Mistletoe Mischief

by-nights was drawn up nearby, their crews stamping their feet and holding their hands out to a lighted brazier.

At the side of the building, below a painted name board that could be seen all along the shore, there was a two-story wrought-iron balcony that projected above the beach, from where it was possible to lean over and touch the masts and rigging of fishing boats that had been hauled close in by the capstans on the cliff. In the darkness the sea was audible if not visible, and as Greville crossed the road from the corner by the Star and Garter, the only people around were the fly-by-night men. He was briefly illuminated by the lighted lamp above the baths entrance, and then he went into the candlelit black-and-white tiled vestibule, where the walls were painted a deep masculine green and the herb-scented air was warm and humid.

A dark staircase led up to the next floor, and the only items of furniture were two Windsor chairs, a table upon which lay the open booking ledger and an array of colognes, and some fine shelves piled high with beautifully laundered white towels. The murmur of male voices drifted from upstairs, together with the splash of water and hiss of steam. Sheikh Deen Mohamed himself happened to be coming down the staircase, and recognized Greville immediately.

He paused at the bottom to put his hands together and bow, and the jeweled brooch in his turban glittered as he straightened in concern 'Why, Sir Greville sahib, I trust your call does not signify a deterioration in Miss Mortimer?' His accent was a peculiar mixture of his native Patna, and the Donegal of his Irish wife.

'No, there has not been any change,' Greville reassured him quickly.

'Nor should there be, sahib, for the laudanum should be most sedative. You should not fear for her, Sir Greville sahib, because she will soon recover.'

'I have faith in your judgment, sir,' Greville replied, removing his top hat and gloves.

'Then, may I ask why you are here? I hope you have not made a booking that has been overlooked?'

'I'm not expected, nor on this occasion do I wish to partake of your excellent facilities.'

The sheikh was puzzled. 'No? Then, how may I be of assistance?'

'I believe Mr. March and Mr. Strickland are here?'

'Oh, yes, indeed.'

Greville glanced up the staircase. 'What point have they reached in their treatment?'

'They have had vapor baths and now await in their tents for their shampooing. I am just about to take some fresh towels up to them.'

'Are you indeed? What perfect timing. And which tents might they be in? The ones at the far end, I hope?'

'That happens to be so, Sir Greville sahib, for they particularly requested the rough flannels.'

'This gets better by the moment,' Greville declared, and began to unbutton his greatcoat. 'I must insist that you allow me to shampoo them both.'

'You, sahib?' The sheikh was a little taken aback, and clearly wondered if the reason for Sir Greville Seton's unmarried state lay in his sexual preferences!

Greville smiled. 'Oh, it's nothing like that, I assure you, for no beings on this earth could be less to my liking than those two.'

The sheikh's expression changed again, this time to apprehension. 'I trust you do not mean to cause trouble, Sir Greville sahib?'

'Not anything that will reflect upon your establishment.'

'Do I have your word, sahib?'

'You do.' Greville spread his hands. 'Would I be less than truthful with you?'

The sheikh bowed. 'Oh, undoubtedly, Sir Greville sahib, but on this occasion I will trust you.'

The door opened and closed softly behind them as Rupert and Sir Jocelyn came in. Greville turned quickly, and sighed with annoyance. 'I thought I made myself clear-' he began, but Sir Jocelyn interrupted quickly.

'We didn't want to be left out, dear boy; after all we too have bones to pick with March and Strickland,' he said, placing his blanket bundle on the floor.

'Three against two is hardly cricket,' Greville pointed out, looking curiously at the bundle.

Rupert grinned. 'It will be two against two, because Sir Jocelyn is only here to umpire the proceedings.'

Greville gave in. 'Oh, all right, I don't suppose I have any real choice in the matter.'

'None whatsoever, dear fellow,' Rupert agreed, then rubbed his hands together eagerly. 'What's the plan?'

'I haven't got one,' Greville admitted. 'My only thought was to get here and get my hands on those two reptiles.'

Sir Jocelyn gave a chuckle. 'Very laudable, I'm sure, but not the answer if we wish to be able to face our womenfolk again. So, sirs, allow me to make a few suggestions.' He turned to the sheikh and pointed at the cologne bottles on the table. 'Which of those smells most like civet cat?' he inquired.

The sheikh was offended. 'Civet cat? I stock only the finest-!'

Sir Jocelyn wagged a reproving finger at him. 'Come, now, sir. As I recall, you once dowsed me from that small yellow bottle, and I stank for two days.'

'Well, I suppose that one may be a little strong,' the sheikh conceded reluctantly.

'It's foul, and therefore ideal,' Sir Jocelyn said, and pocketed the bottle. Then he looked at Greville and Rupert again. 'Thrashing March and Strickland to within an inch of their miserable lives will make you both feel good in the meantime, but our dear ladies will not like it at all. The fair sex is of an inherently tender disposition, abhorring brutish behavior, and indeed that is why we adore them. But they do like to be able to giggle at their vanquished foes.'

'Giggle?' Greville repeated in puzzlement.

Sir Jocelyn nodded. 'March suffered considerable humiliation last night, but tonight you can make him a complete laughing stock. And Strickland too. Public ridicule is an excellent weapon. So, after giving them both the most bracing shampooing they've ever had, and sprinkling them with the essence of polecat, I suggest you resort to these.' He pushed the bundle with his foot.

Greville bent to untie the blanket, and to his astonishment found that Sir Jocelyn had raided Evangeline's theater wardrobe for Malvolio's awful yellow stockings, Feste's jingling jester's hat, a pair of hose, party-colored in pink and silver and cut off at the knees, and the fearsome Henry VIII codpiece.

Sir Jocelyn chuckled again. 'Just imagine the effect these will have on the Garsingtons' soiree musicale!'

Greville began to grin. 'I think your plan is excellent, Sir Jocelyn. What do you say, Rupert?'

Rupert's eyes shone wickedly. 'I say it is a splendid notion.'

'I'm glad you think so.' Sir Jocelyn tied the bundle again and lifted it from the floor, then he turned to the sheikh. ' 'Lead on, Macduff!' ' he said.

The sheikh raised an eyebrow. 'I know my Shakespeare, Sir Jocelyn,' he corrected. 'The actual quotation is 'Lay on, Macduff.' '

'Is it, be damned? I didn't realize that,' replied Sir Jocelyn. 'Well, whatever, just do it.'

The sheikh bowed, took some towels from the shelves, and led them upstairs.

Oliver and Ralph were relaxed and unguarded, and did not sense their imminent fate. After enjoying vapor baths, they were now languishing naked in their flannel tents, which were not anything like those that might be found at an army encampment, but were bags that were tied at the throat and had inward-facing 'sleeves' into which the masseur slipped his arms in order to apply Oriental unguents. The room was very steamy indeed, with half a dozen tents, only two of which were occupied. While encased to the throat in flannel, Oliver and Ralph were very vulnerable indeed, and as bad luck would have it, their conversation had just turned to Sybil and Sophia, about whom they guffawed with laughter.

The door of the adjacent room burst open behind them, and Sigismund Garsington strode in with a towel tied around his plump middle. He was brandishing a pistol in either hand, and there was a wild expression on his round pink face. 'So you find my sisters amusing, eh?' he bellowed, and leveled the pistols at the two men, whose laughter broke off in two squeaks of terror. But they couldn't escape, for they were too well tied in.

At that moment the sheikh ushered the others in as well, and Sigismund rounded upon them, barrels at the ready. The sheikh dropped the towels with shock and scuttled out, but Sir Jocelyn was equal to the moment, and