“Did you have anything to drink from the bar tonight, Mrs. Rollingbroke?” asked the detective.

“I had several glasses of champagne, and that was quite enough,” she said with another laugh. “Rolly said he would pick me up tonight so I didn’t have to bother with driving—I do dislike trying to manage the motor anytime; I always seem to get grease somewhere on my frock or gloves! But especially when I’ve had spirits.” She leaned forward, and Phyllida caught a waft of champagne fumes when she spoke. “It was quite upsetting to actually see a murder. One always imagines what one would do when it happens—”

“One does?” said Cork.

“Why, yes, of course! One does think about it, especially when one is a murder writer—oh dear, that just sounds so horrible to say, doesn’t it? A murder writer.” She gave a dramatic little shiver. “It’s just that . . . when one thinks about writing a murder scene, one must put oneself in the position of observing all of the clues and everything about the scene—and imagining what the poor victim is feeling, and what the murderer is thinking and feeling—and now that it’s happened to me . . . I simply don’t know if I can continue on.”

“Continue on?” asked Cork a trifle nervously.

“Writing, of course. Rolly will be wildly disappointed if I stop, though,” she said, lifting the teacup to sip, then continuing immediately. “He simply adores my stories—especially the ones about Bunkle and Mrs. Cuddlesworthy—the cat, you know. She always seems to steal the scene. Rolly’s always the first one to read them, and he simply won’t look away from the papers until he’s finished, not even if dinner is ready.” She smiled, and Phyllida thought she saw the glint of happy tears in her eyes. “He really is such a dear man.”

“Right, then.” Cork seemed a bit lost, and so Phyllida took the opportunity to step in. “Mrs. Rollingbroke, forgive me for interrupting, but you’ve had Mr. Whittlesby and his wife for dinner several times. Did you serve him the particular cocktail he drinks whilst he was there?”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Rollingbroke replied with a smile, seemingly unbothered by Phyllida’s interference. Her lipstick had either been reapplied since her arrival that evening and subsequent imbibition of champagne, or had somehow remained in place. If it was the latter, Phyllida was determined to find out what brand of lip color had such staying power. “We don’t have the ingredients for it, but Alastair was quite understanding about it all. He drank whatever it was Rolly or Whalley—our butler—poured him. I don’t recall what it was. Probably whisky. Rolly has quite an extensive collection of ryes and barleys, you know.”

Phyllida had more questions, but she could feel the weight of the inspector’s attention on her, and the last thing she wanted was to be told to leave.