“Murdered,” she told him. “Poisoned.”

His expression flickered. “Who was it?”

“Not Mrs. Agatha or Mr. Max,” she said, and was rewarded for her instinctive response by the slight lowering of his shoulders. Only then did he slip one of the cookies into his mouth. “It was Father Tooley, the priest here at St. Wendreda’s,” she told him.

Munching the pastry, Bradford nodded, then looked around. His dark eyes scanned the crowd in a manner that made Phyllida wonder what he’d actually done during the war.

“But it appears the poison was meant for Alastair Whittlesby,” she went on.

Bradford grunted in a manner that had Phyllida mentally shaking her head at his gaucherie. At least this evening he was wearing a proper chauffeur’s uniform, including gloves and cap—which, she knew, would likely disappear after he conveyed the Mallowans’ guests back to the house and was required to drive only herself, Mr. Dobble, and the maids. Bradford seemed to have a selective memory when it came to wearing hats and gloves.

“Mrs. Puffley is in quite a state,” he said, glancing at Mr. Dobble. The butler fumbled a glass that he was wiping, catching it just before it rolled off the counter. “Something about soft and damp pastry . . . ?”

“There’s nothing to be done about it,” Phyllida said crisply. “Puffley will have to realize that murder takes precedence over lamb Wellington. She does, after all, live in the home of Agatha Christie.”

Because he wore no facial hair, Phyllida saw the way Bradford’s mouth twitched, then quickly settled. “Right.”

“Unfortunately, your arrival is likely premature, Mr. Bradford,” Phyllida went on in the same tone. “I doubt Inspector Cork will allow anyone to leave in the near future.”

Bradford grunted again, then, without even a proper taking of leave, he strode off toward the authorities, who seemed to just now be extricating themselves from the Whittlesbys.

That man, Phyllida thought, then realized she was staring after him and turned away. Rita, the rectory maid, needed to be seen to. The poor thing hadn’t moved for the last five minutes, and her tray was beginning to tilt. Fortunately, it was empty.

As she made her way to the stricken maid, Phyllida saw that Bradford was assisting Constable Greensticks in preparing to remove Father Tooley’s body. At least he was making himself useful instead of eating macarons.

“Let’s take that inside now, shall we, Rita?” Phyllida said, sliding an arm around the girl and removing the empty tray from her grip.

Rita seemed startled by Phyllida’s presence, but she allowed herself to be directed to the door to the inside of the rectory. The girl, who could be no more than eighteen and was built like a boxer, was trembling, and she sniffled quietly as they went inside.