“I’m not staff,” Phyllida replied smoothly. She was reading the first page of the story. She frowned, then went on to the second and third pages. By the time she’d finished the fifth, she could force herself to read no further, and replaced the stack of papers. She couldn’t help but wonder why those pages hadn’t found their way into the waste can, for the contents of the crumpled one she’d fished out had been far more compelling than the pristine pages on the desk.

Perhaps Mr. Whittlesby was a ten-draft writer, and these were his first attempts at a new story.

Or perhaps he was more liberal in borrowing ideas from the likes of Miss Crowley—and presumably others in the Murder Club—than anyone realized. That would be an excellent motive for murder, especially if the odious man won the short story contest with someone else’s idea.

Drewson, who’d been watching her in dismay, relaxed when she straightened the stacks of papers and walked away from the desk to survey the books that stuffed Mr. Whittlesby’s bookshelf: murder novels; history books; tomes on chemistry, anatomy, medicine, and mechanics; and an extensive collection of volumes on the law. Precisely what she would expect from a murder writer who did his research.

She did extract Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence from its place on the shelf and flipped through the heavy volume about medical forensics, toxicology, and how to use such analyses within the English court system. Notations in the margin indicated that Mr. Whittlesby was a particular fan of strychnine poisoning, as well as arsenic.

She replaced the book. Every other murder writer likely had a copy of the same or a similar title; she knew Mrs. Agatha did, despite her personal and extensive knowledge of poisons. It would be interesting to look at the copies belonging to all of the suspects and determine whether any of them had nicotine as a preferred poison.

“Is there anything else, Mrs. Bright?” asked Drewson. He sounded a bit nervous and kept looking through the front window. “Mr. Eugene’s bedroom, perhaps?”

She nodded thoughtfully. Might just as well be thorough. She didn’t think Mr. Eugene and Mrs. Alastair had been having an affair, but it would be worth her time to survey his personal effects in an effort to make certain.

To her surprise, Mr. Eugene Whittlesby kept a bedroom that was quite neat and orderly. Since his brother didn’t allow him the ability to drive either of his motorcars, it was logical to expect he hardly allowed him access to the butler as a valet. Thus, the younger Whittlesby brother likely took care of his own things. Phyllida approved.