THE WEATHER COOPERATED, AND THE MURDER FÊTE COCKTAIL party went off just as Phyllida—and the Detection Club—planned. The maids had hung Japanese lanterns in white and black (representing the printed page of the detective novels) throughout the little courtyard at St. Wendreda’s rectory. They’d set up circular, waist-high tables for drinks and ashtrays, and each was covered by a white tablecloth and decorated with intricate paper roses constructed from newsprint, in keeping with the theme. Beneath each flower vase was a piece of red felt cut into an amorphous shape to suggest a pool of blood. A squat black candle on a saucer burned next to each one—safely distant from the paper roses, of course.

The small, walled-in garden was filled with clusters of white rosebushes spilling countless blossoms and filling the air with their sweet, floral scent. Throngs of boxwood edged the space, and the pathways were dirt, edged by clumps of creeping phlox. It was just seven on a July evening and still light outside, so Phyllida had not seen the need to employ extra lanterns or strings of electric lights—although she had, of course, brought some.

Although the enclosed garden normally had only two benches, both situated near a statue of St. Francis of Assisi, for this evening’s event Phyllida had added three other wrought iron benches brought from Mallowan Hall, and placed small, low tables in front of them.

“You’ve really pulled this off swimmingly, Phyllie. The whole event, but this outdoor gathering is simply perfect. It looks so innocent and lovely,” Agatha murmured to Phyllida as she touched one of the fragrant rose blossoms. They were standing just inside the main gate to the courtyard so Agatha, arguably the most popular and famous of the writers, could take a short break from socializing. “One would never know there’s murder in the hearts of everyone here.”

Phyllida laughed. “Quite so! If overheard, the conversations would surely give Scotland Yard a pause.” She sipped from her glass of champagne—for Mr. Max had insisted she enjoy the festivities after all of her hard work—and surveyed the fruits of her labor, reminded of the conversation she’d overheard this morning.

She wondered which of the writers had been plotting to poison someone, and eyed the small crowd for suspects.

There was Mathilda Crowley, an olive-skinned woman of forty-five who was an active member of the Listleigh Murder Club. She had gray-threaded dark brown hair fashioned into a roll that settled around the back of her neck, and Phyllida knew that she wrote stories about a dashing young man named Filberto Fiero, who spent much of his time in the French Rivera. Dr. Bhatt had told her the stories were more fanciful than based in reality, but they had some entertaining parts . . . and some particularly gruesome murders.