She watched for a moment, concerned that the tilted vehicle might somehow fall onto him, but it seemed stable and she didn’t want to make a fuss. The last thing she needed was Bradford teasing her about concern for his safety—which, of course, she would feel for anyone in a similar situation. Still, she didn’t breathe easily until he worked himself out from beneath the tilted vehicle, his dark hair mussed and grass clinging to his trousers.

Whilst Bradford continued his examination, Phyllida took it upon herself to explore the area around the motorcar. Of course, whoever had removed Mr. Eugene’s body and Mrs. Whittlesby had trampled the area quite handily. Shattered glass glittered on the ground, and there was a horrible amount of blood splatters on the inside of the motor, as well as on the flattened grass and a dead tree branch next to it. A man’s hat lay crumpled on the ground amidst the glass, and she saw what must have been Mrs. Whittlesby’s hat on the ground next to the driver’s side—both testaments to the severity of the motor’s impact.

Two tire tracks flattened the grass and told the tale of where the BMW sedan had left the road. Phyllida observed the way the gravel and dirt had been thrown up by the swerving tires, and was caught up for a moment imagining Mrs. Whittlesby’s and Mr. Eugene’s last seconds of horror before crashing into the huge elm. She offered up a swift prayer for the victim, as well as for Mrs. Whittlesby.

Just as she was about to conclude her examination, Phyllida noticed a woman’s handbag on the ground. It had obviously been thrown from the vehicle, but, surprisingly, its clasp had held and the bag was still closed.

She swiftly retrieved it and lost no time in opening the pocketbook. She didn’t expect to find anything relevant inside, but of course one must be thorough in a murder investigation.

“Brake lines were cut,” Bradford said when he joined her. He was wiping his hands with a rag that had appeared from somewhere. She noticed a dark smudge on his clean-shaven cheek that somehow reminded her of a dangerous pirate or highwayman.

She saw that he was holding a toolbox. “Found this in the boot. No cutters inside.”

Phyllida frowned. “Is that important?”

He shrugged. “You tell me, Mrs. Bright. You’re the investigator. I will tell you that one would expect to find wire or metal cutters inside a toolbox for a motorcar. What’s that you have there?”

“Her handbag,” she replied, returning to rummaging inside.