That thought brought another to Phyllida’s mind: whoever planted the poisoned bottle of bitters at the cocktail party last night would have had to unobtrusively transport the item to the party. The bottle was small enough to fit easily into nearly any handbag—except the tiniest, flattest, envelope style, which neither Miss Crowley nor Mrs. Rollingbroke had carried last night at the courtyard event. Both had had their handbags dangling from their respective arms.

The bottle would also fit into the outside pocket of a man’s coat. It would fit into an inside pocket as well, but its shape would mar the fit and lines of the coat and would be more noticeable.

These realizations left Phyllida no closer to determining who might have brought the poison, as any of the men could have had it in their pocket, or any of the women could have had it in their bag.

Phyllida was beginning to wonder if this murderer was going to be able to outsmart her.

She set her jaw grimly. No. She wouldn’t allow that to happen.

“Is there anything else you’d like to see, Mrs. Bright?” said Drewson.

“Is it possible to see Mr. and Mrs. Whittlesby’s bedchambers and sitting rooms?” she asked. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she’d know when she found it.

If someone had tried to kill Mr. Whittlesby twice, perhaps there was some clue among his personal effects—or his wife’s—as to why.

What she really wanted was to get access to his solicitor’s office. There could be an entire mine of information there. But that would be far more difficult to arrange.

Still . . . surely Molly or Ginny or Mrs. Puffley knew someone who worked there.

“Oh, certainly,” replied Drewson, gesturing to the stairs. “Just keep your voice down so the old dragon doesn’t hear you.”

Phyllida hurried up the steps in Drewson’s wake and was shown into the adjoining bedrooms used by Alastair Whittlesby and his wife. The beds in both rooms were rumpled and unmade, a testament to Louella’s lack of efficiency and motivation, and there was clothing strewn about Mrs. Whittlesby’s dressing area. Two merchant’s hat boxes sat on a side table, and Phyllida ascertained that they were from the milliner on whose receipt Mr. Alastair had written his note, and there was also a shopping bag from a clothing shop in Wenville Heath.

“Does Louella attend to Mrs. Whittlesby as her lady’s maid?” she asked Drewson, mildly appalled at the mess in the bedroom.