Ignoring Bradford’s proffered hand, Phyllida rose gracefully as Rita lapsed into sobs once more. This time, her wailing was accompanied by expressions of disbelief and fear over her narrowly averted demise.

Bradford stood as well, and before Phyllida could look away, he met her eyes.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” she said in a voice that was a little unsteady.

“I told you it was arsenic.”

She bristled. “That’s not certain—”

He scoffed.

She spun away and walked over to what was left of Father Tooley’s cake. It was on the credenza behind his desk, as if the priest had turned from reviewing whatever he’d been working on in order to sample the delectable pastry, then swiveled back to the workspace. The cat prints and uneven edges of the dessert left no doubt that Saint Aloysius had helped himself to a generous portion. However, that fact that more than half of the cake was gone indicated Father Tooley had previously decimated a good bit of the treat.

She could understand why. The confection had been a beautiful, delicious-looking thing, composed of three layers of white sponge approximately six inches in diameter. One filling between two of the layers was a generous slathering of strawberry jam, whilst the other two layers were divided by chocolate mousse. A frosting of white royal icing glittering with sugar finished it, with a layer of strawberry jam spread over the top like a glistening red mirror. It wasn’t particularly fancy, but it did look delicious. Even Phyllida, who was sensitive to the lessening definition of her waistline, would have been hard put to resist.

“Rita,” said Phyllida sharply.

“Y-yes, ma’am?” said the girl.

“Where did this cake come from?” she asked, aware that Bradford was poking around at the papers on Father Tooley’s desk.

Now who was investigating?

“I-I’m not certain, Mrs. Bright. It was delivered yesterday, in the morning.”

“Who delivered it? What time did it come?” Phyllida pressed. “Tell me everything you remember about it.”

“I . . . I . . .”

Phyllida silently applauded when Rita drew in a shaky breath, apparently attempting to collect her thoughts. After a moment, the maid spoke carefully.

“It come in a white box, Mrs. Bright. With a note that said something like, ‘Compliments of the Detection Club, with our thanks.’ Father said as how it must have been a thank-you for him letting all of the festival events happen here at the church. He was all proud about it happening here instead of at St. Thurston’s, you know. But St. Thurston’s doesn’t have an orphanage that needs a new roof—or, even, anything that does, so it was out of the question having it there. It was the bakery delivery man from Panson’s what brought it. Benny is his name.”