Miss Crowley gripped her wrist even tighter as she leaned closer. “I understand you’re investigating the murder, aren’t you, Mrs. Bright?”

Phyllida firmly removed her limb from the other woman’s claws. “Inspector Cork is investigating. I’m merely offering suggestions and direction as necessary.” There was no need to explain how vitally necessary her intervention was.

“Aren’t you worried that—well, that you’ll be next?” Miss Crowley said in a voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes glittered with something dark. “Someone like that wouldn’t take kindly to a housekeeper sticking her nose in other peoples’ business.”

And with that, she turned and walked away—leaving Phyllida to wonder whether her words had been meant as a threat or a concern.

* * *

Phyllida couldn’t find Rita anywhere. Molly, Stanley, or Elton hadn’t seen the rectory’s maid for at least an hour, and they’d expected her to be helping with the closedown of the festival.

It was nearly ten o’clock, and the only illumination on the church lawn was from a half-moon and a few weak streetlamps. The festival-goers, writers, and amateur writers had all ebbed away hours ago. The white of the last tent gleamed in the darkness, and Phyllida saw the Mallowans’ Daimler waiting patiently to bring the rest of the staff back to the hall.

Bradford was helping Elton to stack the last of the tent cloths and poles, and Stanley and Molly were loading boxes into the boot and back seat of the motorcar.

But Phyllida couldn’t go back to Mallowan Hall without Rita. She’d promised the woman she could stay there for a few days because of poor Saint Aloysius—and the fact that a murderer was loose in the area. She didn’t blame the housemaid for not wanting to stay in the rectory alone.

But where was she? The last time anyone had seen Rita, she’d been carrying a basket of tablecloths into the rectory kitchen. That had been some time ago, and the rectory windows were completely dark, so surely she wasn’t still inside.

“Go ahead and take them back home,” she told Bradford, indicating Elton, Molly, and Stanley. The servants were drooping with fatigue. “There’s not enough room in the motor for all of us and those boxes anyway.”

“You’ll be all right here by yourself?” Bradford said hesitantly. “There is a murderer loose, you know.”

Phyllida hadn’t previously given Miss Crowley’s warning any serious consideration, and she certainly didn’t now. “I shall be fine. I have quite a healthy set of lungs, and aside from that, there’s no reason anyone should want to harm me.”

Bradford made a strangled sound but didn’t argue further. “I won’t be long.”