“Oh, yes, Mr. Alastair refuses to allow Mr. Eugene to drive any of the motorcars. And so Mrs. Alastair drove him into town when she left for the festival,” said Mrs. Dilly. “Mr. Eugene wasn’t going to the festival, mind, but he said as how he had business in Listleigh. It’s awful bad blood between those brothers,” she added, shaking her head sadly. “And now what does Mr. Alastair think? Mrs. Alastair was driving, and now his brother is dead and she is in a bad way. If only Mr. Eugene had been driving, this never would have happened!”

Before Phyllida could respond, a tidy blond man in formal wear strode into the kitchen. She immediately realized he was the butler—although he was the shortest, slightest butler she’d ever seen.

“Mrs. Bright! Is that you?” he said, confirming the fact that either her reputation or the color of her hair had preceded her. She preferred to believe it was the former.

“That’s Drewson,” said Mrs. Dilly. The fact that neither she nor Louella seemed alarmed to be caught sitting around in the middle of the day indicated plenty to Phyllida. Clearly the Whittlesby servants disliked their employers and working at Tangled Vine Cottage. “Is there news?”

“Mr. Alastair has finally agreed to take Mrs. Alastair to Dr. Bhatt’s surgery, but he insists on driving her himself,” said Drewson. “She does not see the need to go, and so they are rowing a bit.”

“Might want to check the brake lines on his motor,” Bradford said dryly. Everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged. “Brake lines were cut on the vehicle Mrs. Whittlesby was driving.”

Drewson’s eyes widened. “I thought—why, I thought the accident was because she’d been”—his voice dropped a notch—“imbibing.”

Mrs. Dilly nodded sagely. “You’d’a thought it, wouldn’t ya? She’s quite a drinker, she is,” she added, looking significantly at Mrs. Puffley. “I was telling you. She specially hates it here with her, you know.” The cook’s gaze lifted, and Phyllida understood Mrs. Dilly was indicating the senior Mrs. Whittlesby, the mother of Alastair and Eugene.

“I had noticed,” was all Phyllida said. Then, thinking of the note she’d found in Mrs. Whittlesby’s handbag, she said, “Was it unusual for Mrs. Alastair Whittlesby to drive the sedan?”

“Yes, Mr. Alastair usually drives that one. She don’t like it because she says it’s too big to handle. She usually drives the MG.”

“Do you know why she didn’t drive her usual motorcar today?” Phyllida asked.

“Mr. Alastair said as how he was going to drive the MG today because it needed petrol, and Mrs. Alastair doesn’t like to fill the petrol because it’s so messy,” said Louella. “She always gets it on her gloves. We ain’t got a chauffeur here, you see, to do it.” She glanced at Bradford.