“Only everyone’s been so busy with the rain, and in and out, and now the motor crash. But I put the questions to them and asked them to spread it round, and now I’m waiting for them all to report back,” Molly replied, standing up straight. Phyllida almost expected her to salute.

“Very good. Thank you. Do you know where Mr. Dobble is?”

Molly pointed—Phyllida would speak to her later about the gaucheness of such a gesture—across the green. Mr. Dobble was standing alone near Agatha’s table, but far enough away that he wasn’t engaged in any conversation. Phyllida would have liked to believe he was overseeing the work of the maids and footmen, but the expression on his face and his downcast eyes said otherwise.

“Very well. Thank you, Molly.” Her thoughts were spinning as the maid hurried off—likely to share the news about the tragedy.

Phyllida was already wondering how to find a reason to visit the Whittlesbys to learn more about what happened. For, being a murder mystery reader and, now, an amateur detective, Phyllida was inclined to connect the crash to the previous poisoning incidents. Although she would obtain more information before drawing a definite conclusion, her instinct was to wonder whether the motorcar accident was yet another attempted murder . . . and if so, who was the intended victim? Mr. Whittlesby or his wife? Or both of them?

And what was Lettice Whittlesby doing in the motor with her brother-in-law, Eugene?

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to go up to the Whittlesby home, now, won’t you, Mrs. Bright,” said Bradford.

“That would be lovely,” Phyllida replied. She’d forgotten he had climbed out of the Daimler as well. “However, I need to speak to Mr. Dobble first.” She decided she had time to put the butler out of his misery.

She hurried over, aware that the wet grass was, in fact, dampening her second set of shoes, but there was nothing for it.

“Mr. Dobble,” she said crisply on approach. “I’ve attended to the—er—matter we discussed, and it has been rectified to my satisfaction. I would appreciate it if you could manage things here whilst I make a brief visit to the Whittlesbys’ on behalf of Mrs. Agatha and Mr. Max.”

“Very well, Mrs. Bright,” Dobble replied. His expression gave nothing away, as usual, but the promptness and agreeability of his response expressed his relief.

“And if you please, would you advise Mrs. Agatha of the reason for my absence?”

“Indeed.”

Moments later, Phyllida was back in the Daimler, now with wet shoes but without having to wait for Bradford to cover her with an umbrella.