“Going to rain soon,” said Bradford, who’d easily slung a heavy table over one shoulder and was now setting it against the wall to be loaded and taken away.

“Yes, indeed,” Phyllida replied. “The paper lanterns will be soaked.”

“I’ll see to them before it rains, ma’am,” said Molly.

“First show me where you found the bottle, if you please,” Phyllida said.

As she trailed Molly over to the bench, Bradford followed. Phyllida suppressed comment, even when he came to stand next to them with his broad-shouldered shadow spilling over the bench.

“It was right there, under the rosebush,” Molly told her.

“Where no one would notice it until the gardener came,” Phyllida mused. As Molly went off to see to the lanterns, Phyllida stood there for a moment, trying to remember if she’d observed anyone standing or sitting in this corner. It was away from where most of the attendees had congregated, although the courtyard wasn’t so large than any area was left neglected. It also wasn’t far from the bar counter. There was a small, unobtrusive gate nearby through which the supplies of spirits and champagne had been delivered.

“Doing some detecting again, are we, Mrs. Bright?”

“We aren’t doing any detecting, Mr. Bradford,” she replied. “However, I am paying attention to small details that might come in handy for the investigation.”

“What is this about a bottle?” he asked.

Phyllida commenced to explain, reasoning that articulating what she knew and didn’t know would help to organize her thoughts.

When she finished describing the bitters bottle substitution, he made a thoughtful sound. “Poison in the bitters, is it,” he said. “Not a bad idea, that. And you’re certain it was nicotine?”

“Of course,” she told him. “Mrs. Agatha knows her poisons, and we all smelt the tobacco.”

“Stanley said the man had convulsions and seemed to be in pain in his belly,” Bradford said thoughtfully. “And that he hadn’t been feeling quite right earlier. Sounds more like arsenic.”

“I didn’t realize you were an expert on poisons, Mr. Bradford,” Phyllida responded.

“Not really,” he said. “But I do know about arsenic.”

And with that ominous statement, he turned to heft up the last of the tables, leaving Phyllida to glare down at the innocent rosebush that had obscured the bottle. Men like Bradford and Mr. Dobble, and Mr. Whittlesby for that matter—different though they were—always thought they knew everything, and that women were dunderheads.

And what precisely did he mean when he said, “I do know about arsenic”?

Phyllida realized she was grinding her teeth. She unclenched her jaw and smoothed the front of her dress. Bradford could make his little superior comments; she didn’t care one whit what he thought. She had more important things on her mind—like finding out who exactly knew what was in a Vieux Carré, and how someone would get hold of Monteleone’s Special Bitters.