“What did you think of the doctor’s story?” asked Phyllida, unabashedly hoping to get a hint of who might win the prize tomorrow.

“It was quite good,” Agatha replied. “There were several that were surprisingly entertaining and clever, although a number of others that didn’t quite cut the mustard. But it’s up to Father Tooley to tally all of the votes. It really is a good prize, you know, Phyllie. Publication not only here in England, but across the ocean as well. I would have killed for that opportunity when I first started.”

Phyllida smiled. “I’ve always thought writers to be quite bloodthirsty, so I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

The two laughed, then Agatha sighed. “Oh drat. Here comes my darling and faintly disloyal Max delivering Alastair Whittlesby to me after I’ve managed to avoid him the past hour. But I suppose poor Max didn’t have a choice, did he? Alastair Whittlesby is like a barnacle.”

Mr. Max was more than ten years younger than his famous wife and was a devoted archaeologist. The couple had met when Agatha went on a trip to Mesopotamia and stayed with some mutual friends. Mr. Max gave his wife an apologetic smile as he approached with Alastair Whittlesby, who had a long, slender nose, thick gray hair, and thin lips that always seemed to be expressing distaste or displeasure. He was dressed in a fine bespoke suit that nonetheless seemed strangely ill-fitted about the middle, where it hung slightly askew. He had an air of self-importance as he approached, waving away the smoke from his cigarette with an impatient gesture.

Mr. Whittlesby’s wife, Lettice, who was a pretty if faded-looking woman at least ten years younger than his fifty, clung to his arm with one hand—which could account for the strange bunching of his tailored coat—whilst gripping a champagne coupe with the other. A handbag dangled from her elbow and her hat was just the slightest bit askew. Her bright pink lip color was smudged a bit at the corner, which made Phyllida itch to apply her handkerchief to the smear.