“And that I don’t have to do any speeches,” replied Agatha with a laugh. Then she sobered. “I do thank you for stepping in and sorting it all out. If you had not done, I fear G. K. and Dorothy would have insisted on staying another week—or more—in order to investigate!” She looked down at the scrawls she’d just made on the notepad. “Perhaps he’ll be a vegetarian,” she said.

“Who?”

“Why, Ivar or Sven or whatever his name is going to be. Mrs. Oliver’s detective, of course.” Murmuring to herself, Agatha turned and went back inside, leaving Phyllida alone with Myrtle, who was still attempting to acquire her attention.

“You’ve simply got to stop going about and telling people that you rescued me,” Phyllida told the mop severely. “It’s not at all accurate.”

To her surprise, instead of leaping up and nipping at the hem of her frock, or scrabbling at her shins, Myrtle plopped down in front of her. The creature looked up at her with its beady eyes, pink tongue unfurling from its mouth like a ribbon. The thing panted so hard Phyllida could feel the heat through her hose.

“Precisely,” she told the bundle of dark curls. Really, canines were so much more disorderly than felines. “I’m relieved we’ve come to an understanding. Now, if you’d only—”

“Are you lecturing my dog?”

Phyllida’s attention snapped up from one unruly dark mop to the matching dark head of Bradford, who’d just come from around the back of the house. He was, as per usual, without a hat, gloves, or coat.

The beast, catching sight of its master, bolted up and dashed over to him as if it hadn’t seen him for days. Unfortunately, despite Phyllida’s most fervent wishes, Bradford had not been the least bit absent since arriving at Mallowan Hall.

“We were merely discussing accuracy in one’s reporting of events,” she told him coolly.

“I see.” He didn’t appear to “see,” but Phyllida declined to comment. Instead, he directed his next comment to the dancing mop in front of him. “You needn’t listen to her, Myrts. We know what really happened, don’t we?”

Phyllida sniffed and turned away, prepared to go back inside and ensure that Mr. Dobble hadn’t removed any more chintz pillows, and that the maids weren’t standing about flirting with Elton. But, credit where credit was due . . . and so she paused and turned back. “Thank you again for your assistance, Mr.—er, I mean Bradford. You were quite helpful in a number of ways.”

Myrtle, who’d been pawing at its master, plopped down again in a restrained sitting position. Those beady eyes looked back and forth between the two humans.

Bradford gave Phyllida a wry look. “That must have been painful.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Thanking me for pointing out the arsenic bit.”