Mr. Genevan had taken a seat slightly behind Miss Crowley, and the vicar had pulled up a chair in such a position that he had a good view of the front of the room, but also of Mr. Dobble, who stood across from him. John Bhatt sat next to Constable Greensticks, and the doctor wore a tense expression. It was only due to Mr. Max’s influence that John hadn’t already been taken into custody. Phyllida caught John’s gaze and gave him an abbreviated nod meant to indicate that his freedom was safely in her hands.

“Well, shall we get on with it, then, Mrs. Bright?” Mr. Chesterton gave a theatrical bow and stepped aside. “The stage is set.”

“Wait a minute! I thought you were going to announce the contest winner,” said Mr. Whittlesby, half rising. “What is she doing there?”

“Mrs. Bright has a tale to tell,” said Mr. Chesterton. His figure was so large and imposing, and his words were so firm and powerful that even the strident Mr. Whittlesby was cowed. “And then the winner of the story contest will be announced. So sit down and listen, if you please, Mr. Whittlesby.”

Mr. Whittlesby sat.

And Phyllida stepped forward. Oddly enough, she wasn’t nervous.

“This story begins several months ago when the idea of having a Murder Fête charity event supported by the Detection Club was first proposed,” she started off. “It was the short story contest—and the highly desirable prize of international publication—that gave the murderer the idea. Through the ensuing weeks, the plan was developed. Every detail was thought out, every plot twist accounted for, and the stage was set.

“And then the Murder Fête arrived, the story contest results were submitted and calculated, and everyone knew who the winner was going to be.”

Phyllida looked around the room at the faces of the Murder Club members, then added, “Or so they thought.”

A little surprised shuffling rippled through her audience—as she’d intended—and now, having fully secured the attention of everyone in the room, she went on.

“On Friday, the day of the cocktail party, whilst I was overseeing the luncheon setup, I overheard a conversation. Two people were standing outside the window, discussing someone in quite unflattering terms, and one of them said, ‘He’s simply got to be done away with,’ and the other person agreed, and suggested that poisoning a drink or something about a ‘new car, eh?’ would do the trick.

“As we all know, later that evening, Father Tooley drank a cocktail called a Vieux Carré”—she emphasized the syllables so that they sounded less French and more like the phrase “new car, eh?” and was rewarded by gasps and more shuffling and murmuring throughout the audience—“and Father Tooley, God rest him, died.