“Do either of you, Lucinda and Noel, have any idea what Mr. Whittlesby might have said to Mrs. Rollingbroke to make her invite him to their soiree? I understand she didn’t intend to ask him, but changed her mind near the last minute.”

Both of the Wilding House servants shook their heads in tandem.

“Is there any chance Mrs. Rollingbroke had some sort of secret that she was keeping from Sir Rolly?” Phyllida asked. “That Mr. Whittlesby might know about?”

“Do you mean like a-a lover?” whispered Lucinda.

“Or gambling debts?” said Noel a bit lasciviously, as if the very idea delighted him.

“Anything like that,” Phyllida replied.

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so,” replied Lucinda. “Only, I know Mrs. Vera’s maid well enough she’d tell me if there was, she would.” She nodded firmly, and Noel shook his head with definite regret.

“Very well, thank you,” Phyllida said. “All of this has been very helpful. And now, for whom do you work?” she asked the third woman, who hadn’t yet spoken.

“Mr. Billdop, ma’am. I’m his housekeeper, but I don’t live in. But I come in for him every day, I do, and he’s a very nice, kind man when he’s not wound up about St. Wendreda’s.”

Phyllida was fully aware of the underlying tension between the Anglicans and the papists in Listleigh, so she made no comment. Instead, she nodded encouragingly.

“Mr. Billdop, he did have a small white cake yesterday, ma’am. I don’t know where it come from; I didn’t make it for him and he didn’t eat it and then it was gone. The policemen, they asked me about it, and I had to tell them, you know. About that and the strawberry jam. The vicar said the jar broke and he threw it away, but I didn’t see no evidence of that, either, so I told the constable all about it. And maybe I shouldn’ta.” Her small, dark eyes filled with worry. “But Mr. Billdop wouldn’t do anything to hurt someone—even a priest! He’s too nervous and fluttery, ma’am. You know a murderer has to have a very strong mind, he does, and . . . what’s it—determination, right?—and a body who’s gonna plan a murder can’t be all soggy and twisted up like a tub of wet laundry.”

“Quite so,” replied Phyllida. “How does Mr. Billdop feel about Mr. Whittlesby?”

“He surely don’t like him, ma’am. Not at all. That isn’t no secret. He’s said some un-Christian things in my hearing, he has, but it’s only words, ma’am. And he just wanted bad things to happen to his stories, not Mr. Whittlesby himself, you know. Once he said as how he wouldn’t mind seeing all his Inspector Belfast papers get blown into the stove or fireplace.”