Mrs. Puffley chuckled and mopped her face again with the towel. “It’s part o’ my prayers every night it is—‘speed up their fingers and hands without cuttin’em off, if you will, Lord.’” Her smile faded. “So it’s a murder, is it, then? Poor Father Tooley. I ain’t no papist, but there ain’t no reason to wish for a priest to be offed. Why would anyone do such a thing? Murder’s bad enough, but when it’s a man of the cloth, it’s a real sin!”

“It is quite awful,” Phyllida replied. “It appears a drink was poisoned and was meant for a Mr. Alastair Whittlesby, but the priest drank it instead. A terrible shame, but the inspector has agreed to allow the fête to go on tomorrow and Sunday as planned. Now, if you’ll have Opal bring up that tray for me, I’ll get out of your kitchen.”

“She’ll have it right up for you, Mrs. Bright,” said Mrs. Puffley. “We’ll all be glad when you’re back here instead of at St. Wen-dreda’s every day.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Puffley,” Phyllida told her, relieved that she could make her exit.

“You say Alastair Whittlesby was the intended victim?” said Mrs. Puffley suddenly. “Why, I know his cook, I do.” Her words stopped Phyllida in her tracks and she turned back into the kitchen.

“You do?”

“We have the same day off on Tuesdays and meet up for cards every fortnight whilst chaperoning the young’uns at the dance hall,” replied Mrs. Puffley. “Her name’s Mrs. Dilly, and she’s the one gave me that new tea biscuit recipe I’ve been trying out—the thin, flaky lemon wafers with the apricot compote centers.”

Phyllida knew exactly what she was talking about. “Thank you for the reminder—I’ll have Molly make more apricot compote,” she said with a smile. “They were delicious biscuits. Does the Whittlesbys’ cook talk about them at all? From what I’ve heard, Mr. Whittlesby and his brother don’t get on.”

“She’s looking for a new position,” Mrs. Puffley said, lowering her voice as if afraid of being overheard. “She don’t like working for them. Been there two years and she says it feels like ten.”

Phyllida’s interest perked up even more. “Someone tried to kill Mr. Whittlesby, so the inspector will be looking for motives.” She met Mrs. Puffley’s eyes and saw the light of interest in her gaze.

“Now you mention it, I might be needin’ to ask Dilly for some pointers about those lemon biscuits,” said the cook. “Mebbe I can find time to get away for a short while tomorrow after breakfast and ask her.”

Phyllida smiled. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Those biscuits have become one of my favorites.”

As she made her way up the stairs to her rooms at last, Phyllida suddenly froze.