“Only, ma’am, I didn’t see no cakes or walnuts or bitter bottles, didn’t I? But there was some of them geranium leaves I swept up on the floor, I did. Me mum used to make geranium water for her mistress, ma’am, and it always reminds me of her when I smells me some geranium leaves. It were definitely geraniums, ma’am, from last night, and we ain’t got no geraniums right now at Wilding, only Michaelmas daisies and roses and some carnations, we do.”

Phyllida found that information quite interesting. “Thank you, Lucinda. That’s very helpful. Now, have you heard Mrs. Rollingbroke talk about Mr. Alastair Whittlesby at all?”

“Not very much, only I don’t think she likes him too well. She don’t say much, but Sir Rolly always rolls his eyes whenever Mrs. Rollingbroke mentions the Murder Club—not because he don’t like it, not at all—he’s famously addicted to her stories.”

“The ones with the talking cat?” Phyllida asked, imagining the reaction of Stilton and Rye if she told them someone had written stories about a cat that could speak. Surely they would be mortified by the idea of a feline stooping to such undignified communication skills—let alone one named Mrs. Cuddlesworthy.

“Yes, ma’am. Sir Rolly asks her every day what pages Mrs. Vera has written, and he insists on looking at them when they meet in the sitting room for cocktails—unless they’re having guests, of course.”

“The Murder Club meets at Wilding quite often,” Phyllida said. “Have you ever heard any arguments between the members, or any indication that someone might want to kill Mr. Whittlesby?”

Lucinda glanced at the young man who hadn’t spoken. “I usually work upstairs in the bedchambers, but Noel could tell you more.”

“I’m a footman at Wilding,” said Noel. He was young, and his voice cracked a little. “I’ve helped Mr. Whalley, our butler, serve some of the Murder Club meetings. Pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Bright, but I don’t think anyone likes Mr. Whittlesby very much. There were lots of murmurings, you know, whenever he would speak, and the dark-haired man with the thin mustache . . . I can’t remember his name, but he dresses like a nob all the time.”

“Mr. Genevan,” Phyllida supplied the name.

“Him . . . he really didn’t like Mr. Whittlesby. I heard him say some words under his breath more’n once—words I dare not repeat, ma’am—when Mr. Whittlesby was talking or carrying on.”

“Did you notice anything else?” Phyllida asked. “Anything over the last day or two that might seem strange?”

“No, ma’am. Not that I can think of.”