Sam shook his head in bewilderment. “But, Mrs. B., you’ve always jumped in before. Sometimes, or most of the time, you’ve done it despite the fact that I’ve asked you not to h’interfere. Now I’m asking you to help me with the sanction of the constabulary, albeit without the knowledge of the inspector. I don’t understand.”

She would have liked to enlighten him, but to admit to Sam Northcott that her hands were tied by a promise to her husband was utterly unthinkable. “I’m so sorry, Sam. If you come across any clues, I might be able to help you untangle them, but as far as questioning people and actively investigating, I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

The constable’s movements were slow and deliberate as he got to his feet, straightened his tunic, and reached for his helmet. “I’m sorry I inconvenienced you, m’m. I’ll be off now.”

Cecily followed him to the door, still murmuring apologies. “Perhaps you’d care to stop by the kitchen?” she offered, as an attempt to make up for disappointing him. “I’m sure Mrs. Chubb will be able to find something delicious for you.”

He wavered, obviously torn between making a dignified exit and savoring some of Mrs. Chubb’s mouthwatering baking. The baking won, and with a nod of thanks, he hurried off to the kitchen.

Cecily sat for some time after he’d left, gazing into the flickering flames from the coals. Once more violence had struck in the village. Fortunately, at least this time it hadn’t happened inside the walls of the Pennyfoot. Yet.

She had to wonder what would happen if someone else died by another’s hand and under her roof. How could she possibly stay out of it then?

Worse, how could she possibly break such a significant promise to her husband? He had given up so much so that she could stay in her beloved Pennyfoot. He would never forgive her if she betrayed him this time. All she could hope was that the killer had achieved his evil purpose and left the village. For if he still lingered there, she could envision all kinds of trouble ahead.