“Two dozen will suffice,” Phyllida said. Two dozen was a generous order, and she anticipated that such a large order would likewise prompt a generous outpouring of gossip.

Mrs. Panson beamed with delight as she began to construct two of the larger pastry boxes by tucking tabs into slots. “Why, you’re going to wipe us all out of currant tarts, you are, Mrs. Bright. Milton!” she hollered back into the kitchen. “We’ll need more currant tarts now! I suppose they’re for the murder writers staying up to Mallowan Hall, aren’t they, Mrs. Bright?”

“Indeed, they are,” Phyllida replied. “Although I confess I’m particularly fond of them myself.” She smiled, for it was the truth, and the delicious smells and the sight of glistening tarts and rolls and other pastries were making her hungry. Her breakfast had consisted of a cup of tea and a single hard-boiled egg too many hours ago.

“Simply terrible about Father Tooley,” said Mrs. Panson as she carefully began to slide the tarts into one of the boxes, which Phyllida noted was larger than the one that had contained Father Tooley’s cake. “The poor man! I heard it was poison put in one of that Alastair Whittlesby’s fancy cocktails!”

Phyllida waffled for a moment about whether to reveal her suspicions to Mrs. Panson, then said, “It was a terrible moment. Everyone was quite shocked—and, yes, it does appear that Mr. Whittlesby had been the intended victim.”

“Poor Father Tooley,” said Mrs. Panson, still taking her time sliding the tarts into their cardboard homes so that she would have more opportunity to question Phyllida further. “He was a nice man—liked his sweets, he did. He’d walk over here most days in the morning after mass to get a small treat for his afternoon tea. His maid isn’t the best baker, you see.”

“Oh, yes, that reminds me—Father Tooley was enjoying a beautiful cake yesterday afternoon. It came in a Panson’s box, but I don’t see one like it in your case—it was a three-layer white sponge with chocolate mousse layered with strawberry jam, and more jam on top. Do you have another one?” Phyllida asked. “It looked delicious.”

Mrs. Panson looked at her in surprise. “No . . . we ain’t had anything like that for weeks, Mrs. Bright. You say he was eating it yesterday?”

“His maid said it was delivered by Benny at half ten yesterday morning,” Phyllida said. “In a Panson’s box.”

“Milton!” Mrs. Panson whirled and stomped over to the open door to the kitchen. “Did you make a three-layer white-sponge this week? With chocolate mousse? And jam?”