His mustache, which she’d previously observed was a barometer for his mood and reactions, bristled and shivered. “He did put his hand on me—it was rough, but there was no injury; he shoved at me a bit. I did not respond in kind. I am ashamed to say, however, that I allowed my temper to get the best of me, and I . . . I did make statements that could have been construed as threats.”

Phyllida nodded. “All right, then. We have established your motive—revenge, I suppose, for . . . for harsh words and a shove.”

John made an uncharacteristically rude noise. “If harsh words were a sufficient motive for murder, far more killings would occur.”

Phyllida gave him a sympathetic look. Dr. Bhatt was a proud, calm man, and she sensed this conversation was intensely uncomfortable for him—particularly with her, a woman whom she knew he admired. “I cannot disagree, but I am looking at this situation through the eyes of the inspector. You were physically accosted, embarrassed, and slandered in the presence of friends and colleagues,” she went on.

His thick, luxurious mustache thinned as he flattened his mouth. His dark eyes turned empty. “I was angry. I did not contain my temper well enough. I said things I should not have done. But I did not attempt to poison Alastair Whittlesby.”

She nodded again. “Does your housekeeper bake?”

His eyes revealed confusion, and then comprehension. “Yes, on occasion. But I most often acquire my desserts from Panson’s. I particularly enjoy the sticky-glazed tarts. I do not eat sponge cake, and my housekeeper has never made one for me. It is too English for my taste.”

“Very well.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “Since it wasn’t you, who was it?”

He was silent for a moment, then spoke carefully. “I have been racking my brain—that is the correct phrase, is it?” When Phyllida nodded, he continued. “I have been racking by brain since last night. No one likes Alastair Whittlesby, but he is a useful member of the Murder Club. He does offer constructive suggestions and criticism. There are times when his suggestions are not well received—particularly when he is pointing out very particular grammatical or spelling errors in a rough draft—but I cannot imagine Miss Crowley or Mrs. Rollingbroke being so upset as to try and kill him. None of us would.”

“And why Father Tooley?” Phyllida said.

“That is even more of a mystery to me. Who would wish ill on a man of religion?” He shook his head.

“When you were in the village yesterday morning, did you see any of the Murder Club members carrying anything that might have been the cake?” she asked.

“I did not, but Digby Billdop seemed rather startled when he came round the corner and saw me. I did not think anything about it at the time, but it was near the bakery.”