“You don’t know?”

“Of course I don’t know,” she retorted. “Had I known, I would have told you immediately.”

“Would you care to tell me exactly what happened?” Bradford replied, setting Myrtle down within licking and jumping distance.

Phyllida automatically edged away from the threat, then she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Good heavens! Rita!” Thoughts of the poor maid had simply flown from her mind during the last hour or however long it had been since she’d chased the murderer from the church.

Bradford nodded soberly. “We saw her. I suppose you caught the murderer in action and decided to pursue him—”

“Or her,” she said. “Yes, that’s precisely what happened.”

“Do you mean to say Inspector Bright hasn’t decided on the identity of the killer yet? Why, it’s been over twenty-four hours!”

Phyllida didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding to his gibes. Instead, she gave a succinct explanation of what had occurred.

“For all I know, he or she could have jumped into anyone’s motorcar to run me down,” she concluded. “But as soon as it crashed, whoever it was got out and ran away. I was . . . understandably. . . a bit confused and out of sorts at the moment and didn’t see who it was.”

“Understandably,” he said. He’d turned back to the motorcar and was digging around inside once again with the help of the torch. “Does the name Winnie Pankhurst mean anything to you?” he said, emerging a few moments later.

“Oh, yes—that’s the woman who owns the general store,” Phyllida replied.

“Well, it appears she is going to need a good mechanic to get her motorcar running again,” Bradford said. He was holding a small stack of letters or papers in his hand; presumably, that was how he’d determined the name of the owner. “She’s obviously not one of your suspects.”

“No,” Phyllida replied. She sighed. “I suppose I’d best get over to the constabulary to notify them of Rita’s—death.” She pushed past the sudden lump in her throat and lifted her chin. There would be time for grieving the maid later tonight, when she was alone with Stilton and Rye—neither of whom would ever consider going about randomly licking people who didn’t like them with their sandpaper tongues.

“Perhaps I could go and report it, and you could sit in the Daimler, and, er, review your clues, Mrs. Bright,” Bradford suggested.

Later, Phyllida might be mortified by how eagerly she accepted his suggestion, but for now, she wasn’t going to think about that. “Yes, I do think that would be a good use of my time,” she said, suddenly very weary when she thought about how far it would be to walk back to St. Wendreda’s, where the Daimler was surely parked.