At least this time, the constable didn’t seem to find the situation as amusing as he had done previously, when Phyllida telephoned to report that a dead body had been found in Agatha Christie’s library. Although when Constable Greensticks realized Father Tooley’s poisoning had occurred at a gathering of murder writers, his eyes did widen a bit and his mustache spasmed as if he were attempting to control a guffaw.

The constable was accompanied by another figure familiar to Phyllida, and for the same reasons: Inspector Cork.

She was mildly surprised that the investigator was already here in Listleigh instead of needing to be called in, but made no comment. During their previous interactions, her initial impression of the inspector had been that he seemed too young to be an accomplished murder solver. The smattering of freckles over his face gave him a youthful look even though he was in his thirties, and his slightly protuberant eyes suggested that he was always in a state of mild shock.

As the policemen spoke to Dr. Bhatt, Phyllida realized Mr. Dobble was attempting to get her attention. With an inward sigh, she made her way over to the butler. He was back at the bar counter, automatically arranging clean glasses and bottles of liquor to be at the ready. And quite so, for Phyllida expected the partygoers to suddenly develop a desperate thirst, all things considered.

“I suppose dinner will have to be pushed back,” Mr. Dobble said grimly.

“Indubitably,” Phyllida replied.

“Mrs. Puffley will be in quite a state over her lamb puffed pastry,” he went on. “Perhaps you should be the one to notify her, Mrs. Bright. You could telephone up to the house.”

“Of course, Mr. Dobble,” she said demurely. “I will be happy to relay your message.”

He looked down his nose at her, clearly comprehending her delicate implication that it was he who would be the recipient of Mrs. Puffley’s wrath or weeping, depending upon her mood, when she received the news that her fragile leg of lamb Wellington—an elaborate production done up with chicken mousse in puffed pastry—would have to be served hours late, if at all.

Phyllida was about to sweep off to crush Mrs. Puffley’s dreams in the name of Mr. Dobble when the inspector caught her attention.

“Mrs. Bright. We meet again,” he said in a tone that indicated he hadn’t forgotten she’d been the one to put all the clues together to identify a murderer during the last time a killer struck in Listleigh—including clues she’d delivered to him on a proverbial silver platter.

“Good evening, Inspector Cork,” she replied, eyeing his untidy mustache with disapproval. “Unfortunately, I cannot say that it is a pleasure to see you again, considering the reason for your presence. Poor Father Tooley.”