“Oh, thank you for saying so,” replied Digby, clasping his hands even tighter together. His eyes glittered with raw emotion. “That is quite a compliment, as M. Poirot is simply . . . well, parfait—as he would say—as is Madame Christie.” He gave a little chuckle that trailed off into a sigh. “I know I must sound silly, but Alastair Whittlesby is always picking at every little detail in my stories, and sometimes I simply can’t help but wish he’d run out of ideas, or that his words would dry up, or . . . or that his pages would get accidentally dropped into the fire and destroyed. Or . . . or that something would happen to him. Even though it’s not very Christian of me,” he added ruefully.

“Alastair Whittlesby is an unmitigated arse, and I have no qualms about wishing his papers would go up in flames—or worse,” Dobble said stoutly, for there had been more than one occasion when Digby had been near tears after a Listleigh Murder Club meeting. Mr. Whittlesby reigned as president of the group and, in his mind, as the as-yet-undiscovered Shakespeare of Detective Fiction. “From what his butler tells me, the man is no more civil at home than he is at the writers’ club meetings. Drewson claims the rows between him and his brother are something to behold.”

Alastair Whittlesby was meddlesome, opinionated, and oftentimes rude and cruel. But he was the only solicitor in the village, and his father had had a baronetcy and a bit of money, so the man thought himself above most everyone he encountered even though he was barely considered a gentleman.

“Even Wednesday, when we were all there at his house for tea and cocktails, he was simply insufferable. He’s so very certain he will win the story contest and the publishing prize—I’m certain that’s why he had us all there. To gloat in advance,” said Digby.

“Was everyone there?” asked Dobble. His attention slid—not for the first time—to the cake sitting on the counter, and he was feeling quite regretful that his friend hadn’t yet cut into it. A piece of whatever it was—a luscious white confection—would be an excellent partner to the tea he’d been sipping. Digby’s housekeeper was a formidable baker, a fact which Dobble would never even think of acknowledging in the hearing of Mrs. Puffley, who reigned in the kitchen at Mallowan Hall.

“All of the members of the Murder Club were there,” replied the vicar, seemingly oblivious to Dobble’s interest in an early-morning dessert. “Even Miss Crowley, who refused to touch even a glass of sherry.” Digby sighed. “If Whittlesby does win the prize, I might have to quit the club. He’ll be utterly intolerable! I just wish something would happen to him, to . . . to put him out of the way.”