He couldn’t seem to contain a small smile beneath his glorious mustaches. “Of course I am very interested in poisons and how they cause the body to react—being both a physician and a crime writer,” he said. “I have been building up my laboratory for that purpose for quite some time. I have even acquired all of the equipment for a Marsh test—that is what one uses to test for arsenic. If only I could have a sample from the body,” he said gloomily. “This would be a fine opportunity to actually attempt the testing from a real victim. It will be excellent research for my Dr. Graceley stories, for I’ve decided to outfit him with his own post-mortem laboratory.”

“How very dedicated of you, John,” Phyllida replied, having read several of Dr. Bhatt’s tales about a physician turned amateur detective. “I should like to watch the testing sometime, if I may.”

“Of course you may,” he replied, clearly delighted with the prospect. “Erm . . . perhaps if you approached the inspector about it, he would permit me to have a sample—just a sliver, of course—from Father Tooley.”

Just then, Bradford and Stanley came into the kitchen, saving Phyllida from having to reply.

“It’s getting dark out there,” said Bradford, whose attention went from Phyllida to Dr. Bhatt and then back again. One of his eyebrows rose. “Don’t want anyone to trip and fall; some of those stones are quite uneven. If you’ll permit, we’ll set out the lanterns, Mrs. Bright.”

Annoyed that Bradford had beaten her to the punch of directing the lanterns to be set out, Phyllida nodded. “Of course—I had just come in here with the intention of doing just that.”

“So I see,” Bradford replied dryly, looking at Dr. Bhatt as his brow lifted.

She refused to rise to the bait. “Thank you, Mr. Bradford.”

Dr. Bhatt took his leave, and Phyllida returned her attention to the matter at hand: namely, determining whether the crime scene needed to be kept intact, or whether her staff could begin to clean up the courtyard.

Back outside, she saw with approval that Molly had cleared nearly all of the glasses and was beginning to stack up the plates from the pastries. Inspector Cork must have given her permission. Stanley was refilling more champagne glasses—he’d moved from offering them on a tray to actually filling the coupes and flutes held by each of the guests. She had advised him of this tactic, which was meant to prevent dirtying more glasses this late in the evening.

“Inspector Cork,” Phyllida said, grateful to catch him making notes instead of in the midst of a conversation. “Would you like to settle inside, where there’s better light and more comfortable places to sit?”