Crowding in next to her and effectively blocking the vicar from edging in closer was Louis Genevan, who was holding two glasses of champagne in one hand whilst clamping a cigarette between two fingers of his other. Presumably one of the vessels had belonged to Mrs. Rollingbroke before she forsook it in favor of note-taking.

Louis Genevan was an antiques dealer from London who divided his time between Listleigh and his little shop in Belgravia. He was an elegant, well-groomed man with brown skin and a widow’s peak hairline. His dark hair swept back from a high forehead in attractive raven wings above slender, dark brows.

Due to his business, he purposely wore clothing accessories several decades out of style, but nonetheless always managed to appear as if he were at the forefront of modern fashion. Tonight he had chosen a crimson brocade waistcoat with an ornate pocket watch tucked into it, paired with a high, stiff collar that dug into the bottom of his jaw. His cravat was tied in a manner that would have made Beau Brummell swoon. Mr. Genevan’s coat and trousers, however, were cut in a modern style. Somehow, the pairing of old and new was not at all offensive to the eye.

Phyllida didn’t recognize a group of five people clustered around Detection Club member Anthony Berkeley, and concluded they were amateur writers who’d paid for the fête but didn’t reside in Listleigh and weren’t members of the local club. Mr. Berkeley was a suave, handsome man, self-assured, well-dressed, and delighting in entertaining his small, adoring audience.

Dr. Bhatt was standing in the corner, speaking to Miss Sayers and Father Tooley. Or, more accurately, Dr. Bhatt was listening to Miss Sayers speak—and appearing to hang on her every word—whilst Father Tooley, the priest at St. Wendreda’s and the honorary host of the garden party, nodded along silently as he nursed a cup of tea.

Along with a thick head of ink-colored hair, John Bhatt had a glorious set of well-groomed jet-black mustaches that had attracted Phyllida’s attention the moment she saw them, during the unpleasantness several weeks ago when a dead body had been discovered in the library at Mallowan Hall. The doctor was an avid reader of Mrs. Agatha’s works, and Phyllida wondered if he’d fashioned his mustaches after the famous ones of M. Poirot’s.

As if reading her mind, Agatha murmured, “I venture to say, if Dr. Bhatt had more of an egg-shaped head and pale skin, he could be Poirot! Do you know, Phyllie, I’ve actually seen Hercule twice in my life?”

Phyllida was aware of that, for she’d been on a small steamer with Agatha the first time her friend took her arm in a sudden, tight grip and pointed out a man who did, in fact, look exactly like one pictured the brilliant detective.