“Oh, that’s why I thought to ring you, Mrs. Bright. You said anything unusual, you did. It’s only, Mr. Alastair—he never has red jam, ma’am. He only takes orange or lemon marmalade ever.”

Phyllida’s eyes grew wide. “Now that is quite interesting,” she said. “Quite interesting indeed. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dilly. That is, I think, quite helpful.”

She replaced the telephone receiver and just as it settled into place, so did all of the little pieces that had been churning about in her mind—just like the tumblers of a safe when the correct combination had been spun: click, clank, clunk.

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 20

Sunday afternoon

PHYLLIDA WALKED INTO THE SITTING ROOM AT ST. WENDREDA’S JUST in time to hear Alastair Whittlesby.

He was complaining.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the man with a tone of self-importance. “What are they doing here?”

They, presumably, referred not only to Inspector Cork and Constable Greensticks but also Phyllida herself—as well as Mr. Dobble, Bradford, Molly, and nearly all of the household staff at Mallowan Hall.

There had been no keeping them away—the staff—and so Phyllida and Mr. Dobble had reluctantly agreed to allow them to attend what was supposed to be the announcement of the winning short story, as long as they served tea and whatever drinks the attendees preferred. The fact that seven staff members weren’t necessary to serve drinks to thirteen people was beside the point.

But obviously Mr. Whittlesby had realized there was something else occurring other than an unexpectedly large crowd to witness his triumph.

“Now, Allie, don’t make a fuss,” said Mrs. Whittlesby. She sat in a chair, one wrist still bound, face tight and drawn in an expression of what she’d been through in the last two days. “I’m certain it’s all fine. Surely they’re only here to serve everyone. I do hope they’ll bring another round of drinks rather quickly.”

Mr. Whittlesby grumbled a bit, but his wife’s explanation seemed to appease him, so he took the chair next to hers and waved over one of the footmen, who had a tray of sherry.

Phyllida glanced at Inspector Cork, who also did not appear pleased with the turn of events. Still, if he’d been the least bit competent at his work, she wouldn’t have to be giving the speech she was about to make. At that thought, she sought out Elton and Bradford with her gaze, lifting a brow in question. She was already certain her theory was correct, but it had been up to them to find the missing wire cutters so she could prove it.

Bradford nodded and lifted a small paper bag that presumably contained the wire cutters. Phyllida exhaled with satisfaction. If the cutters had been where she anticipated they were, then she most certainly was correct in her deductions.