“Oh, yes, mum, all the time. She hates the man. Says he’s overbearing and nasty and . . . and something else.” She frowned.

“Boastful?” Phyllida suggested, all at once realizing what her wispy fragments of memory had been trying to tell her.

“Oh, yes, that’s it, mum! That’s what she says. Overbearing and boastful, an utterly nasty man. Those are her exact words. And she says she wishes how Filberto Fiero were a real person so she could run off with him, she says.” Amy nodded, her cheeks pink with pleasure, now that she had finished her speech. “And that the Dr. Bhatt is a very nice man, for him being a foreigner.”

“Is there anything else you noticed about Miss Crowley over the last few days that was unusual?”

“Well . . . it was very strange that when I come in this morning, she wasn’t up and about yet. It was just about half nine, and she was still in bed! Said she had a bit of a headache and was awful dour about it all.” Amy shrugged. “I ain’t never seen her in bed past half seven before, in all the years I’ve done for her.”

Phyllida hid her amusement. Presumably Miss Crowley’s lying-in had been due to her unaccustomed imbibition of champagne. Several glasses would give anyone a headache and keep them in bed late, but it would be especially potent for a teetotaler.

Still, there could be another excuse for her sleeping late: if she had been out in the middle of the night to cut brake hoses. It would have been a thirty-minute walk at the very least to get from the village where Miss Crowley lived out to Tangled Vine Cottage; less, of course, if she bicycled. Surely she wouldn’t risk the noise of driving a motorcar.

“Excellent. Is there anything else you can think of that might be interesting?” Phyllida asked.

“I’m sorry, mum, but no,” said Amy. She sounded disappointed.

“Very well, then. If you do think of anything else, please find a way to get the information to me. Now, what about you?” Phyllida said, turning her attention to one of the men. He seemed to have the most intelligent expression of the bunch.

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Bright. I’m Mr. Genevan’s valet, and when Molly told me about how you were wanting information about Mr. Whittlesby and all, I remembered some things.”

“And your name?” she asked. The valet was older than the other servants, possibly in his early thirties.