Since the official scores from Father Tooley were nowhere to be found, Agatha had promised to telephone Hugh Walpole and Freeman Wills Crofts to obtain their scores for the story contest, and then she and her guests would write up their own notations once again. All would be provided to Phyllida, who had offered to do the calculations when she returned to Mallowan Hall later tonight.

Phyllida sighed, surveying the takedown efforts happening around her. At the rate things were going, she wouldn’t be back to the hall until after eleven o’clock.

It wasn’t as if her staff wasn’t doing their jobs efficiently; it was just that there was a great deal to do, and Mr. Dobble had left with half of them in order to ensure dinner was waiting for the Detection Club members. Both he and Phyllida had agreed that it was of paramount importance not only for the guests, but for Mrs. Puffley, that a superb dinner was served this evening in light of last night’s debacle.

Phyllida was just about to go into the rectory to do her own search for the contest scores when she caught sight of Miss Crowley. Phyllida spun on her heel and started off toward the older woman.

“Miss Crowley,” she said as she approached.

The woman turned. “Mrs. Bright. What can I do for you? Have the score sheets for the story contest been found yet?”

Apparently, word had gotten around.

“I’m afraid they haven’t, but the Detection Club will announce a winner tomorrow nonetheless. They will simply resubmit their scores to me and I will do the calculations.”

Miss Crowley seemed relieved, then annoyed. “Not that it matters. That boastful Alastair Whittlesby is bound to win.”

Boastful. There was that word again.

Phyllida decided to plunge in. “Miss Crowley, I do believe you ought to tell Inspector Cork about your conversation with Mr. Genevan.”

The other woman stumbled a bit. Her eyes were wide when she looked at Phyllida. “What on earth are you talking about?” she said angrily. But Phyllida recognized fear beneath the anger.

“Your conversation with Mr. Genevan yesterday morning. About doing away with Alastair Whittlesby by poisoning his Vieux Carré.”

“But—” Miss Crowley’s face went white. “How did you know?” she whispered. “Did he tell you?”

“I overheard the two of you talking,” Phyllida told her. “At the time, I didn’t recognize the voices, and I didn’t know about whom you were speaking. But then Father Tooley died, and I realized later it was you and Louis Genevan who’d been speaking.”