Miss Crowley wore a severe, summer’s wool skirt and jacket of dark brown more suited for secretarial tasks than a cocktail party. Most of the other women—Phyllida included—were dressed in frocks of light, flowing material with bright patterns or solid colors, belted neatly at the waist, accented by shoes with high heels. Their hats were colorful and trimmed with lace and feathers, whilst Miss Crowley’s chapeau was little more than a squat brown box atop her head. In a single nod to adornment, there was a single small black bow affixed to its front.

Miss Crowley, who lived by herself in a cottage at the end of Firth Street, held a teacup in her gloved hands instead of a coupe or flute, and surveyed the garden as if trying to determine whether she should step into the fray or remain stationary. She’d positioned herself near the table of macarons and thumbprint tarts, however, and based on the sprinkle of crumbs at the corner of Miss Crowley’s mouth, Phyllida suspected the lemon, strawberry, and chocolate treats would win out over navigating through the partygoers.

Digby Billdop, the vicar from the Anglican church of St. Thurston’s, wore his customary owlish expression above a deeply cleft, pudgy chin that reminded Phyllida of a plump and rosy apricot. He was standing in G. K. Chesterton’s proximity—near enough to hear whatever the writer was saying, but seemingly unable to work up the courage to venture close enough to participate in the conversation. The vicar clutched a glass of champagne and nodded silently, his eyes fastened worshipfully on the creator of the most famous of parochial detectives.

Besides the hovering vicar, Mr. Chesterton was discoursing to an audience of two more, both of whom Phyllida recognized as the other members of the Listleigh Murder Club.

Vera Rollingbroke, an attractive blonde in her early thirties, was an enthusiastic and prolific writer of as-yet unpublished detective stories about an unmarried, wealthy lady nicknamed Bunkle and her cat, Mrs. Cuddlesworthy. (According to John Bhatt, there was good reason they were as-yet unpublished, for who would believe a talking cat?) Her hat was a cunning yellow disc of felt that sat atilt just above her left brow and sported a single dark blue feather tacked around its shallow crown, and Phyllida felt absolutely covetous about it.

Vera was married to the gregarious Sir Paulson Rollingbroke, familiarly known as Sir Rolly, whose family seat was just to the northeast of Listleigh. She seemed to have disdained gloves, sparkling wine, and macarons for a notebook, into which she was feverishly making notes. It appeared that she had attended tonight’s gathering without her husband.