PHYLLIDA SAT QUIETLY IN THE DAIMLER AS BRADFORD NAVIGATED the twenty-minute drive back to Mallowan Hall. They were the only vehicle on the narrow road, which was enclosed by hedgerows and tall grasses that grew several feet taller than the roof. It was well past ten o’clock, and the headlights cut into the night shadows, illuminating a darting rabbit and little else. The rain was steady but light enough not to obscure the driver’s vision.

It was the first time she’d been able to sit since she’d arrived at St. Wendreda’s in the very same vehicle. Molly and Rita were in the back seat, each with their heads tipped against their respective motorcar windows, and Phyllida envied the maids the ability to take a short snooze on the return trip.

She wasn’t about to give in to her weariness—both mental and physical—whilst in Bradford’s presence, for he’d certainly have some sardonic comment to make about a housekeeper sleeping on the job, or point out some other perceived deficiency. She had chosen to sit in the front seat, however, because the curving, bumpy, tunnel-like roads often made her queasy.

She was grateful that Bradford hadn’t brought Myrtle with him tonight, so she didn’t have to contend with the slathering, animated mop in a confined space whilst in her current mood, or worry about her chewing on her shoes.

In her only real concession to the long day—which had begun before dawn, an unusual circumstance, for she usually rose by half seven—and an even longer evening, once in the shadows of the vehicle’s interior she’d surreptitiously slipped off her shoes. Stifling a groan of relief at ridding herself of the high heels she wore only for social occasions and allowing her toes to wriggle inside their silk stockings, she tilted her head back against the seat and thought about everything that had happened.

There was much to consider, but one of the items that settled most prominently in her mind was the information about John Bhatt and his altercation with Alastair Whittlesby. The vicar’s description of the altercation seemed so far removed from her own experience with the physician that she found it troubling.

“How is Mrs. Puffley, then?” she asked in an effort to keep from dropping off—and to distract herself. “Has she recovered from the disappointment of the lamb Wellington?”

“Dobble’s got an earful from her,” replied Bradford. “Felt almost sorry for the bloke. It wasn’t as if he’d planned the murder, now did he?”