“What is it, then?” asked Phyllida.

“I-it’s Saint Aloysius,” cried Rita. “He’s dead! He’s just . . . dead!”

While a deceased feline was a tragedy in and of itself, Phyllida sensed there was something else wrong about the loss of Saint Aloysius.

“H-He was eating the cake! His paw prints are all over it . . . and now h-he’s dead! He m-must have died last night . . . all a-alone.” Several hiccups interrupted her wailing, but Phyllida was able to interpret her words nonetheless. “All by himself! And after Father—”

“What cake are you speaking of, Rita?” asked Phyllida. She was starting to have a very bad feeling about this.

“The . . . the cake that come for Father Tooley yesterday morning.”

The bad feeling became a certainty. “Did Father Tooley eat any of the cake?” she asked, thinking about the convulsions and release of bodily fluids that had gripped the poor priest during his last moments of life.

“Sounds more like arsenic.” Wasn’t that what Bradford had said? She gritted her teeth. Surely he was wrong. Surely there weren’t two poisons going about willy-nilly in Listleigh. . . .

“Oh, yes, ma’am, he ate a good portion of it. F-Father Tooley loved his sweets, he did, and—”

Phyllida couldn’t listen any longer. “Yes, right, I shall be there as quickly as possible. Don’t touch anything—”

“B-but what about S-Saint Aloysius? I c-can’t just leave him there—”

“Yes, you can, Rita. You need to. Do you understand me? Close up the room and I’ll be there straightaway.”

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

“WHAT’S THE RUSH, THEN, MRS. BRIGHT?” SAID BRADFORD AS SHE climbed into the motorcar.

Against her better judgment, she’d taken a seat next to him in the front. She couldn’t risk sitting in the back and feeling nauseated by the time they arrived at St. Wendreda’s. She knew she would need all of her faculties once she got to the crime scene, for she was quite certain the death of Saint Aloysius was murder.

“There’s a dead cat up at the rectory, and Rita is quite overset about it,” she said. “Could we please drive rather quickly then, Mr. Bradford?”

He gave her a curious look but set the vehicle into motion. She settled back into the seat, her thoughts whirling.

Unfortunately, the driver’s silence was far too brief, for they were just turning onto the lane that led into Listleigh when he spoke again. “I can’t help but wonder why the eminently practical and persnickety Mrs. Bright would rush up to a church to see to a dead cat when she has so many other things to manage.”

Persnickety?

“You may wonder all you like, Mr. Bradford—”

“I prefer just Bradford, no Mister, as you well know,” he interrupted.

“You may wonder all you like, Mr. Bradford—and there’s really no cause for such informality in my form of address—”

“Other than my personal preference,” he muttered.