“Oh, Inspector, I simply cannot believe this! Poor Father Tooley!” She settled onto the sofa with her pocketbook, her silky skirt billowing gently before it came to rest over all three of the seat cushions. The feather on her lovely yellow hat bobbed delicately as she spoke. “And now to be interrogated over such a thing—why it would be simply screaming if it weren’t so awful. Poor Father Tooley. He was such a nice man. He officiated at our wedding, you know. But I understand it wasn’t even the priest who was supposed to be killed, and that it was really Alastair who was the target!” She shook her head sadly. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Do you know anyone who might want to kill Alastair Whittlesby?” Cork asked.

“Me? Why, no, not really,” said Mrs. Rollingbroke, looking at him with big hazel eyes framed by false lashes. “No, not at all.”

“He gets along with everyone, then?”

“Why . . . as far as I know,” she replied. “Rolly and I have had him and Lettice up for dinner several times, and he’s always been quite civil.”

Civil, thought Phyllida—who was hovering in the corner near the door and hoping not to be noticed, for she’d quite run out of things to fuss over—was a word used to describe someone who was generally known for not being civil.

“What about his brother? I understand Mr. Eugene Whittlesby lives in the same house with Mr. Alastair Whittlesby and his wife and their mother,” said Cork. He glanced in Phyllida’s direction and she pretended to be adjusting a doily beneath a stack of books on the table near the door. “How do the two brothers get on?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” replied Mrs. Rollingbroke, flapping her hand vaguely. “I’ve only met Eugene a few times, and very briefly. He doesn’t say much; he’s rather one of those quiet types where you wonder whether he has too many thoughts to share, or none at all. Works for a film company, I think, though what he does all about here in Devonshire isn’t quite obvious—to me, anyhow. Oh, Mrs. Bright, there you are—could you bring me a cup of tea? It’s getting frightfully late, and I have had quite enough champagne.” She gave a tinkling laugh.

“Of course, Mrs. Rollingbroke,” said Phyllida, pleased for an excuse to stay longer, even if it meant leaving for a moment.

It took her only minutes to return with the tea, which she took her time pouring. She couldn’t have missed more than a sentence or two in the interview, for Mrs. Rollingbroke was talking about how the Whittlesby brothers still lived with their mother, and how kind it was that Lettice helped to care for the elder Mrs. Whittlesby.

Inspector Cork gave Phyllida an exasperated look but directed his question to Mrs. Rollingbroke.