“Very well, Mrs. Bright,” he said, giving her an enigmatic look. “Do give the good doctor my regards.”

Not even bothering to grit her teeth this time, Phyllida simply nodded and walked off.

Her brisk stride took her to Dr. Bhatt’s surgery in a matter of minutes, and Tracy, his maid-of-all-work, was there to greet her as she came in.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Whittlesby,” said Phyllida, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “If she’s feeling up to a visitor.”

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Bright. Mrs. Whittlesby is resting in the back room. Mr. Whittlesby is with her. Dr. Bhatt got her settled, then stepped out for a few moments. I believe he intended to nip down to the Murder Fête and get a copy of Strong Poison before the festival closes down for the day,” she added in a conspiratorial tone. “He does enjoy the Peter Wimsey stories, and Miss Sayers’s queue was so very long earlier. But he only left once he was confident Mrs. Whittlesby was improving.”

Phyllida nodded, declining to comment on the irony of the title of the book John was seeking. “Thank you. I’ll just duck to the back and express my sympathy. I promise not to tire her out.”

Having both of the Whittlesbys together wasn’t optimal for her purposes, but Phyllida had no choice. She didn’t know whether John would mind if she questioned his patient, so she had best do so before he returned. It was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission when one wasn’t certain.

Alastair Whittlesby sat in a chair next to his wife’s bed. He was hatless but still wore his coat. His foot, which was tapping impatiently on the floor when Phyllida approached, ceased its movements.

Lettice Whittlesby was propped up by several pillows. Her wrist was bound up and rested uselessly across her lap, but other than a small bandage at her temple, she showed no other outward signs of injury. But her eyes seemed vacant and slightly glazed, and they barely fluttered open when Phyllida greeted her.

“Mrs. . . . er, Bright, is it?” said Mr. Whittlesby.

Since he’d previously met with her in his office and had seen her again last night, Phyllida was not fooled. Nevertheless, she gave him a warm smile as if pleased and surprised he’d remembered her lowly self. “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan suggested I stop up and offer their condolences—and to see if there is anything we can do to help,” she said. “I cannot imagine how terrifying and trying these last days have been!”

“And all in the midst of the Murder Fête,” he said, sounding more petulant than alarmed. “It’s quite ruined it all.”