She’d heard plenty about Alastair Whittlesby from Dr. Bhatt, and most of it was not to the man’s credit. Mr. Whittlesby was the only solicitor in Listleigh, however, so one was required to do business with him if one wanted to sell bonds, write a will, or parse through a contract without traveling to London or a neighboring town. The single time she’d had to engage the man’s services, Phyllida had been struck by his pompous attitude, as well as an underlying sense that he didn’t appreciate a well-informed, intelligent woman. However—and unfortunately—according to John Bhatt, Mr. Whittlesby, who was also the President of the Listleigh Murder Club, was a talented writer of stories about a brilliant Scotland Yard detective named Theodore Belfast—who wasn’t quite as brilliant as people thought he was. It was really his gossipy sister Millie, with whom he lived, who helped him solve the crimes.

“Aha, Mrs. Mallowan,” said Mr. Whittlesby as he approached in what Phyllida could only think of as a swoop—as if he were a hawk diving for its prey. His wife, still clinging, trotted behind like an afterthought. “I’ve been looking for you all evening.”

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Whittlesby,” Agatha replied, offering her hand. Phyllida was impressed that her friend sounded quite sincere. Shy as she might be, Agatha did rise to the occasion as necessary.

“Quite. It’s rather a tragedy that we should live so near, and yet we’ve socialized only once before. The Rollingbrokes have had us up several times, you know.” Still smiling pleasantly at Agatha, he shook his arm abruptly to disengage from the grip of his wife, saying, “Do let loose, Lettice. You needn’t be such a bloody limpet,” without sparing his spouse a glance. “I must say, Mrs. Mallowan, that I greatly enjoyed The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, but it wasn’t quite fair, was it? I don’t think it’s all that sporting when writers cheat in their stories.” He gave a little chuckle before drawing on his cigarette.

“The clues were all there,” Agatha replied with a smile. She’d fielded this response many times since the publication of Roger Ackroyd.

Lettice Whittlesby, still hovering near her husband’s side, lifted her glass and drained the remainder of her champagne, then looked around as if in search of a refill.

Phyllida sympathized with the woman’s desire for a new pour, knowing that if a man had rebuked her the way Alastair had just rebuked his wife, he would have been the recipient of the contents of her glass—over the hump of his long, arrogant nose.