“Everyone was tired, but all they wanted to talk about was the murder and what kind of poison was used, so Harriet Puffley made certain they went to bed with full stomachs from something hearty and hot. ‘Ye can’t send’em to bed on a ’nempty stomach after the likes of a murder, and so ye’d best make something up fast,’ I told myself. Because a cold supper ain’t gonna do for a body after a shock like that!”

“Quite right,” replied Phyllida patiently. Although she craved the quiet of her cozy sitting room with her cats and a cup of tea fortified with a splash of rye, she couldn’t do that until Mrs. Puffley had exhausted her soliloquy.

“So what did I do, then? Well, I dismantled a good portion of that beautiful lamb pastry”—the cook’s eyes glistened with tears at the memory—“and made a stew from the meat. The chicken mousse added another layer of flavor, and of course I added onions and carrots and parsnips, and served it all up with a nice loaf of crusty bread.”

“That sounds delicious. Most resourceful of you,” said Phyllida, her empty stomach beginning to gurgle.

“Of course it was,” snapped Mrs. Puffley. “Stanley said Mr. Chesterton even commented on it. The best lamb stew he’d ever eaten. Why, I could’ve served that to Jesus and the Apostles, I could, and be proud of it!”

“Quite right,” said Phyllida with relief. The mention of Jesus meant that the cook had wound herself down enough to end the conversation. “I should very much like to taste it myself. Could you have Opal bring a tray to my sitting room?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Mrs. Agatha and Mr. Max and all of their guests have gone to bed already. I suppose you’ve brought Molly back, then?”

“She’s eating her own dinner, and I told her she could go up to bed after. We’ve got Rita, the maid from the rectory, staying here tonight as well,” Phyllida replied. “I trust the additional help I brought in for the weekend has been suitable,” she added to forestall any argument from the cook. Mrs. Puffley could be rather miserly about her kitchen staff, but Phyllida had pulled rank and conscripted Molly to help her for the entire Murder Fête weekend.

Murder Fête. How horrible it was to realize that what had been an amusing title for the event had actually come to pass.

“Sally’s not cut off her finger or spilt any of the batter, but she could be a trifle speedier with her work,” grumbled Mrs. Puffley. “Took her nearly an hour to peel half a bushel of potatoes.”

“I suppose one always wishes every maid to be speedier and more efficient,” said Phyllida with a sympathetic smile.