“And mistress! Why, Mrs. Alastair had her husband’s drink in her hand last night. She could have—probably would have—had a taste if Father Tooley hadn’t bought it at that moment.” Mrs. Dilly tsked and shook her head.

“So that’s three people who might have died instead of just the one,” Mrs. Puffley said. “Good heavens.”

“Makes a body wonder about whether I should check me own food before I eat it,” said Mrs. Dilly. “Or before I send it upstairs,” she added glumly, speaking figuratively since the kitchen was on the same floor as the dining room in this particular house. “They—the poisoner—tries again, next thing you know, I’ll be blamed for it.”

“It’s a right horror it is,” said Mrs. Puffley, nodding companionably. “Being the cook. Anyone gets a bit of a tummy ache and who gets blamed? The cook. Don’t matter if we eat all the same food, it’s all ‘our cook’s tainted things,’ and there’s hardly a way around it if they start to give you the dirty eye. Not that I’ve had any of that sort of experience.”

“Oh, here she comes now,” said Mrs. Dilly, tilting as if to listen to the sound of feet coming down the stairs from somewhere in the house. “That’s Mrs. Alastair. She’s already had two vodkas, and no breakfast.” She shook her head.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Puffley, her brows lifting. “Has she always been such a sot?”

“Not at all. It’s only recent—at least that it’s become obvious.”

“Well, why do you think she started drinking so?”

Mrs. Dilly shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s not as if things seem that bad between her and Mr. Alastair. They don’t row or anything like that. I mean to say, he talks to her the same way he talks to everyone—short and sharp and like he always knows best about everything.”

“I knew a man like that once,” Mrs. Puffley said grimly, but, taking a page from Mrs. Bright’s book, chose not to give any further details about his outcome. “Who do you think could be trying to do away with Mr. Alastair, then? Could it be his brother?”

Mrs. Dilly shook her head again. “Do you think I know anything? Oh, that’s him now coming down, too. Mr. Eugene. Mr. Alastair has already gone into the village.”

She paused and Mrs. Puffley could hear the sounds of male and female voices. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded cordial, if brief and to the point.