“The Whittlesbys live at Tangled Vines Cottage in Marlake Hill,” Phyllida told Bradford as he navigated the motorcar down the street, which was filled with festival-goers returning to the Murder Fête. She had a moment of satisfaction that the event was sure to be a success, despite—or perhaps even because of—the unpleasantries around it. “There’s quite a steep, curving road coming down from the house.”

“I see,” Bradford replied.

And she suspected that he did, in fact, see why she had mentioned that detail. Not that she’d needed to do; it would be obvious even to him when they approached the house.

Other than that brief response, Bradford remained silent as he drove out of town and toward Marlake Hill, which gave her time to think.

As they approached, they came upon the wreck of the motorcar. It had crashed into a large elm tree, and the left corner of the hood was crumpled as if the driver had attempted to avoid the tree but didn’t quite succeed. The windshield was shattered, and as she drew near, Phyllida saw blood on the interior of the motorcar. The roof was dented where one of the elm’s branches had splintered during the force of the impact.

“Good heavens,” she murmured.

Bradford had stepped out of the Mallowans’ Daimler and was eyeing the crashed-up vehicle. “Bloody good bang-up,” he said soberly, then turned to look in the direction from which Mrs. Whittlesby had come down the hill from the cottage. He’d removed his coat and began to roll up his shirt sleeves. “Mr. Eugene Whittlesby died, and Mrs. Whittlesby is injured? She must have been driving, then, as most of the blood and damage is on the passenger side.”

“She got banged up pretty well,” Phyllida said. “I don’t know how badly she’s injured.”

As she’d pointed out, the road from Marlake Hill was steep and there was a turn at the bottom of it. It was obvious what had happened: the motorcar had been trundling down the hill, picking up speed, and when Mrs. Whittlesby approached the curve at the bottom, she somehow couldn’t make the turn and perhaps had overcorrected, tried to miss the tree, but the motorcar smashed into it anyway.

“Check the—” Phyllida stopped; Bradford was crawling under the vehicle, which was slightly elevated on one side due to how it had landed against the tree during a swerve. Presumably he meant to check the brake lines—or for any other sabotage. She wasn’t certain he’d see anything with the front of the motorcar as crushed as it was, but it was certainly worth a try. For the first time, she was grateful for his stubborn presence and his expertise with motors.