Bradford hesitated only a moment, then said thoughtfully, “I don’t see how. Wasn’t it quite accidental that she nearly took a drink from Whittlesby’s cocktail? A murderer couldn’t have planned that.”

“I suppose,” Phyllida replied, stopping short from actually saying that he was correct. The man already had the arsenic deduction in his tally; he didn’t need another checkmark. Especially since he wasn’t actually doing the investigation.

“We have to find the story contest calculations,” Phyllida said after another few steps. She noticed he had shortened his lengthy stride to remain even with hers.

“We?”

She ignored the sardonic comment. “It seems certain they figure into this mess somehow. I haven’t had the opportunity to search the rectory thoroughly. I suppose I shall have to attend to it myself.”

“Didn’t Rita already do that?” he asked.

Phyllida gave him an exasperated look. “Supposedly. But that doesn’t mean she did a thorough job of it. That reminds me, I haven’t heard from her whether she noticed anything else missing.”

“Such as an antique piecrust table.”

“Indeed.”

They were just approaching St. Wendreda’s. To Phyllida’s satisfaction, the festival seemed to be going on in full swing. If anything, the crowd seemed bigger now that the rain-interrupted fair had started up again. She nodded grimly. Sadly, tragedy had its way of bringing out the curious. Based on the number of people and the length of the queues, she felt confident the orphanage would have money left over after paying for the new roof.

“Oh, Mrs. Bright, there you are!” Molly hurried up to her. She was flanked by several people—three women and two men, all of different ages and appearances. Based on their attire, Phyllida deduced they were some of the servants working in the homes of Murder Club members. Presumably, they’d been given the day or part of the day off to attend the festival.

“Indeed, here I am,” Phyllida replied.

“We’ve got information for you, the things you asked about, Mrs. Bright,” said Molly. “They wanted to tell you themselves. If that’s all right.”

Phyllida looked at the small cluster of people, noting that two of the maids held back a bit and one of the footmen (or perhaps he was a valet or driver) seemed a little bashful.

Taking these expressions of awed intimidation as her due, Phyllida nonetheless strove to put them at ease. “Of course. Where shall we sit?”