“Oh, everyone was over there at one time or another, I suppose,” said Dr. Bhatt, frustration in his voice. “Yes, they were over there getting their drinks.”

“Did Mr. Whittlesby make a big production of it when he mixed his cocktail?” Phyllida asked, realizing that probably had to have happened in order for the murderer to know about the specific bitters.

“Of course he did. He declined to offer one to anyone else, might I add.” He looked at Phyllida. “I really must get on now—Lettice was quite vehement about not going to hospital, and I am afraid she might convince Alastair to bring her back if I’m not at the surgery when they arrive.”

“Very well, of course you must go,” Phyllida said, patting him on the arm. “By the by, we still have not located the scores for the short story contest.”

He paused in the action of opening his motorcar door. “Where on earth could they be?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find them,” she replied, then gave a little wave as he slid into the driver’s seat.

Back inside Tangled Vines Cottage, Phyllida wasted no time. “Could you show me the sitting room where everyone was during the Murder Club meeting on Wednesday?” she asked Drewson as the kitchen bell buzzed loudly.

“Of course, Mrs. Bright. Louella, you’d best go up and see what the old dragon is ringing for this time,” he said. “Someone ought to put poison in her drink.”

The sitting room was quite what Phyllida expected: several comfortable chairs and two sofas arranged in a few different clusters to promote conversation—or to segregate brother from brother. She spotted the blue chair where Mrs. Whittlesby sat to do her crossword puzzles and frowned at the potted ficus in the corner with a haze of tiny fruit flies about it. She saw no reason to keep an unattractive, dying plant in the sitting room, and someone needed to clean up the scattering of dead leaves on the rug. But it seemed that Louella wasn’t motivated to do any such tidying, for there was a fine layer of dust on the bookshelves as well. It was also obvious a carpet sweeper had not been employed in the recent past. Even the pillows on the sofas were off-kilter and hadn’t been plumped.

Murder attempts were no excuse for not doing one’s job, Phyllida thought grimly. Especially when the attempt was not on the worker.

The bar counter was at one end of the rectangular room, and the photograph of the Riviera that had been so admired by Miss Crowley was located in such a position that it would have been very simple for her to edge behind the bar and reach under the counter. And, being a woman, she would have had a handbag—a convenient place to stow the small bottle.

Mrs. Rollingbroke would have had a handbag as well.