He frowned. Butlers were not supposed to show agitation. “The curious thing, however, is that it wasn’t the same bottle as before.”

“Indeed,” Phyllida said. “Now that is quite interesting.” Once again, she looked out over the courtyard. The sunlight was fading, and the inadequacy of the Japanese lanterns’ illumination would soon become obvious. She tsked to herself; had the cocktail party ended on time thirty minutes ago, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Now she had to either bring out candles and lanterns—fortunately, she had brought a supply from Mallowan Hall—or urge the authorities to move their interrogations inside.

However, at the moment, the authorities didn’t seem to be doing any serious interrogations, for they were still being subjected to the Whittlesbys’ theatrics. By now, the tone of the conversation seemed to have moved from shock and horror to remonstrations about widespread crime in Listleigh, people being murdered in their beds, and the responsibility of the constable to prevent it.

“So someone removed the bottle and later replaced it with another one containing the poison,” said Phyllida, returning her attention to Mr. Dobble. “Since the bitters wouldn’t be used except to make Mr. Whittlesby’s drink, their absence wouldn’t be missed—and no one else would be poisoned by it. But how do you know it wasn’t the same bottle of bitters?”

“The original bottle was more than half full, while this one, as you can see, only has some small amount left at the bottom. I suppose whoever added the nicotine might have emptied it out first so as to ensure that a high enough dosage was administered. The cocktail requires eight shakes. Mr. Whittlesby made certain I knew to count them,” he added grimly.

Phyllida nodded. “So either there were two bottles—one prepared already with the poison, or someone removed one and poured out a portion of the contents and added the poison. Had you made any of that particular drink for Mr. Whittlesby previously tonight?” she asked.

“No, he’d been drinking champagne.”

She was prevented from any further comment by the expected, but sudden, appearance of Bradford. He was here to assist with driving people back to the house. Mr. Max had motored down himself with his wife and Mr. Chesterton, but a second automobile was needed to bring the other guests back at the same time.

As was proper, Bradford edged his way into the courtyard from St. Wendreda’s kitchen, rather than through the main gate as a guest would do. He also held a pair of chocolate macarons in his hand, which wasn’t quite as proper. At least he didn’t have Myrtle with him. When he saw Phyllida, he started in her direction.

She resisted the impulse to smooth the yoke front of her dress’s waistline or check her hair. Instead, she lifted her nose a trifle as he approached.

“Someone died?” he said without preamble.