Uncharacteristically, she’d left a handkerchief in the Daimler once. Instead of returning the lacy confection to her, Bradford had kept it. He’d been teaching Myrtle to search out and find the source of the handkerchief’s scent—just for the pleasure of watching Mrs. Bright try and fend off the dog.

The housekeeper couldn’t understand why the dog was so attracted to her whenever she happened to walk across the yard or go to the garage, and Bradford wasn’t about to divulge the reason. Instead, he watched with concealed mirth as she attempted to ignore Myrtle and her affections. She had no idea that Myrtle was handsomely rewarded by her master every time she sniffed out the owner of the handkerchief.

Bradford’s grin faded as he approached St. Wendreda’s and did not see Mrs. Bright standing where he’d left her, beneath the gas lamp in front of the church.

Was he surprised? Not at all, blast it.

But where had the addle-brained, stubborn woman got off to?

“Come on, Myrts,” he said, opening the door for the mop. The dog bounded out and eagerly began to gambol about, sniffing and pausing to squat all over the place.

Bradford looked around. There was no sign of movement or life. No lights on in the rectory. Only the faintest glow emitted through the stained glass on the church. Every other building in the vicinity was dark and silent. The area was deserted.

He muttered something unflattering about prissy redheaded housekeepers under his breath and strode toward the rectory and church. If she wasn’t there, she was likely at that Dr. Bhatt’s office.

Or . . . surely she hadn’t gotten it into her head to break into Alastair Whittlesby’s office here in the village and snoop around.

He groaned. That would be precisely something Phyllida Bright would do.

A short, sharp bark from Myrtle—who’d dashed off ahead of him—had him loping a little faster. She was dancing around the entrance to the church, scrabbling at the wooden door with her nails.

When he got closer, he saw a faint glow just beyond the walkway. With a start, he recognized it as the torch he’d given Mrs. Bright. It was still on, shining from beneath a thick boxwood hedge.

Bradford picked up the torch, an unpleasant feeling coming over him. If she’d dropped it whilst it was still on, that meant—

He didn’t spend time thinking about any of the possibilities.

“What is it?” he said to Myrtle, who was yapping and bouncing even more desperately in front of the church door.

Bradford pushed the door open and Myrtle bolted inside the nave.