Phyllida made her way to Dr. Bhatt and found him carefully eating a flaky Cornish pasty. There wasn’t even a hint of crumb in his mustache—a feat that she found quite impressive. He smiled at her as she approached.

“Good afternoon, Phyllida,” he said, using her familiar name since no one was near enough to hear. He looked particularly dapper in a gray linen suit and snowy shirt with a striped gray and blue tie and matching pocket scarf. His ink-black hair was covered by a white fedora ornamented with a bright red feather.

“How are you today?” she asked, touching his arm briefly in greeting as well as support. Although she and John had been meeting occasionally for luncheon or tea, their relationship hadn’t progressed to anything more intimate than that. She knew John was more than receptive to such a development, but whilst she very much enjoyed him and his company, she simply had no interest in pursuing such a relationship with any man.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t care about him, or for him. And now, she couldn’t help but be worried.

Not for a moment did she believe that John Bhatt, who’d taken the Hippocratic Oath to “first, do no harm,” could have poisoned anyone. But the fact remained that he looked like a “foreigner,” and she well knew the prejudices that abounded in small village and large city alike. A man with dark skin and a slight accent would often be considered an outsider—and an easy scapegoat.

When he responded, “I’m worried,” Phyllida’s concern heightened.

She gave him a sympathetic look. “As am I . . . especially as it appears Father Tooley was actually poisoned by a cake and not a cocktail.” She watched his reaction closely in spite of herself and was relieved to see unabashed shock and confusion in his eyes.

“What are you saying?” he replied.

Phyllida explained, watching his eyes grow wider as she did so.

“Are you saying the man was poisoned twice?”

“That appears to be the case. I suggested to the inspector that, in the interest of time, he allow you to test the cake and the cat—”

“I would certainly do that,” he replied, the light of enthusiasm in his eyes. “I’ll finally be able to use my Marsh test equipment.” Then his delight faded. “I was able to test the small sample of bitters last night and found copious amounts of nicotine—as expected. But the inspector has already brought in someone from London to do the official testing. He arrived this morning. They’re using my lab to do the work, because of course I am considered a suspect—and so I cannot be trusted to do it—even with witnesses. They will not even allow me to watch them do the testing,” he added morosely.