“I see.” Actually, to be precise, she didn’t see. It wasn’t like Sam Northcott to come and inform her when a crime had been committed. He usually did his best to keep such things from her, wary of the inspector finding out about her “constant interference in police business,” as he called it.

The fact that her “interference” invariably ended with her solving the case and therefore enhancing Northcott’s reputation with the inspector seemed to escape the constable, though he was always grudgingly grateful for her efforts.

The only reason she could think of as to why Sam Northcott was telling her about Jimmy was that his death somehow affected her, though she couldn’t imagine why.

“I didn’t know Jimmy all that well,” she said, feeling her way. “I barely spoke to him. I’m dreadfully sorry to hear of his death, of course. His family must be devastated.”

“They are, m’m. Devastated.”

She waited through another long pause, wondering where all this was leading.

“Ah… that’s not all, m’m.”

Now she was becoming more than a little uneasy. “Then tell me, Sam. Why are you here? Why are you telling me about this dreadful incident?”

“There’s been another murder, m’m. Up there on Putney Downs.”

Her fingers clenched in her lap. “Go on.”

“A passerby found him, lying on the path. Frozen stiff, he was. It were Thomas Willow, the shoemaker.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve never met the man. I believe Baxter might have known him, but why-”

“He were whipped to death, Mrs. Baxter.”

Shocked anew, her voice rose. “Whipped? Who would do such a thing?”

“There again, we don’t know who did it. We do know,’owever, that he was killed with Jimmy Taylor’s whip.”