The murders actually begin long before the 12 days – they start in early December. A woman running a newsstand. A lawyer bludgeoned by an inkstand. A retail clerk suffocated by spray snow. A mother, shopping for Christmas presents, pushed in front of a subway train. A visiting football fan strangled in the park. A family, burnt up in a Christmas tree fire.

Where will it end, the local police wonder.

As do the inhabitants of a boarding house who live in the neighborhood. Was anyone safe any more?

But someone in the house is the murderer – we know that because the murderer narrates every other chapter, alternately complaining about a headache, imagining slights by the people around them, and gradually boiling over into a blinding rage.

Who could it be? The manipulative boarding house owner? Her dogs-body, a young impecunious artist? The elderly military widower? The persnickety older gentleman, who insists on celebrating Christmas, although he is Jewish? The young Canadian woman, anxiously covering up a secret with a forced smile? The middle-eastern Muslim, new to London, balancing how to fit in, while holding true to his cultural mores? The beautiful young American woman, newly engaged to a boyfriend her parents would never approve of? The beautiful older woman, so elegant, so sophisticated, perhaps harboring a pash on the military man?

Clues are sprinkled throughout the book but no-one has any idea – not the suspects who share a house; not the police, circling closer and closer each day but still so clueless; and absolutely not the reader.

There are books of Babson’s that I love.

This is not one of her best.

But, if you adore Christmas mysteries – and there are a lot out there, especially of the cozy variety – you will like this.