Moments later, they were gathered around a garden bench under a tree near the church. Phyllida wasn’t about to sit on the ground in her pretty blue day frock—or ever—but the footmen and some of the maids didn’t mind at all. She was a trifle concerned about grass stains from the still-damp lawn, but any housemaid worth her salt knew how to care for such occurrences, so she declined to advise them. It was no surprise when Bradford decided to lean against the tree and listen in.

“All right, now, what have you to tell me? Presumably each of you have relevant information. Shall we begin with you?” Phyllida nodded to the young woman who appeared to be the least shy of the housemaids.

The girl jolted and her face turned bright red when everyone looked at her. Phyllida saw her swallow hard, but nevertheless, the maid spoke without hesitation, albeit a little softly. It was fortunate Phyllida had excellent hearing. “Yes, Mrs. Bright. I’m Miss Crowley’s maid-of-all work, and I just wanted to say thank you for asking me here.”

At this point, Phyllida braced herself for the lumbering process that would likely take place as she attempted to extricate whatever each of them had to tell her. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d invited the servants to a fête. This was a murder investigation. She nodded encouragingly but didn’t speak for fear of terrifying the maid into silence.

“Right. And you wanted to know about a-a cake, strawberry jam, walnuts . . . um . . . geraniums, and bitters?” The girl listed off the items as if she’d memorized a verse for school, then, looking up at the sky as if retrieving the data from the depths of her brain, continued her recitation without pausing even to take a breath. “Miss Crowley had a small cake this week, but it wasn’t white sponge but lemon sponge. I made it and she ate it herself. She did have some tarts from Panson’s, but she hates nuts—she just about sacked me one day when I baked a walnut-twist teacake with cinnamon—and she would never have them in the house. Makes her throat go tight, she says. She always has got strawberry jam, and there is ajar with some of it missing, but that’s not quite unusual, for she prefers it to orange marmalade or lemon curd. There were no geranium leaves on her shoes . . . and . . . um . . . oh, right—I never saw any bottles of a bitter anything anywhere—I don’t even know what they look like, but I never saw any.” She finished in a rush and with a renewed flush in her cheeks. “Mum.”

“Thank you very much—what is your name, then?” Phyllida said, making an effort to soften her normally blunt tone.

“Amy, mum. I’m Amy.”

“Very well. Thank you, Amy. Did Miss Crowley ever talk about Alastair Whittlesby or the Murder Club?”