“We heard about all of what happened to you last night, we did,” said the maid as she set the small tray with tea, toast, and a hard-boiled egg on Phyllida’s desk. She was conscientious enough not to muss or crinkle the papers that were spread out there. “I’m so very glad you came out of it all right, Mrs. Bright.” She was earnest, and her eyes—gray and clear like her name—were filled with emotion. “I don’t know what we would have done if . . . if . . .”

“Thank you, Opal. I am very glad as well.”

“And how Mr. Bradford and Myrtle came to your rescue! Why, that was such good luck they were there!” Opal beamed, showing the two front teeth she had yet to grow into.

Phyllida knew her smile had gone flat. Rescue, indeed. But if that was how Bradford was putting it about, she saw no reason to exert any energy to minimize his viewpoint—it would only give it more credibility. Aside from that, she had far more important things on which to focus.

“Is there anything else you need, ma’am?”

“No, thank you. I just have some papers to review,” Phyllida said, looking at the two piles of short story contest scores. “Please make certain if there is any news at all, if anyone should telephone, that I am notified immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Opal. She gave a little curtsy, then slipped quietly from the room.

Phyllida poured a cup of tea and added four lumps plus a generous splash of milk. She knew she would need the extra boost.

And then she set to looking at the short story scores. They were important somehow, and she was determined to figure out how.

The first thing she did was look at the paper she’d found in Rita’s pocket.

It was only the final score sheet, with the listing of each of the ten stories and the total scores for each on topics such as plot, character, tone, and overall. The pencil writing was in a fancy, old-fashioned male hand that Phyllida recognized from seeing other papers in Father Tooley’s office. They were definitely his calculations.

As expected, Alastair Whittlesby’s story had scored the highest overall and he would be the winner.

But. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed that some of the numbers had been erased—the small smudges on the paper were an obvious clue. Some of the numbers had been erased and then new numbers had been written in. It was a subtle difference, but Phyllida could tell by the width of the pencil markings and also the pressure with which they’d been written that altered numbers had been changed by someone other than Father Tooley.

Now she was getting somewhere.

Next to determine who had been the actual winner, based on the scores submitted.