“The inspector felt it was too late to bother Mrs. Agatha and Mr. Max’s guests after such a difficult day. After all, it is ten o’clock and they all only arrived this morning on the early train. Since none of them know Mr. Whittlesby—except for the Mallowans, of course—it seems none of them would have a motive to kill him, and therefore speaking with them doesn’t seem as urgent.”

Phyllida was grateful Cork had decided not to continue his interviews tonight. She feared she was distracted enough to miss something important.

Perhaps the inspector felt the same way.

“He was too tired, was he?” Bradford commented with a snort. “Poor bloke needs his beauty rest.”

“As I was saying before you interrupted me,” she said in a voice perhaps a trifle louder than necessary, “since I’m certain to see the inspector tomorrow when he arrives at the house, I’d be happy to tell him whatever it is you believe you saw.”

“Well done, Mrs. Bright.” He glanced at her, flashing a grin, then returned his attention to the road. “That was a clever mix of apparent disinterest and an overly helpful but ultimately unnecessary suggestion. I can speak with the inspector directly once he arrives—I don’t need a housekeeper to act as messenger.”

Phyllida stared straight ahead, unwilling to give him even a hint of reaction.

Next time, she was definitely sitting in the back of the motorcar.

* * *

Mallowan Hall was quiet when Phyllida let herself in, a yawning Molly and the guest maid from St. Wendreda’s trudging on her heels. As always, they came through by the kitchen, an entrance accessed by going down three steps from the ground level and then through the door. Despite the fact that only servants and tradespeople used that rear entrance, the stairs were swept, scrubbed, and whitewashed every day by the scullery maid.

Today was no exception, and since it was dark and Mr. Dobble had kindly left the exterior lamp lit, Phyllida could see that the steps gleamed white in the light rain. Not a speck of dirt or dust marred them, either, so they must have been recently swept.

That was Opal’s work, and Phyllida smiled with satisfaction. The girl, who was thirteen, had been an excellent addition to the staff at Mallowan Hall. Phyllida had brought her on after one of the other kitchen maids had been murdered during the last investigation she’d been forced to undertake.

Not that Phyllida was undertaking any murder investigations at the moment, despite how stridently Bradford might accuse her. There was simply no reason for her to become involved—the murder hadn’t happened here at Mallowan Hall, nor were any of her staff involved, suspected, or in danger.

She simply had too many other things to which she must attend to be spending time chasing clues around St. Wendreda’s.