Just then, Phyllida noticed that one of the Japanese lanterns needed to be relit, and as she did not see any footmen with a tray of champagne to replace Mrs. Whittlesby’s empty glass, she gratefully excused herself to attend to both. She thought it best to slip away before Mr. Whittlesby expressed his opinion about a housekeeper attending a cocktail party, for there was still champagne in Phyllida’s glass available to be tossed onto a snobby nose if the need arose. Still holding the drink, she headed for the unobtrusive side door that led to the small kitchen inside St. Wendreda’s rectory, where the maids and footmen were waiting for instruction.

“Mrs. Bright, what are you doing with that?”

Phyllida managed—only barely—to keep from gasping in surprise as Dobble materialized before her. She had just pushed through the door and there he was: standing in front of her like a skeletal sentry, eyeing her glass of champagne as if it were poison.

Dobble wasn’t all that slender, but he was tall with long arms, a long torso, and legs that were ill-proportioned compared to the rest of him. He did have very pale skin, a bald head with an angular jaw, and a depression above his left ear that had earned him the nickname Ol’ Dent, used secretly by the staff. When dressed in dark clothing—as he always was—he did give off a sort of skeleton-like impression. He was holding a bottle of spirits in one hand—presumably not for himself, but for the bar outside.

“Why, good evening, Mr. Dobble,” she replied, neatly avoiding his question, as well as his person, as she slipped past him into the small kitchen. When had he arrived? she wondered. “How kind of you to be here to assist with the footmen and serving.”

The Murder Fête was big news in Listleigh, and this cocktail gathering was the most anticipated event of the weekend aside from the announcement of the grand prize winner. Neither Phyllida nor Dobble wanted anything to go wrong, for the local club’s sake as well as Mrs. Agatha’s.

“Mrs. Bright, why are you imbibing whilst on duty, and what are you wearing?” he demanded.

“Why, it’s a cornflower-blue crepe afternoon dress with a yoke waist, shirred bodice, and pleated capelet sleeves, Mr. Dobble,” she replied with a bright smile. “I particularly like the bit of braid trim at the waist and over the shoulders,” she added, brushing her fingers over the decorative detail. “How kind of you to ask about it.”

She fancied she could hear Dobble grind his teeth, even over the noise of the revelry outside and the clattering of dishes in the kitchen.

“That attire is not appropriate for a housekeeper,” he replied stiffly. “It’s far too . . . too . . .”