Bradford obviously found it all quite amusing, for his lips were twitching when she turned to him. “Well,” she said, “don’t you want to know as well?”

“I’m not investigating the case,” he replied. “I’m just the driver.”

She pursed her lips and made no immediate reply. How would she get that information? “It’s not necessary, I suppose,” she replied. “We already know there was nicotine in the bitters— there’s no other explanation for such a strong tobacco smell—and Cork did let slip that there was arsenic in the cake. In the jam and in the frosting. Quite ingenious, really, and yet it broadens the realm of suspects—as I indicated to the inspector, the vicar wasn’t about to bake his own cake and add poison to it—nor was Mrs. Rollingbroke or Mr. Genevan.”

“Or Dr. Bhatt,” said Bradford. “Unless their housekeepers or cooks made it for them.”

“Correct,” she said. “But I would like to know whether Father Tooley expired from arsenic or nicotine.”

“It was arsenic,” Bradford replied as he opened the door for her to precede him out onto the street.

She stepped outside. The rain had stopped, and the fresh, damp air also held a tinge of floral. “How do you know so much about arsenic? You seem positively obsessed with it.”

He shook his head, smirking a little. “I wondered when you’d get around to demanding that information. You’re so bloody nosy, Mrs. Bright. I think I’ll let you stew over that for a while.”

But the smile playing about his mouth didn’t reach his eyes.

* * *

As Harriet Puffley approached the hill at Tangled Vines Cottage, she considered whether to attempt to force her bicycle to ascend by pumping the pedals whilst astride, or whether she ought to simply climb off and wheel it up. The road was wet from the short but heavy rain that had swept through the village and its environs, and she already had a good splatter of mud up the backside of her coat.

It was a rather steep hill, but she was a strong, muscular woman who was used to cycling about the village on her day off, not to mention what she did in the kitchen. Kneading dough and playing butcher weren’t for the weak and slight. Still, she didn’t want to arrive at the Whittlesbys’ kitchen to visit with Mrs. Dilly dripping with perspiration—although any cook worth her salt grinder was quite familiar with sweat trickling down one’s cheeks and back. And it was more likely the tires would slip in the muddy ground, possibly causing a spill.

Thus, she elected to climb off and push the bicycle, reasoning also that it was more likely the basket she’d filled with fresh and fragrant rosemary popovers would remain intact.