“But why didn’t they come to the festival together?” asked Phyllida.

The servants exchanged looks. “Because Mrs. Alastair sleeps late. Every day. Too much . . .” Drewson mimicked tossing back a drink.

Phyllida nodded. Presumably, Mr. Whittlesby wanted to arrive at the festival as early as possible in order to hobnob with the writers. “Do you know the last time anyone drove the BMW?”

Once again the servants exchanged looks, but this time it seemed they were calculating information rather than deciding whether to share it. At last Drewson said, “It would’ve been to the cocktail party at the rectory last night. Mr. Whittlesby drove both of them in that motor.”

So someone had sabotaged the brake lines on the sedan sometime overnight. And didn’t put the wire cutters back in their place? Or perhaps they brought their own wire cutters and the toolbox never had them to begin with.

“Is the vehicle kept in a locked garage?” asked Bradford.

“Yes, most of the time. But last night Mr. Alastair—he was so distraught about what happened—about him almost getting poisoned—that he just left it out there. Right in the yard,” Louella said.

Phyllida sighed. That meant anyone could have tampered with it.

“Mrs. Bright, Mr. Drewson’s got something to tell you,” said Mrs. Puffley. “Go on, now, tell her what you told me. About them bitters.”

Drewson did as directed. “There were three bottles of Monteleone’s Special Bitters in the bar. Mr. Alastair orders them special from New Orleans”—he pronounced it “New Orlanes”—“and he doesn’t like to chance not having any, as it takes so long for it to arrive. So he orders extra before he runs out.”

“Do you know when the bottle went missing?” Phyllida said.

The butler’s eyes widened and then he smiled. “That’s what I was going to tell you—you’re right, there, Mrs. Puffley, she’s a good detective, Mrs. Bright is. Er—I mean, you are, Mrs. Bright. A jolly good detective.”

Phyllida took this statement as her due. “When did you notice the bitters were missing?” she asked.

“It was when I was packing up supplies for the cocktail party. Mr. Alastair wouldn’t abide it not having his particular Vieux Carré at the event. I think he liked to show off for the authors, you know. Make it sound as if he were more important than he is.”

“He’s like that, Mr. Alastair is,” put in Louella. “And Mrs. Alastair always just tucked away in her sitting room, typing out her letters and reading and such, clickety-clack, and hardly wanting much of anything. Only when old Mrs. Whittlesby calls on her to read to her or sit with her, which she don’t really much like doing.” She rolled her eyes at Mrs. Whittlesby’s room above them.