The door opened, and a pert face beneath a white lace cap peeked in. “Begging your pardon, m’m, Mr. Baxter, but I have a message for you.”

Cecily beckoned to the young girl. “Come in, Pansy. You are not disturbing anything.”

“Yes, m’m.” The maid ventured into the room with a wary eye on Baxter. “It’s Police Constable Northcott, m’m. He’s in the library, and he’s asked to see you.”

At the mention of the constable’s name, Baxter emitted a low growl of disgust. “That numbskull can find numerous excuses to hang around this establishment at Christmastime. No doubt he is here solely to sample Michel’s cooking and Mrs. Chubb’s baking.”

“Well, he’s a little early for that.” Cecily glanced at the calendar hanging over the marble mantelpiece. “Mrs. Chubb won’t be making mince pies for at least another day or so.” She smiled at Pansy, who had retreated at Baxter’s grousing. “Did the constable say why he needed to speak to me?”

“No, m’m. He did say, though, that it was a matter of the utmost importance.”

Baxter’s scornful snort sent her back another two or three paces.

Cecily frowned at her husband before addressing the maid once more. “Thank you, Pansy. Please tell P.C. Northcott that I will be there in a short while.”

She waited until the door had closed behind the maid before saying, “Really, Hugh, do you have to instill the fear of death in the members of our staff?”

The only time she ever used her husband’s first name was when she was displeased with him, and he reacted at once by stiffening his back. “Is it my fault the maids have such a feeble disposition that they cringe at every word?”

“They don’t cringe when I speak to them.”

Baxter abandoned protocol and sat down. Picking up his newspaper, he shook it open with more force than necessary. “Then perhaps you should keep them out of my presence.”