“Do tell him, Allie,” Mrs. Whittlesby said, giving the arm to which she clung a little shake. She appeared to be close to tears. “Do.”

“Right, then,” said her husband, seeming to brace himself up. “Of course I must. It’s only that . . . someone’s tried to murder me!”

Phyllida’s brows lifted and despite the fact that Mr. Dobble was once again making agitations from across the way as if he wanted to speak to her, she wasn’t going anywhere out of earshot of Alastair Whittlesby anytime soon.

“Someone tried . . . hmm. And when was this?” asked Inspector Cork.

“Why—why . . . only a short while ago,” Mr. Whittlesby spluttered. “Only, they got Father Tooley instead!”

The inspector pursed his lips beneath a mustache that hadn’t been approached by a pair of scissors in weeks. “You’re saying whoever poisoned the priest meant to poison you instead?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying,” replied Mr. Whittlesby. “I was the intended victim, not Father Tooley!”

“Tell him, Allie,” pressed Mrs. Whittlesby. “Tell him! Tell him about me, too!”

“The priest collected both of our cocktails from the bar, and he took a drink from one of them as he brought them over.” As the solicitor went on, his voice spiraled up in volume and pitch. “And then he died. That drink was meant for me—I mean to say, Inspector, someone is trying to kill me!”

“All right, all right, then.” Cork held up a hand. “Let’s just slow down a bit now and take this one step at a time. Constable,” he said, and Greensticks produced his own notepad and a pencil. “What exactly happened, Mr. . . . er . . . ?”

“Whittlesby.”

“Right, then. Go on now.”

“Father Tooley went to the bar to bring back our drinks.” He gave a little shudder. “Other than the occasional glass of champagne, I only drink Vieux Carrés—everyone knows that. They’re made with rye instead of whisky, along with cognac and vermouth and—”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” said Inspector Cork. “Why do you think he mixed up your drink with his? Didn’t the man know his own cocktails?”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand!” Mr. Whittlesby said. “Father Tooley is—er, was—not quite an accomplished drinker. I mean to say, he usually confines—confined—himself to a small glass of port, but it seemed that tonight he wanted to try something different.”

“And so he drank yours and died.”