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to gather her thoughts. “Has the constable been informed?”
    “I believe the butcher sent for him.”
    “The poor man was hanged, you said?”
    “Not exactly, madam.”
    Cecily gave him a meaningful look.
    Baxter clasped his hands behind his back and added stiffly, “His throat was cut. I wasn’t sure you would care to hear the details.”
    “No doubt I shall hear them all in due course,” Cecily said dryly.
    “I do believe Police Constable Northcott intends to question Samuel more thoroughly here at the hotel after he has finished his investigation at the shop.” Baxter’s tone suggested that the procedure would be a complete waste of time.
    Cecily knew that her manager’s adverse opinion of the constable was due largely to the fact that many years ago Stan Northcott had stolen away Baxter’s only true love. Even so, she was inclined to agree with his low estimation of the policeman’s capabilities.
    P.C. Northcott was, at best, a pretentious boor who lived in awe of his superior, Inspector Cranshaw. The vast majority of the constable’s actions and decisions were aimed at pleasing the inspector, rather than performing his job with any degree of proficiency.
    “I would like a word with the constable after he has talked to Samuel.” Cecily leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “When is this ever going to end, Baxter? It seems we get over one crisis, only to be faced with another. I don’t suppose you know who might have committed the murder, or why?”
    Baxter’s gray eyes softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, madam. Can I get you anything? A pot of tea, perhaps?”
    She smiled at him, feeling a sudden warmth. “Thank you, Baxter, but I’ll wait awhile. I haven’t long had breakfast.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “As a matter of fact, though, I would adore one of your little cigars.”
    “I would prefer to bring you the pot of tea.” Nevertheless, he reached in his top coat pocket and pulled out the slim package of cigars.
    Cecily allowed him to light the end for her, and drew in the welcome fragrance. She enjoyed watching the smoke curl in front of her and found it most relaxing. “I suppose all we can hope for in this instance is that the constable solves this murder as quickly as possible. With all the festivities planned for this weekend, we do not need to be disrupted by a murder investigation.”
    “It is really not all that surprising,” Baxter said, retreating to his position at the end of the table. “I have heard tales of some nasty brawls taking place at the George and Dragon. Apparently the Scots do not care too much for our British government. They still resent being ruled by an English king. Their attitude tends to incite the local farmers.”
    “Yes, I’m sure it does.” Cecily gazed moodily at the glowing end of her cigar. “Why can’t people get along, Baxter? The world is in such turmoil. Even the New Women’s Movement is becoming more violent in their protests, though I can’t say I blame them. I would have thought Churchill might have been willing to help their cause, now that he has a new wife.”
    “Mr. Churchill has stated that he will not lift a finger to help as long as the protesters physically attack the politicians.”
    “So I have heard.” Cecily glanced up at the portrait of her late husband, which hung above the fireplace. James had been dead three years now. There were times when she found it difficult to remember his face. The fact no longer unsettled her the way it used to.
    Had it not been for James’s untimely death, she would not have inherited the Pennyfoot Hotel. Even with all the trials and tribulations of struggling to maintain quality service, and despite the enormous debts James had left, Cecily adored her life and would not have it any other way. Except, perhaps, for one or two exceptions.
    “Then there’s all this talk of potential war between England and Germany,” she added, tapping the ash from her cigar into the