It was a well-appointed room for a man who’d taken a vow of poverty. The furnishings were heavy oak and walnut pieces arranged over a red and blue Persian rug: a solid desk; three straight-back chairs; a long, low, glass-topped table; and a chintz-upholstered sofa that even Dobble might have admired for its ornately carved arms and legs. The curtains were still open, likely not having been closed in the wake of the priest’s death and Rita’s hasty abandonment of the place. A number of icons and other religious images decorated the walls, and the room held the faint smells of incense, sugar, and death.

Phyllida saw Saint Aloysius as soon as she stepped in, and felt a pang of grief for the still, furred figure on the floor near the sofa. He’d been a large brindled tom with a handsome, sleek tail. From his appearance—bulging, open eyes; contorted paws; bowed spine; protruding tongue—she concluded he’d experienced great pain before succumbing to what Phyllida was certain was poison. Most likely arsenic, she had to admit. Her conclusion was based on the time that had elapsed between ingestion and the death throes that had followed, not Bradford’s comments last night.

Bradford made a quiet sound behind her, then crouched next to the cat.

“Poor boy,” Phyllida said, blinking back tears. At the moment, she didn’t care whether Bradford or Rita saw them. The cat had died a horrific death, and she wouldn’t wish such a thing on anyone—even arrogant chauffeurs. She lowered herself to the floor, balancing carefully on her slightly impractical heels. “Poor, lovely boy.”

“Looks like he had a time of it,” said Bradford in a surprisingly quiet voice with the cat on the floor between them. “I’ll take him out if you like, Mrs. Bright.”

“Yes, if you would,” she replied, blinking rapidly and finding it necessary to use her handkerchief.

“I’ll sh-show you where to bury h-him,” said Rita, sobbing quite vocally. “I sh-should have stayed with h-him last night. I sh-shouldn’t have g-gone. The p-poor thing, all b-by hisself . . .” She ended with a loud hiccup.

Phyllida looked at her, tamping back her impatience over the repetitious whimpering. “If you had stayed with him, you’d likely have eaten some of the cake, now wouldn’t you? And then you’d be dead as well.”

Her words shocked Rita into silence.

“B-but . . .” The maid stared at her. Phyllida could almost see the thoughts unrolling through her head: Cake doesn’t kill people . . . only cats if they eat too much of it ... right? . . . So why would Mrs. Bright say so ... ? Here in the procession of thoughts Rita’s eyes went wide. Does that mean the cake was poisoned?—And here the maid’s jaw dropped. What if I would have eaten it, too?