The contents were precisely what she expected: lipstick, a compact, and a comb. However, there was also a small metal flask and a crumpled paper. Phyllida shook the flask and then opened it, confirming that it was empty. Then she smoothed out the crumpled paper and was able to read it. “A receipt from a milliner in Wenville Heath. She bought a hat from them; it was picked up on Thursday.”

“What’s on the back of it?” asked Bradford.

Phyllida turned it over and saw that someone had scrawled a note on the reverse. WILL PUT PETROL IN THE MG. TAKE SEDAN; PLENTY IN ITS TANK TO GET TO AND FROM. She frowned at the lettering. It was simple, blocky, and all capitals. After a moment’s thought, she tucked the note into her own handbag. “Shall we proceed?”

Bradford opened the door of the Daimler for her and she climbed in. She still hadn’t settled on a suitable excuse for making a visit to the family during such a difficult time, but Phyllida was confident that something would present itself.

It always did.

* * *

As she alighted from the Daimler, the back door at Tangled Vines Cottage—which was not, as far as she could ascertain, suitably named, for there wasn’t any sign of vines, tangled or otherwise—opened to reveal Mrs. Puffley.

“Oh, Mrs. Bright! There you are! I told you she would be here in short order,” she added to someone inside. “Now, come on in, will you,” she said to Phyllida. “And you, too, Bradford,” she added, beaming up at the driver. “You can set at the table and have a cuppa, and Mrs. Dilly will put a nice bowl of pea soup in front of you.”

Slightly irritated that Bradford would be joining them—and clearly, he, at least, was to be fed, for the suggestion of soup had been directed at him—Phyllida nonetheless did as suggested and went inside.

She found herself in a kitchen far smaller and less well appointed than the one at Mallowan Hall, but it had larger windows since it wasn’t partially underground. Unlike at Mallowan Hall, there was a large, scarred trestle table in the kitchen that would accommodate the servants as well as any work that needed to be done. Mrs. Dilly had obviously been in the midst of rolling out some sort of pastry dough at some point in the morning. From the looks of the cracks and dryness, however, Phyllida thought it had been some time since the cook had given the dough any attention.

While the lapse was quite understandable, all things considered, Phyllida would not have stood for such inattention at Mallowan Hall. Surely a cook worth her salt (as Mrs. Puffley was) could roll out pastry whilst gossiping.

“Thank you, Mrs. Puffley,” Bradford said. “And who might I have the pleasure of meeting? The soup smells delicious.”