Phyllida held back a smile, remembering her parting shot to Inspector Cork. Of course, the butler really never did do it—except one time in Mrs. Rinehart’s book The Door, which, like Roger Ackroyd, had stirred up all sorts of hornets’ nests about detective writers “not playing fair” with their readers—quite outrageously, in Phyllida’s opinion. “Mr. Dobble will survive unscathed, I’ve no doubt,” she said, smothering a yawn.

“So someone tried to do in the lawyer bloke and got a priest instead,” said Bradford. “Who do you suspect, Mrs. Bright?”

“Whom,” she said. “And it’s far too early to have any informed opinion—even if I were investigating the crime, which, of course, I’m not—”

“Which, of course, you are,” he said, talking right over her. “No need to play innocent with me, Mrs. Bright. You could no more resist the urge to investigate a murder as I could resist looking under the hood of a T77.”

Since Phyllida had no idea what a T77 was—some sort of newfangled, sporty motorcar, she presumed—she merely sniffed. “I’m still developing my theories,” she said finally. “What is of paramount importance is to determine who had the means and opportunity to poison that bottle of bitters.”

“I expect you would be inclined to leave the visitors to Listleigh off your list of suspects, then,” Bradford replied.

“If I had a suspect list, any visitors would be far less likely candidates, to be sure,” she said, “but I wouldn’t discount them completely—I mean to say, if I were investigating the crime.”

He chuckled. “Of course, Mrs. Bright. And since I am completely mistaken about you investigating the murder, then you wouldn’t be interested in knowing whom I saw outside the courtyard gate during the cocktail party.”

Phyllida flattened her lips into a firm line, forcing herself into silence. She was simply not going to give his arrogant self the satisfaction of asking.

But, drat it, whom had he seen or noticed? Surely it couldn’t be that important, when none of the suspects had left the garden courtyard during the party.

Had they?

But of course they had—the loo was inside the rectory. Likely someone had made use of it.

And if someone had, Bradford might have seen them. Which likely meant nothing.

She grimaced. He was simply trying to wind her up.

When she remained mutinously silent, Bradford chuckled again. He was enjoying himself at her quandary, blast the man.

“I suppose you’ve told whatever you saw or heard to Inspector Cork,” she said primly.

“No, ma’am, I haven’t had the opportunity to do so,” Bradford replied breezily.

If he could have constructed any response that would have piqued Phyllida more, she couldn’t think what it would be. Drat him.

“Since Inspector Cork is going to be coming to Mallowan Hall tomorrow morning to finish his interviews—”

“Not tonight?” Bradford asked, interrupting again.