“Mr. and Mrs. Whittlesby attend St. Wendreda’s, not St. Thurston’s,” said Phyllida. “Is that part of the reason Mr. Billdop didn’t like him?”

“Only because they give a lot of money to St. Wendreda’s,” said the housekeeper. “They and the Rollingbrokes, you know. I hear about that all the time. Why none of the rich people in Listleigh come to St. Thurston’s, and that’s why St. Wendreda’s has an orphanage.”

Phyllida wasn’t certain how Mr. Billdop felt about the Mallowans—neither of whom attended church regularly as Mr. Max was Catholic and Agatha was Anglican. “Did anything strange happen over the last few days with Mr. Billdop? Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Only the cake, ma’am. And I wouldn’ta thought anything of it if poor Father Tooley hadn’t died from a poisoned one.” The vicarage housekeeper shrugged. “For all I know, Mr. Billdop ate it all hisself and didn’t want no one to know about it. Wouldn’ta put it past him; he was very anxious about meeting all of the writers yesterday. Wouldn’ta been the first time someone stuffed themselves up with sweets.”

“Any grease or oil spots on his clothing or shoes? Or geranium leaves?”

“No, ma’am, not that I’ve noticed.”

“Very well, then.” Phyllida looked around the small cluster of servants, satisfied that she’d asked everything she meant to, and content with what she’d learned.

Things were starting to fall into place, and her little gray cells were working deftly to fill in the holes.

Now, if she could only find the short story scoring sheets.

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

Saturday evening

AFTER SHE FINISHED SPEAKING WITH MOLLY’S GROUP OF FRIENDS, Phyllida turned her attention from murder investigations to the Murder Fête, or, more specifically, the closing down of the festival for the evening.

By all accounts, the second day of the fête had been a great success, despite its temporary suspension due to rain and the tragedy of two deaths related to the festival. But when it was time for the attendees to return to their houses, that meant Phyllida’s work was only beginning.

There were tents to dismantle, booths to close up, unused books (fortunately there weren’t many of them) to box away, chairs and tables to fold and store, and a myriad of other tasks.

Tomorrow’s final event would be a small, informal tea served on the green, with a public speech about the mystery genre by Mr. Berkeley—which was one more opportunity for people to make donations to the orphanage. At that time, as the local celebrity, Agatha Christie would award the funds to the orphanage director (a brief yet simple task that she had agreed to conduct). Mr. Berkeley was meant to announce the short story prize winner at the same time.