“No, dear. It’s not one of the guests. I’m afraid it’s Ian Rossiter.”

Baxter’s eyes widened. “That scoundrel? What on earth was he doing here? What happened to him?”

“Apparently he fell into the duck pond and drowned.”

Baxter pinched his lips. “Are you pulling my leg, because if so-”

“No, dear. I wouldn’t joke about a dreadful tragedy such as this.”

“The duck pond is less than two feet deep.”

“Yes, dear, I am aware of that. Clive says the dead man smelled of spirits. He must have been drinking and fainted or something. It appears that he hit his head when he fell into the pond.”

“Good Lord. Poor blighter. What in heaven’s name was he doing out by the duck pond?” Baxter shook his head. “For that matter, what was he doing here at the Pennyfoot? Did you know he was down here? I thought he was in London.”

“Precisely the impression I had, as well.”

“Have you sent for Prestwick and that fool policeman? I suppose we shall have to put up with his inept bungling as usual.”

“Yes, I’ve sent for both Dr. Prestwick and P.C. Northcott.” Cecily got up from her chair and rounded the desk to her husband’s side. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she leaned over to murmur in his ear. “Do try to be civil to them both, Bax, dear. It is the season of good cheer, after all.”

Baxter grunted. “Prestwick I can take, in small doses. That idiot constable, however, is another matter. I can’t imagine how he keeps his job. Surely Inspector Cranshaw can see Northcott for the worthless twit he is?”

Cecily shuddered, as she always did at the mention of the inspector’s name. The detestable man had sworn to close down the Pennyfoot years ago, when he suspected her of illegally running card rooms.

He had never been able to prove their existence, thanks to the well-hidden area beneath the floorboards of the wine cellar, and now that the Pennyfoot was a country club, her license allowed her to run the card games within the law.