Moments later, Drewson came into the kitchen. “Mrs. Alastair wants her tea right away in the breakfast room, and then she is leaving to join Mr. Alastair at the Murder Fête. She’s none too pleased he left her the sedan, might I add. And the old dragon”—his eyes rolled up to indicate the invalid upstairs—“is complaining that her hard-boiled egg was too hard-boiled.”

Mrs. Dilly muttered under her breath but rose from her seat. “Give her this one,” she said, placing an egg in its cup. “I boilt it twenty seconds less than the other,” she said, looking at Mrs. Puffley. “I make several each morning, as it depends what mood Herself is in as to how hard she wants her egg boilt.”

“It’s always a good policy to have other options,” replied Mrs. Puffley, thinking of Mr. Dobble and his ridiculous requirement that boiled eggs be turned often whilst cooking so the yolks ended up in the middle instead of at one end. “But it seems as if old Mrs. Whittlesby would have more important things on her mind than her boiled eggs. After all, her son was nearly poisoned.”

“I don’t suppose old Mrs. Whittlesby has much cared about anyone else but herself in the last five years, since she became an invalid. And probably before,” said Drewson.

“I suppose she wants new toast, too,” said Mrs. Dilly.

“Of course she does,” replied Drewson.

“Where’s Louella?” asked Mrs. Dilly.

“Lacquering the old dragon’s nails,” replied Drewson.

“Then how the bloody hell is she going to eat a boilt egg?” muttered Mrs. Dilly.

“How should I know? I’m only the bloody butler,” replied Drewson. “God, I wish I had a drink.”

“Better get it whilst you can before Mrs. Alastair dries up the bar,” said Mrs. Dilly dryly.

“Speaking of the bar,” Mrs. Puffley interjected. “Do you have any idea who might have tried to poison Mr. Whittlesby last night, Mr. Drewson?”

“Oh, I have many ideas,” he said. “Many of them. If only whoever it was had succeeded.”

“Good heavens, Mr. Drewson, someone might hear you!” said Mrs. Puffley.

“Then perhaps they’d fire me. One can only hope. Do you have any idea how miserable it is working in this house?” he said. “The entire family is uncivil and arrogant. Thinks they’re better than they are. Especially the old dragon. The only reason I stay is because they pay well. But even that might not be enough. I suppose Mr. Dobble is quite settled at Mallowan Hall?”

Mrs. Puffley shook her head. She really did have it quite good at Mallowan Hall—not that she’d ever tell Mrs. Bright about that. It would never do to have one’s boss get too comfortable that you were there for the long haul, now, did it?