Phyllida lifted her chin, ignoring the soft snicker from someone behind her—Bradford; for who else would dare?—and replied regally, “Not at all, Inspector. I have the utmost confidence in your ability to continue the investigation now that I’ve set you on the right path. There is clearly someone determined to do away with Mr. Whittlesby. And that someone doesn’t care whether anyone else might be hurt or killed in the process.”

With that, she rose from the table. “Good day, Inspector. Constable.” She paused to look at the three Whittlesby servants, fixing each of them with a severe gaze in turn. “I suggest the lot of you see about doing your jobs—and properly. The state of this household leaves much to be desired, and there is simply no excuse for it.”

With that, she swept from the room.

* * *

“A fine mechanic am I?” said Bradford, the moment he settled into his seat. “Why, Mrs. Bright, I can’t remember when I have been so lauded. I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

She studiously kept her attention on the road as the odious man navigated the Daimler down the steep, curving hill that had taken Mr. Eugene Whittlesby’s life, and wished quite vehemently that Bradford would find a new employer and be on his merry way.

Obviously having made his point—for what reason, Phyllida couldn’t imagine—Bradford drove in silence for a few moments, glancing out the window as they passed by the motorcar crash. The BMW was still there and would likely remain so for another day or so until a towing lorry could remove it.

“Thought you might like to know that I looked around outside at the cottage for any footprints or other clues that might have given an indication as to who or when the brake hoses were cut,” said Bradford once they were past the crash site.

“Did you find anything instructive?” Phyllida asked, irritated that she hadn’t thought to do so herself.

“Too many people and motorcars have tracked over the area since this morning,” he said. “Hard to say when the hoses were cut; I didn’t see any sign of brake fluid, but there was quite a bit of activity—tires, footsteps—over the area and it rained earlier, so much of the evidence would have been obliterated anyway.”

She frowned in disappointment. “So you found nothing of importance?”

“Not that I could tell,” he replied cheerfully. “Of course, I’m not the intrepid Phyllida Bright, hunting down clues and diving into danger like Tuppence Beresford.” He paused as if to see whether she’d respond positively to what he must have considered a compliment, then, when she remained silent, went on. “But I did happen to look in the boot of the MG, and that toolbox has a pair of cutters in it.”