“Most often Mr. Eugene takes his bicycle, but if she is going to the village, she will drive him on occasion. She spends most of her days at home in her sitting room, and when he’s not in London, Mr. Eugene is usually out and about around here. He works for a film company, finding locations for them to film and also antiques and furniture to be used on the—what’s it called? Oh, yes, the set. The stage where they film. He’s a . . . what is it? Oh, yes, a set dresser. Sounds rather raunchy to me,” Drewson said with a chuckle.

Mrs. Puffley’s interest waned. It certainly didn’t sound as if Mrs. Alastair and Mr. Eugene were having an affair. But it was worth passing that bit of information on to Mrs. Bright.

Just then, off in the distance, there was a sudden, ugly sound . . . like a crash or a great thud.

“What on earth . . . ?”

They hesitated, then the three of them hurried outside, shortly joined by a young woman who Mrs. Puffley identified as the maid Louella.

Drewson stood in the drive, looking down the hill and its winding road. “Sounded like it came from that way,” he said, hands on his hips.

“Maybe she hit a tree,” said Louella grimly. “Wouldn’t surprise me, after the way she downed those vodkas this morning.”

“Should we take a look?”

“I don’t see any smoke, and I don’t hear anything else,” said Drewson, scratching the side of his nose. “It’s prolly nothing.”

But only a few moments later, there was a loud, urgent pounding on the back door.

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 12

“MRS. BRIGHT! MRS. BRIGHT!”

Phyllida had just stepped out of the Daimler at St. Wendreda’s when Molly ran up to her. The maid was out of breath, and her eyes were wide.

“Did you hear?”

“Did I hear what?” Phyllida replied. She hoped Molly wasn’t gossiping about Mr. Billdop’s arrest.

“It’s Mrs. Whittlesby! She’s crashed her motorcar!”

“Good heavens!” Phyllida replied, looking around. The festival, which had started up again now that the rain had stopped, consisted of clumps of people standing about, probably discussing murder and motorcar crashes along with detective novels. “Is she all right?”

“I don’t know,” Molly said, shaking her head. “She was with Mr. Eugene Whittlesby and he ain’t—I mean, he didn’t make it.”

“How awful,” said Phyllida. “How badly is Mrs. Whittlesby injured?”

“She’s hurt real bad. They called in Dr. Bhatt.”

“Is Alastair Whittlesby still here at the festival?” Phyllida asked. How terrible for the family to have to face such a tragedy after Mr. Whittlesby nearly being murdered the day before.

“No, ma’am. He rushed right off as soon as he heard.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Phyllida said. “Oh, and have you been able to discern anything about those particular items I brought to your attention?”