody sword beside McCourt’s dead body and calmly strolled out of the house.
     
    The middle-aged couple stood in front of the toy store on Oxford Street and stared at the display of dolls in the window. The woman was an attractive blonde of medium height with a slim figure, blue eyes, and a sweet smile. She wore an elegant double-breasted winter cloak in dark green with a rolled fur collar. The man wore a black overcoat and bowler. He had wispy brown hair, a mustache, pale skin, and deep-set eyes. A pair of spectacles had slipped down his rather long nose.
    Lady Ruth Cannonberry looked at Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and said, “Don’t you think she might be a bit young for a doll? She’s not even three months old.”
    The inspector frowned as he shoved his spectacles back up to their proper position. “But she’s very advanced for her age; she already recognizes me. She smiles and makes the most wonderful little cooing noises every time I take her upon my lap. Besides, it’s such a pretty doll. I do want her to have it.”
    Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth as she was known to the Witherspoon household, didn’t want to spoil his delight in buying a present for his godchild. “You’re right, Gerald. It is a lovely doll, and she should have it.”
    Witherspoon glanced at her. “You don’t think I’m being silly, do you?” he asked. Ruth Cannonberry was his neighbor and his very good friend. Her opinion of him mattered greatly, and he didn’t wish to appear ridiculous in her eyes.
    “Of course not!” she exclaimed. She reached out a gloved hand and patted his arm. “Amanda is your godchild, and it is only natural that you’d want to get her