Baxter eyed her over the top of the newspaper. “Is it bad news?”

“Not directly, though it is disturbing.”

Baxter sighed, and lowered the newspaper. “Very well, we might as well get it over with.”

Somewhat wary, she related her conversation with P.C. Northcott.

Baxter said nothing until she was finished talking. Then he shook the newspaper, raised it in front of his face, and murmured, “Well, I’m thankful you remembered your promise.”

She wasn’t sure why, but his indifference stung. “It wasn’t easy.”

He lowered the newspaper again. “Nor was it easy to refuse a position that would have been not only financially rewarding but immensely stimulating.”

“Yes, I suppose-”

“To be charged with the installation and launching of hotels in various locations abroad was the most exciting opportunity I have ever been offered.”

“Yes, dear, I do understand-”

“Only your obvious reluctance to accompany me on the venture could have persuaded me to turn it down.”

Frowning, she muttered, “I am not questioning your sacrifice in order to please me. This is, however, the very first time Sam Northcott has openly asked for my help, and only dire circumstances would have prompted him to do so. I felt honored that he considered me capable of the task.”

Obviously sensing an argument brewing, Baxter folded the newspaper and laid it on the arm of the chair. “Apart from the fact that the constable is anxious to visit his relatives for Christmas as usual, what is it about the case that so desperately requires your help?”

Cecily pursed her lips and stared at the smoldering coals in the fireplace. “I think he’s afraid that we have a serial killer in the village, since both Jimmy Taylor and Thomas Willow were apparently killed by the same person.”

“If you remember, you thought we had a serial killer in the Pennyfoot last year. It turned out he was killing people simply to throw you off the scent.”