Cecily hesitated for a second or two, then walked over to her husband. Gently pushing the newspaper aside, she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his lips. “Whatever happened to your Christmas spirit, my love?”

“It vanished the moment I heard Northcott’s name.” He heaved such a sigh it lifted a strand of Cecily’s hair. “I only hope he is not here on police business. For some odd reason, this time of year seems to attract bad news.”

“He’s probably here, as you say, on the off chance there’s a stray mince pie or sausage roll lying about in the kitchen.”

Baxter’s frown intensified. “You will remember your promise, I trust?”

She drew back. “How could I possibly forget? You gave up a tremendously exciting career in exchange for it.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then, seemingly satisfied, raised his newspaper once more. “Well, I’m relieved that it is you who must deal with him and not me.”

“So is he, no doubt,” Cecily murmured, as she crossed the room to the door. “I’ll have Mrs. Chubb send up our midday meal, or would you prefer to eat in the dining room?”

“Too drafty,” Baxter muttered. “I vastly prefer eating here by the fire.” She was almost out of the door before he added, “With you.”

Smiling, she made her way to the staircase and hurried downstairs.

Her smile faded by the time she reached the library. A visit from the constabulary was always unsettling, and she couldn’t imagine what was so important as to bring P.C. Northcott to the Pennyfoot before his customary Christmas excursion to the country club’s kitchen.

She could only hope, to echo Baxter’s ominous words, that it wasn’t bad news.

Mrs. Chubb stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded across her ample bosom and eyebrows drawn together. Glaring at the three cowering maids in front of her, she demanded, “Whose brilliant idea was it to put clean sheets on the beds without ironing them?”