“It became obvious quickly on that Alastair Whittlesby was the intended victim, for reasons of which you are all likely aware— mainly that a bottle of bitters used specifically for his cocktail had been poisoned.” Phyllida looked around the room, took a sip of the tea someone had thoughtfully placed on the table next to her, then went on. “And so the authorities spent much time interviewing the attendees—for it became obvious that whoever had poisoned Mr. Whittlesby’s cocktail bitters had been at the party. Everyone’s movements were accounted for but did little to assist in determining who had placed the poisoned bitters on the bar counter. Anyone could have had the bottle in his pocket or her pocketbook, and everyone, at one time or another, was near the bar.

“The next morning, I was called here to St. Wendreda’s due to the death of Father Tooley’s cat, Saint Aloysius. Upon my arrival, I noticed that a geranium plant had been crushed near the front entrance of the rectory—the entrance that had not been used by anyone attending the cocktail party. Rita, Father Tooley’s maid, also indicated that there were geranium leaves and petals inside the front rectory door when she returned that morning and that they could only have been deposited Friday night, during or after the cocktail party. Someone had gained access to the rectory.

“That brought to mind the question of why someone would want to have access to the rectory after Father Tooley’s death—accidental or otherwise.” Phyllida looked around the room and settled her gaze pointedly on one countenance in particular. A countenance who was doing a poor job of appearing innocent and unbothered by her conjecturing. “It was someone who took advantage of the fact that the rectory would be empty overnight Friday . . . someone who’d been in this very room earlier and noticed a particularly nice table that had, at the time, been placed right there.”

Phyllida gestured to the spot next to the sofa where Sir Rolly and Mrs. Rollingbroke sat. “The table was missing on Saturday morning, replaced by the uninteresting—and inexpensive—round table that Sir Rolly is currently using for his ashtray.”

“Someone stole a table from the church?” Mrs. Rollingbroke said, sitting up sharply. “Why, that’s despicable. Who would do such a thing?”

Phyllida said nothing. She merely turned pointedly and looked at Mr. Genevan.

When he didn’t speak, she prodded him. “Not only was the antique piecrust table missing but also a footstool of some value, and three pieces of porcelain statuary. I suspect the individual might have intended to return last night for another sweep through the house and were foiled when they found the place quite lit up and overrun by the authorities due to the murder of the rectory’s maid, Rita, whom many of you saw on Friday evening.”

“Louis, did you take the table?” Mrs. Rollingbroke said shrilly. “And the other items?”