“Oh! And I had just put together all of the scoring sheets again for you earlier tonight. But you don’t need them any longer, then, do you?” said Agatha.

Pleased at how easily she’d distracted her friend from ordering her off the case, Phyllida said, “No, no, I think it would be best if I saw them as well. Do you have the papers with you?”

Agatha did have them—tucked into her pocket—and she handed the small sheaf of papers over to Phyllida. “I didn’t do the calculations yet; I didn’t quite have the time—Dorothy and Anthony have been very insistent that we discuss the clues and the case. And G. K. just keeps soliloquizing about who would murder a priest! Just wait until I tell them about poor, poor Rita!” Suddenly, Agatha’s expression turned blank. “You didn’t speak to the inspector, did you, Phyllida? About Rita?”

“No,” she replied. “Bradford was kind enough to notify the authorities whilst I waited in the motor. I didn’t speak to them at all.”

Agatha nodded, and there was something about the look on her face that had Phyllida tensing.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s just that . . . they found the knife,” Agatha told her slowly and carefully. “The knife used to kill Rita. In the grass near the side door.”

Phyllida’s insides tightened. “And?”

“Its hilt was engraved with the initials J.B.,” Agatha told her, reaching over to cover Phyllida’s fingers with hers.

Phyllida’s breath caught.

J.B.

John Bhatt.

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 19

Sunday morning

PHYLLIDA SLEPT BADLY THAT NIGHT.

She knew John Bhatt wasn’t a murderer, but she was certain she would awaken to the news that he’d been taken into custody. The authorities in Listleigh had already demonstrated their ineptitude by arresting Mr. Billdop.

When she woke—if one could call it waking, when all she’d done was toss and turn all night in between nightmares about racing, blaring headlights bearing down on her—at half five, Phyllida surrendered to the day. She flung back the bedclothes on her bed and rose, dressing in a subdued forest-green frock and patting cold cucumber water over her face. The bags beneath her eyes were not an attractive look, so she added a bit of mascara to distract from them.

Fortunately, Opal would already be up and working in the scullery, so she rang for the young maid.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, arriving promptly at the door to Phyllida’s sitting room. “You’re up early, Mrs. Bright.”

“I am,” replied Phyllida, noticing with satisfaction that Opal was neat as a pin and seemed to be wide awake and energetic, even at six o’clock. She’d even brought a tea tray with her, anticipating Phyllida’s request.