A Trace of Poison by Colleen Cambridge

Author:Colleen Cambridge [Cambridge, Colleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-07-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

PHYLLIDA WAS FULLY AWARE OF THE CLOSE FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN Mr. Dobble and Mr. Billdop. She’d suspected for some time that it might be something more than mere chess-playing on a weekly basis, and Mr. Dobble’s reaction certainly supported such a possibility.

Having been on the front lines with the troops—terrified and lonely men who’d done whatever they had to do to survive, remain sane, and find love and affection during the horrors of war—Phyllida had seen and experienced many things that would have appalled or scandalized her prim and proper Victorian ancestors. However, she herself had always lived by the tenet that what happened privately between two individuals was their business, as long as no one was hurt or injured.

With this knowledge and experience weighing upon her, along with her collaboration and association with Mr. Dobble, she chose her approach carefully. “Inspector Cork is wrong, of course. The vicar is not the least bit capable of doing such a thing. Surely you agree.”

Mr. Dobble shrugged, and that concerned Phyllida even more than his morose, vacant expression. A shrug coming from such a staid, stiff, unbending person seemed like a dismissal, a surrender.

“Harvey,” she said, doing the impermissible and using his given name in an effort to yank him from his stupor, “surely you don’t believe it.”

As she had intended, the butler’s attention snapped to her. “That is quite impertinent of you, Mrs. Bright.”

She merely smiled at him, albeit a little sadly. “Mr. Dobble, put yourself at ease. Mrs. Agatha has asked me to investigate the situation, and I have everything well in hand.”

There was a flash of Dobble’s characteristic superciliousness in his eyes, and then it faded. He frowned. “There was a cake—a white sponge—at Digby’s house yesterday. It’s gone now. And they found strawberry jam there at the vicarage, also mostly gone from the jar. And there was a nearly empty box of arsenic . . .”

Phyllida took in this information calmly. “Every household in Listleigh—likely in England—has strawberry jam. As well as arsenic for the rats! And might I remind you that vanilla sponge is a baked-goods mainstay.”

“He didn’t offer me a piece of cake,” Dobble went on steadily, still looking down at the table. “When I saw him yesterday morning. We always have a sweet with our tea, and he always offers me anything his housekeeper has baked.”

“I see,” Phyllida replied, remaining unconvinced. “And because of that, you believe Digby Billdop is guilty?”

Dobble shook his head and lifted his eyes. His gaze fastened on Phyllida with an intent, desperate look she’d never previously witnessed on the reserved butler. “He loathes Alastair Whittlesby. He told me yesterday he wished something would happen to the man. I . . . I don’t know what to think.”

“Why would he kill Father Tooley?” Phyllida asked. “Surely the competition between the Catholic parish and the Anglican one isn’t that lethal.” Her comment was meant mainly as a jest, although it was, in fact, true that the competition was rather heated.

“Digby was quite upset that St.

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