“No, no, no. Don’t you see? It had to be belladonna! Did you not notice the way he shivered and convulsed?”

“But his face wasn’t red, and he wasn’t hallucinating—and aren’t those signs of belladonna poisoning? Cyanide kills quite quickly—a man just drops to the ground with a lethal dose.”

“Then he should smell of bitter almonds.”

“Well, I’m not about to get close enough to smell him.”

Because she needed something physical to do while her mind attempted to focus, Phyllida picked up the broken pieces of the glass Father Tooley had been holding. It had shattered on one of the walkway stones. Though on its side, the bottom was mostly intact, and a bit of dark brown liquid remained collected in the vessel.

Although she was wearing gloves, Phyllida used her handkerchief when she picked up the fragment. When she brought it to her nose and sniffed its contents, she smelled rye whisky, something heavy and cloying, and the definite scent of tobacco.

Phyllida rose abruptly and sought another face in the crowd. As if reading her mind, Agatha met her gaze, then her attention dropped to the handkerchief-wrapped cup Phyllida was holding.

Hushed discussion about poisons and the employment thereof continued among the writers, and no one seemed to notice as Phyllida swiftly made her way to Agatha, where she stood with Mr. Max and Mr. Chesterton. Agatha was not taking part in the discussion; she was still watching Phyllida, and as her friend approached, Agatha eased away from the men, both of whom wore grave expressions.

Without speaking, Phyllida handed the handkerchief-wrapped glass to Agatha.

Also properly gloved, she took it, then sniffed the contents. Her eyes widened, and Phyllida nodded in agreement and acknowledgment.

“Nicotine,” Agatha said. Then, projecting a little more loudly, she said again, “Nicotine. There was nicotine in his drink.”

Everyone turned to look at her, and Phyllida saw Agatha reach to take her husband’s arm as if to anchor herself whilst she was under the unrelenting gaze of so many people.

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Whittlesby, as his wife whimpered next to him. His face was white. “Nicotine? Are you quite certain?”

“There is the distinct smell of tobacco in Father Tooley’s drink,” Phyllida said in her crisp, no-nonsense tone. “Which, of course, is a strong indicator of a great amount of nicotine.”

“But nicotine isn’t deadly,” said the vicar, fingering the cleft of his plump chin. “Is it?”

“The gardener sprays it on our flowers to keep the pests away,” said Mrs. Rollingbroke. Her large hazel eyes sparkled beneath the hat Phyllida coveted as she whipped out her notebook from the depths of her large pocketbook. “I didn’t realize it was deadly to humans as well.”