“Clever,” he replied, and she wasn’t certain whether he was referring to her deductions or the murderer’s tactics.

“I suppose I’d best call Inspector Cork and have the rest of this cake tested for poison.”

“Arsenic,” he said, as if it were a foregone conclusion. “As I said.”

Phyllida gritted her teeth. “We won’t know for certain until the testing is completed. Dr. Bhatt has a laboratory at his surgery. Perhaps, in the interest of efficiency, he could do the test.”

“Have one of the suspects test the murder weapon? Are you daft?” Bradford’s reaction was quick and sharp.

Phyllida shot him a glower. She knew John Bhatt hadn’t added arsenic—or any poison—to anyone’s food. She knew it. But she supposed Bradford had a point. “Perhaps with some supervision, then,” she conceded.

Bradford snorted. “And who’s going to provide the supervision? His lady friend?”

Phyllida felt her face go hot, for his arch expression made it clear he was referring to her. Not only was she put out with Bradford for making such a snide comment, but she was furious with herself for reacting with a blush. Dear heaven, she hadn’t blushed like this since . . . well, since the last time he’d made one of his snide comments.

“I’m going to telephone up to Mallowan Hall and explain to Inspector Cork what I’ve discovered,” she said. “Perhaps he’ll want to supervise the testing.”

Bradford made another derisive noise, then turned to Rita, who’d been standing in the corner watching them with wide eyes. “I’ll dig a hole for Saint Aloysius, then, if you show me where. But surely he’ll need to be tested as well.”

Phyllida’s conversation with Inspector Cork was brief and to the point.

When she disconnected the call and replaced the receiver, Rita approached. “Ma’am, Mrs. Bright, I . . . there’s something else.”

“Well, what is it, then?” Phyllida prompted when the maid fell into silence.

“I . . . I think it might be important, now it seems that Father Tooley’s cake was poisoned.”

“Yes . . . ?” Phyllida said encouragingly after another pause.

“I . . . I think someone was here last night,” Rita said. “After we left.”

“Why do you think that?” Phyllida could never be a real detective; she had little patience for conversations like this.

“Some things have been moved. And . . . and there was a flower inside the door on the floor, like someone had stepped on it and it fell off their shoe. I know it was after because I had already swept yesterday. Before the party. And no one used that door last night.”

“It was the door we entered today?” Phyllida asked. She had seen the crushed geranium outside but hadn’t noticed a flower on the floor. Rita must have already swept it up by the time she arrived.

“Yes, ma’am.”