“I c-can’t believe it,” Rita said as she sank onto a chair at the small table. “Wh-who would do such a thing?” Tears streamed freely down her rectangular, freckled cheeks. The poor thing either didn’t have a handkerchief or couldn’t summon the energy to find it. Phyllida offered her a napkin, for her own handkerchief was currently wrapped around a murder weapon. “F-Father was such a nice man.”

“It was an accident,” she told Rita, deciding it was best to get the correct information disseminated immediately. She knew that servants—well, everyone—liked to gossip, and it was always Phyllida’s opinion that if people were going to buzz about a scandal, at least they should be buzzing with facts. Aside from that, she knew everyone in the vicinity of the courtyard had already heard Mr. Whittlesby’s revelations. “The drink Father Tooley had was poisoned, but the poison seems to have been meant for Mr. Whittlesby.”

Rita gawped at her. “How arful. How arful. Me mum keeps saying how this world is goin’ to the devil in an oak barrel, and she’s right! And now poor Father Tooley—he’s gone!”

Phyllida soothed the grieving maid by offering a cup of tea and telling her she could remain inside and help tidy up after she’d had a moment to collect herself.

Just as she was about to send for Stanley and Molly to put out the lanterns, Dr. Bhatt came into the kitchen.

“Phyllida,” he said. She’d given him permission to use her familiar name after the second time they’d met for tea at the café, but she preferred he not do so in front of her staff. “I have been looking for you.”

“What a horrible thing to have happen,” she said with great feeling. “I wonder if the inspector will cancel the rest of the event.”

Dr. Bhatt grimaced a little. “He has not said, but I hope not. Father Tooley would want the fundraiser to go on, for the money will help the orphans.” English was not his first language, but he spoke it fluently and formally, with only the faintest of accents.

“I do hope you’re right,” she replied.

“The inspector has given me permission to take a small sample from the cocktail to test for poison,” Dr. Bhatt went on with a gleam in his dark eyes. “I can do it much faster than him sending off to London. But Scotland Yard will test it as well, in order to confirm my results. I suppose that is only right, for I suppose I am a suspect as well the attending coroner.”

“I suppose we all are,” murmured Phyllida. Then she gave him a curious look. “I didn’t realize you had the capability to do that sort of testing.”