Pursuant to that, Phyllida knew it was no secret among the servants of Listleigh how “that Mrs. Bright up to Mallowan Hall” had not only uncovered the killer who’d murdered one of their own and cleared a servant from suspicion at the same time but had also managed to concurrently run her household without being a tyrant to her staff. Since those events, she’d become something of a legend in the local downstairs community—a fact that she would now use to her advantage.

Sherlock Holmes had his cadre of informants in the form of street urchins, and Phyllida Bright had hers, garbed in aprons, caps, and livery.

Pulling Molly aside, Phyllida explained what she wanted her to do. She concluded, “Do you understand? I want to know about several different things in particular: cake, strawberry jam, walnuts, geraniums, and the bottle of bitters.” She didn’t bother to ask about the piecrust table; it was obvious who had taken it—but traces of geranium would confirm that as well. “And any other relevant bits of information—anything that seemed odd or interesting or off—in their households over the last few days.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the maid, a light of excitement in her dark eyes. “I’ll find out everything for you, Mrs. Bright.”

“Thank you,” Phyllida replied, just as she saw the Mallowans’ Daimler pull up in front of the rectory.

“Ever since you helped Elton, you know, all of us in service—why, we would do anything to help you,” Molly went on earnestly. “Not only at Mallowan Hall, Mrs. Bright,” she said. “All of us in the village. Every one of us remembers poor Rebecca, too, and how you found out the man who did her in.” Her eyes grew a little fierce here. “Lots of people wouldn’t care because she was just a kitchen maid.”

“Yes, yes, that’s very kind,” replied Phyllida, feeling a bit of a stinging in her eyes. Impatient with such emotion, she blinked it away and took her leave before Molly could say any more.

Moments later, she was climbing into the Daimler with the help of Bradford, who held the umbrella over her from rectory door to motorcar door. She was relieved that he remained silent as they wheeled down the street, rain rattling on the metal hood and roof of the vehicle.

However, when they arrived at the police station, Bradford not only covered her with the umbrella from door to door but also accompanied her all the way inside.

Phyllida resisted the urge to comment; instead, she merely ignored him.

“Mrs. Bright,” said the inspector wearily. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here about Mr. Billdop,” she said without preamble. “You’ve made a mistake, and a man’s life and livelihood are at stake. I suggest you release him posthaste before word gets out about it.”

“Of course I’m not going to release him,” replied Cork testily.