“Of course, darling. Tracy will be here if I need anything,” she replied. “You must get back to the festival and find out whether they will be announcing the winner after all.” She gave him a weak smile.

“Ah, yes . . . I suppose I should mention that the calculations for the short story contest have gone missing,” Phyllida told them.

“They’ve what?” cried Mr. Whittlesby. “You must be mad—of course they haven’t gone missing! Why I saw them—” He stopped short. “I mean to say, I saw Father Tooley with them on—what day was it we were visiting him, Lettice?”

“I can’t remember,” she said vaguely. Lifting her uninjured hand, she pressed it to her forehead. “Perhaps yesterday? No, no, that was—”

“It was Wednesday,” her husband interrupted. “Don’t you recall? Before the Murder Club meeting.”

“Oh, quite,” she said. “And you say they’ve gone missing? The calculations? The winner?”

“No one has been able to find them. You say you saw them when you visited with Father Tooley?” Phyllida asked. “Where were they?”

“Why, they were in his study! Right there on the desk.”

Right where Father Tooley had been eating the cake on Friday afternoon, two days later.

“Well, that’s very helpful. But they aren’t there any longer,” Phyllida said.

“Well, someone must find those contest results!” cried Mr. Whittlesby. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s simply preposterous that someone has taken them! That’s why they want to kill me, Lettice! It’s because they all know I’m going to win! And someone wants to do away with me so they can claim the prize!” By now he was stalking about the room, waving his hat. “I’ll bet it’s that damned foreign quack,” he said bitterly, and Mrs. Whittlesby gasped. “Always ranting on about his Dr. Graceley—and he does all sorts of experiments with poisons, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t put it past him, being a bloody infidel—”

“John Bhatt would never do such a thing,” Phyllida snapped, unable to keep her emotions in check any longer. “And you ought to think very carefully about making such boundless accusations, Mr. Whittlesby. As a solicitor, you must be very well versed in the principles of defamation law.” She wanted to say more, but held back. An intolerant, overbearing, nasty man he was indeed!

Mr. Whittlesby gave her a withering look but kept his mouth closed. Perhaps he saw the fury in her eyes. “Well, I certainly hope someone finds those contest results very soon,” he said after a moment. “Because I want my bloody publishing contract.”

Phyllida had a number of other things she wanted to say to him—and in a loud, biting voice—but she controlled the urge. “You must have seen the results of the contest then, Mr. Whittlesby—to be so confident of your win.”