“Yes,” replied Mr. Whittlesby. “Well, no, not exactly. You see, I encouraged him to try a Vieux Carré, and so he went to collect both of them, for I was loathe to interrupt my conversation with Mr. Chesterton. It’s so preposterously difficult to get to the man through all of the hangers-on you know, I didn’t want to step away. But you see, it was the same drink! And obviously one of them was meant for me! And my wife”—he shrugged the arm Mrs. Whittlesby was clinging to as if to indicate her identity—“why, she was just about to taste my drink when he died!”

Mrs. Whittlesby whimpered and clung more tightly to her spouse. Phyllida glanced over to see Mr. Dobble giving her a stony glare and making insistent gestures that she should attend to him.

“They were the same drink, but only one of them was poisoned, and Father Tooley happened to drink the poisoned one?” Inspector Cork said, as if pushing his way through some sort of murk. “How do you know that it was meant for you?”

“Inspector, I am the only person in Listleigh who has even heard of a Vieux Carré, let alone who drinks them.” Mr. Whittlesby’s nose and tone lifted condescendingly. “If a Vieux Carré was mixed at the bar, everyone knows it was meant for me.”

“Oh, Allie, I simply can’t believe it,” said Lettice Whittlesby as she looked around urgently. Phyllida noticed that her champagne glass was empty again, and that the hand holding it was very unsteady.

“Very well, then,” said the inspector. “I see your point, sir. It is quite concerning.”

Mr. Whittlesby tugged at the collar of his shirt, and his Adam’s apple bobbed and jerked. His face was shiny with perspiration. “It’s quite frightening, really, to realize someone has just tried to do away with you.”

“Oh, Allie,” said the clinging limpet. “It’s simply horrid.”

“Where is the other drink, then, Mr. Whittlesby?” asked Cork. “The second—erm—View-whatsits.”

“Why, that’s what’s even worse—Father Tooley brought it to me and Lettice took it from him whilst I was talking to Mr. Chesterton. Thank heavens she didn’t drink it!” he said, his eyes widening in sudden realization as his wife made a sound of horrified agreement.

“Where is the drink now, er, Mrs. Whittlesby?” asked Cork.

“Why, I—I must have set it down when I saw the tray of champagne,” she said. “I’d been looking for a footman and I hadn’t been able to find one. I prefer champagne, you know, but I don’t mind a real cocktail—”

“Where would it be if you did set it down, Mrs. Whittlesby?” The detective’s interruption was quite advisable in this case, Phyllida thought, for they needed to locate the other drink before someone—likely the murderer—disposed of it.