Miss Crowley didn’t respond immediately. Phyllida could almost see her reviewing all the options in her mind, so she decided to prod her in the proper direction. “I’ve already reported the details of the conversation to Inspector Cork. I have not told him who was speaking, but now that I’ve identified who they were—and you’ve confirmed it—I have no choice but to tell him. I do believe it would shine a more positive light on yourself and the possibility of your innocence should you confess to the inspector first.”

“The possibility of my innocence?” Miss Crowley said. “Of course I’m innocent! I would never do such a thing. It was just . . . just talking, you know. It didn’t mean anything. It was a joke more than anything!”

“And yet Father Tooley died from a poisoned Vieux Carré that was meant for Alastair Whittlesby—which was precisely what you and Mr. Genevan had plotted to do.”

“We didn’t plot anything,” Miss Crowley replied, her voice cracking with stress. “I tell you, it was just talk. Neither of us can abide that man and his boastful nastiness, and it was just a bit of letting off steam.”

“That is why you should tell the inspector voluntarily,” Phyllida told her.

“Perhaps.”

“After all, you claim it was only talk—but what if it wasn’t only talk for Louis Genevan?” Phyllida asked.

“Good heavens.” Miss Crowley’s words were shocked, but Phyllida saw more fear than surprise in her eyes. As if the older woman worried about that very thing. “Surely not.”

“You might feel that, by telling Inspector Cork of the conversation, you’ll incriminate yourself, but I believe he should know, and I believe that if you confess, as I previously said, it would go a long way toward suggesting your innocence.”

“Hmm. Yes, yes, perhaps you have a point,” said Miss Crowley.

“Of course I do.”

“But . . . Louis would kill me if I told the inspector,” said Miss Crowley. “I don’t mean literally . . . well . . .” Her eyes went wide and her face turned from pale to a sickly gray. “Oh dear, Mrs. Bright! I don’t know what to do! He was very angry this morning when I suggested we ought to tell. I telephoned him.”

“I suspect he was,” Phyllida said. “Do you think he poisoned Mr. Whittlesby’s cocktail bitters?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I truly don’t know. I’ve been worrying horribly about it ever since it happened . . . ever since our conversation. I truly have,” she said, reaching for Phyllida’s hand. Her fingers were strong as they closed around Phyllida’s wrist. “You can have no idea how awful it’s been for me.”

“Probably not as awful as for Father Tooley,” Phyllida replied dryly.

“And now I hear that the Whittlesby’s motorcar was sabotaged? It’s simply awful. Just awful.”

“Indeed.”