Mister Mottley and the Dying Fall
Cozy Mystery
2nd in Series
Incorrigible Publishing (October 27, 2017)

Synopsis

The only way out is a long way down.

Edmund Mottley, Specialist in Discreet Enquiries, is in a precarious position: his old flame Susan needs his help. Her new fiance is accused of murder, and she wants Mottley to clear his name.

Mottley would rather jump off a cliff than get involved, but when Susan is threatened by a shadowy crime syndicate, Mottley leaps to her aid.

Mottley and Baker, his intrepid valet, pursue the case to an island of otherworldly beauty. But the island is haunted by secrets, treachery, madness, and … something more.

Every clue crumbles under their feet, pushing Mottley’s powers of deduction — and Baker’s loyalty — to the limit. With his own life on the line, can Mottley save Susan before time runs out?

The Mottley & Baker Mysteries are classic whodunnits set in the Golden Age of 1930’s traditional detectives. If you like Miss Marple’s pastoral puzzles or Albert Campion’s rollicking adventures, you’ll fall hard for this cozy historical mystery.

Guest Post

The only way out is a long way down.

Edmund Mottley, Specialist in Discreet Enquiries, is in a precarious position: his old flame Susan needs his help. Her new fiancé is accused of murder, and she wants Mottley to clear his name.

Mottley would rather jump off a cliff than get involved, but when Susan is threatened by a shadowy crime syndicate, Mottley leaps to her aid.

Mottley and Baker, his intrepid valet, pursue the case to an island of otherworldly beauty. But the island is haunted by secrets, treachery, madness, and … something more.

Every clue crumbles under their feet, pushing Mottley’s powers of deduction — and Baker’s loyalty — to the limit. With his own life on the line, can Mottley save Susan before time runs out?

The Mottley & Baker Mysteries are classic whodunnits set in the Golden Age of 1930’s traditional detectives. If you like Miss Marple’s pastoral puzzles or Albert Campion’s rollicking adventures, you’ll fall hard for this cozy historical mystery adventure.

Excerpt

The atmosphere in the Albion Club could never be called vivacious, but on a dark and chilly October afternoon, with a fire blazing and the lamps lit, it was positively soporific. For Edmund Mottley, Specialist in Discreet Enquiries, it was a refuge when one of his many aliases might have attracted unwelcome attention.

It was also an excellent place to catch up on missed sleep. He was just resting his sleek, caramel-coloured head on the red leather wing of his favourite armchair, the protective camouflage of The Times slipping from his fingers, when a well-known face, red and square as a child’s toy hay barn, was thrust into his own.

“Mottley!”

“Bah!” Mottley sat up. “Oh, it’s you. You might have given me apoplexy.”

“Look here, Mottley, it’s about this bounder Susan’s engaged to…”

“You’ve let your sister get engaged to a bounder?” Mottley tutted as he refolded The Times. “Very remiss of you, George. I may have to report you to the Committee.”

“Well, that’s rich!” George Parton snorted. “Your sister could be engaged to five people at once and you’d never know.”

“Of course I would,” Mottley replied. “She’d ring me just to crow about it.”

George scrubbed at his close-cropped brown hair. From the laces tied askew on his shining wingtips, to the missed patch of shaving soap behind his left ear, it was plain that the phlegmatic George was driven to distraction – or as near to it as he was likely to come.

Mottley leaned back in his chair. “But laying aside my sister (as she’s well accustomed to), tell me more about this bounder. What’s his name, for instance?”

“Kenward. Denis Kenward.”

“I hate him already. And what proof have we of his bounderism, notwithstanding his pernicious habit of becoming engaged to the fair Susan? I’m all ears, as the cornfield said to the scarecrow.”

“I do wish you’d shut up, Mottley. I mean, it’s frightfully serious.”

“Sorry, old bean, go on.”

“He’s murdered someone.”

Mottley pursed his lips. He stared at his old friend, slowly turning his head to regard him out of one eye, like a falcon contemplating a distant rabbit.  George blinked, and Mottley was gone. He shifted himself in a hurry, to follow Mottley’s rapidly-disappearing form into the dining-room.

He found Mottley perched, tailor-fashion, on the dining-room table, the newspaper crumpled beside him.

“What are you doing?” George yelped. “That’s unsanitary.”

“It’s the only room where all approaches are visible. Now, when you say murder…”

“They think he threw some cove over a cliff.”

Mottley leaned on his elbows, his chin propped on his index fingers. “Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

George pulled out a dining chair and sat. “You see, Kenward’s old man was some sort of industrial genius – invented a new kind of collar stud or what not. Made a bloody packet out of it, along with his business partner. This past spring, Dad joins the great majority and Kenward beetles about winding up the estate. Well, the wheels of the probate court grind slowly but they grind exceedingly small, and it turns out the business partner has been diddling the books. The company’s worth two pencils and an old soup tin, and there is no estate. There’s an awful row, and the business partner, name of Dismore, obligingly goes and falls over a cliff. It looks bad, Mottley – very bad.”

“Over a cliff? Kenward and Dismore? Collar studs, indeed. My dear idiot, you’re talking about Pneumatic Industrial Automation!” Mottley took up the newspaper and shook it. “It’s the biggest sinking since 1912 – they’re playing ‘Nearer my God to Thee’ at Bank junction, and Wall Street’s not safe for pedestrians.”

“Yes, well, there you are then.”

Mottley perused the front page. “I see it doesn’t name the son – what is it, Denis?”

“Oh, not in The Times. The tabloid press are using his name all right,” said George.

“Has he been arrested?”

“Not yet, more’s the pity. No body found, no inquest, no charges.”

“More’s the pity?” Mottley whistled long and low. “It’s one thing to take a scunner at the chap, but you’d see him hang?

“No, no, no.” George shifted in his chair. “Of course not. I just want Susan shot of him.”

Mottley levered himself to the edge of the table and let his legs dangle. “What is it you want me to do, exactly?”

“Well… Can’t you convince her that the sort of fellow who gets himself mixed up in this sort of thing isn’t the sort who is… our sort?”

“Do you really think Susan’s disposed to take my opinion on anything?”

A sudden recollection made George grimace. “Never mind all that. If you’d just nose about a bit, I’m sure you can find something that will put her off him. He’s a nasty bit of work. I’ve always thought so, but she just won’t see it.”

“You’re asking me to take this on?” Mottley hopped off the table. He leaned back on his hands and shook his head. “George, when I take a case, I look for the truth. Innocent or guilty.”

George stood. He set his jaw. Mottley knew too well the set of a Parton jaw was not to be trifled with.

George turned to go. Over his shoulder he remarked, “Come round for drinks tonight. Kenward will be there. You’ll see. Just try to talk some sense into Susan. She listens to you.”

Mottley muttered to his friend’s back, “News to me.”

About the Author

Ellen Seltz worked in the entertainment industry for twenty years, from Miami to New York and points in between. Her primary roles were actress and producer, but she also served as a comedy sketch writer, librettist, voice artist, propmaster, costumer, production assistant, camera operator and general dogsbody.

She turned to fiction writing in the vain hope that the performers would do as they were told. Joke’s on her.

Ellen is a native of Birmingham, Alabama, where she now lives with her husband and two daughters. She enjoys vegetable gardening and vintage-style sewing.

Website Join my mailing list and receive a free copy of Book 1, Mister Mottley Gets His Man.

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