Everyone looked at the antiques dealer, who shriveled a bit into his seat. “Fine. Yes. I . . . I didn’t think anyone would miss it, now that Father Tooley is gone, and it was a lovely piece,” said Mr. Genevan. “Who would care?”

“I care,” cried Mrs. Rollingbroke. “Why, stealing from a church is just . . . just ghastly!”

“Fine. I’ll return the—er—items. But I didn’t kill anyone,” said Mr. Genevan. He looked at Phyllida, who nodded in agreement.

“No, you aren’t a murderer. A thief, yes.” She looked significantly at Constable Greensticks, who nodded. Charges would be filed against Louis Genevan. “But not a killer.

“But you weren’t the only visitor to the rectory Friday evening with thievery on their mind, Mr. Genevan,” Phyllida went on. “Someone else used the front door to enter this building whilst we were all at the cocktail party in the courtyard. Someone who wasn’t attending the party, but who was seen just outside the building during that time. That individual deposited geranium flower petals and leaves from their shoes at their home that evening, proving they’d been inside the rectory.” She leveled her gaze at the culprit and was rewarded when he gulped and turned pink. “You were looking for the contest scoring results, weren’t you, Sir Rolly?”

“Didn’t mean any harm,” he said as his wife turned to stare at him. His cheeks went even pinker under her shocked regard. “Only—well, everyone was so certain that Alastair was going to win that I thought it would just serve him right if he didn’t. And . . . and I wanted to see how Vera’s story had scored, and, all right, dash it all—I meant to change the score sheets to list her as the winner.” He gave his wife an abashed look.

“Oh, Rolly!” cried Mrs. Rollingbroke. Her cheeks were flushed, too—but with pleasure not guilt, and she gave him an affectionate slap on the arm as she fought to hold back a smile. “What a silly, sweet sort of thing to do! You silly, silly, sweet, foolish, loving man!”

Phyllida cleared her throat and lifted her brows at Sir Rolly. “What happened when you broke in?”

“Well, dash it all, I didn’t really break in—make me sound like some sort of vagrant, you know. I mean to say, we—Vera and I—were bloody good friends with Father Tooley, and I knew he wouldn’t mind if I just let myself in—give enough money to the church, you know, that it really shouldn’t have been even a concern,” Sir Rolly went on. His pudgy face was still pink, but the color was fading. “The parish owns the building after all, now, don’t it? But it didn’t matter because I didn’t find the score sheets or anything about the contest.” He gave Phyllida a belligerent look. “So I didn’t do anything wrong.”