When Mr. Chesterton and Miss Sayers learned that Phyllida had identified the murderer, they insisted she give the explanation in a public setting, filled with the suspense of how she’d come to her conclusions and pinpointing the culprit at the end of it all—just as any of their fictional detectives would have done.

“It’s only right,” said Miss Sayers in her grandiose fashion, hands fluttering, robe-like frock shivering. “This was a murder—no, a series of murders—taking place at a festival of murder writers. What else would be more fitting than to have an actual denouement speech?”

Mr. Chesterton, tickled by the irony of it all, had heartily agreed, although Mr. Berkeley gave Phyllida a look as if he wasn’t certain a housekeeper—that is, a female—would have been able to figure it out if he and his colleagues hadn’t done so.

But it was Mr. Max who’d informed Cork and Greensticks that they should be present whilst Phyllida explained what they should have figured out for themselves. And it was Mr. Max who now watched the room carefully, as if prepared to jump to her defense at any given moment. Phyllida had a moment to reflect on how grateful she was for Agatha and Mr. Max as not only her employers but also her friends. As if reading her mind, Agatha sent her a broad smile and fluttered a little wave from her lap.

“What are we doing here?” said Miss Crowley. “Surely . . . surely the contest isn’t about to go on, after . . .” She gave Phyllida a careful glance, then dragged her eyes away. If Phyllida didn’t know better, she’d think the other woman was feeling guilty about her threat yesterday.

“We are gathered here—the members of the Detection Club and those of the Listleigh Murder Club—for the announcement of the contest winner . . . and to hear a story,” said Mr. Chesterton in his booming voice. He’d come to stand at the front of the room as was fitting—being the president of the Detection Club—prepared to announce the winner. “This is a tale that promises to be just as twisty and diabolically clever as any of the stories written by any of the folks in this room—or anywhere. Even Mr. Conan Doyle, God rest his soul.”

Mrs. Rollingbroke, who was sitting on a sofa with her husband, leaned over to whisper to him. He nodded and patted her hand, looking about the room. Phyllida was certain she detected a bit of discomfort in his normally jovial gaze, and stifled a smile. She knew precisely why he appeared slightly discombobulated.