“Not at all, Betty,” said Mrs. Puffley, giving her a sly wink as she offered the basket. “It’s only that I’ve been forever promising to bring over some of my rosemary popovers, and with Mrs. Bright and Mr. Dobble and half the staff away at the Murder Fête, I was able to slip away for a bit this afternoon. Good fortune I waited until after the rain shower.” She’d also had to sit in the kitchen and visit with Constable Greensticks for a time this morning—he certainly had enjoyed the rosemary popovers—but that hadn’t been as much of a hardship as one might expect. The man clearly needed a wife, or at least a decent day maid who could cook, for he acted as if he’d not been properly fed in weeks. Still, he’d been polite and very complimentary over her cooking.

“Oh, yes, you have been teasing me with those popovers for months now,” said Mrs. Dilly—fully aware that until this very moment the subject of rosemary popovers had never crossed either set of the cooks’ lips. “My! They do smell delicious,” she said, pausing a moment to lift the napkin and stick her nose into the basket. “Even after a long cycle ride!” They took another few moments for professional discussion—how long the pastries had been baked, whether the butter was chilled or soft when used, how finely chopped the rosemary had been.

“I add a bit of rosemary oil to the batter along with the fresh herb needles,” Mrs. Puffley said, confiding one of her most treasured secrets. She decided it was worth it, considering the information she hoped to extract today. “It’s what makes the scent just strong enough without being too bold and brassy.”

“Why, that’s so very clever,” said Mrs. Dilly. “I suppose Mrs. Bright infuses the oil?”

“Land’s! She doesn’t actually do it herself, of course, but she supervises Molly and Opal to do it. First house I’ve been at that has its own distilling room, and I must say, you couldn’t get me to a house without one now’t I’ve had it. It’s a pleasure to have all that sort of stuff made right there next to my kitchen.”

Mrs. Dilly’s expression sank. “At least someone is happy at their post.” She sighed. “Have a seat, Harriet. I should be happy for an excuse to get off me feet for a bit. Mr. Drewson won’t mind. He’s probably hiding in his pantry wishing he could have a drink.”

Mrs. Puffley chuckled, unsure how serious her friend was about the Whittlesbys’ butler. “It’s been quite upsetting here, I’m certain,” she said. “Having your master nearly poisoned.”