“Oh, right. It’s Preston, ma’am.” When Phyllida nodded encouragingly, he went on. “Mr. Louis, he doesn’t like Mr. Whittlesby at all and he was very angry when Mr. Whittlesby didn’t buy the chairs that went with the metamorphic table. He had a lot to say about that matter,” Preston said, shaking his head. “I heard about it for weeks. Once he was so mad he crumpled his neckcloth. Another time he tore his cufflinks off before I could help, and ripped up his shirt.

“Talked about what a bloody arse—begging your pardon, Mrs. Bright,” he said with a grimace. “But that was how he talks about him. About a cake . . . there was a cake in Mr. Louis’s kitchen. I saw it. It might have been white sponge; I don’t rightly know, but it had white icing on it. The housekeeper went off on Thursday to Brighton for her goddaughter’s new baby, and I don’t know if she baked it or whether Mr. Louis got it from Panson’s. He did have some pastries from there last week and some of them did have nuts, although I can’t be certain what type.” He paused, then went on. “I didn’t see any geraniums anywhere—not sure I’d know what they were—”

“But I showed you,” Molly interjected impatiently. “The crinkly, smelly leaves? They’re a little soft on the top.”

“Right.” Preston shrugged. “I didn’t see any leaves on Mr. Louis’s shoes or anywhere. And nothing like a small brown bottle of bitters.”

“Last night, was Mr. Louis wearing a coat that had a pocket large enough to hide a bottle about this big?” Phyllida asked, showing him the basic dimensions of the bitters bottle. “Without it upsetting the cut of his coat, I mean to say.”

“I would say, yes, it might have done. He didn’t have anything in his pocket when I dressed him, though, Mrs. Bright. I can say that for certain—I would have noticed.”

She nodded. “Very good. Now, is there anything else that happened over the last few days that was unusual?”

“Not that I can say . . . although now I think about it, he might have gone out again last night. He came home from the cocktail party and was quite upset. He didn’t want any assistance from me before bed, and I last saw him sitting in his office where he writes the Miss McClatchery stories—which are rather entertaining, I must say. It was nearly midnight. He was drinking whisky, but he wasn’t writing. I went to bed, but I thought I heard a sound later—someone moving around in the front room, then perhaps the sound of a motor. My quarters are in the back, of course, and I’m not certain what I heard. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he went out.”