Her look indicated how little she agreed with that sentiment. However, she let that go for the moment, as there was so much more to reveal. “Sir Rolly didn’t find the score sheets for the short story contest, and when Rita and I looked about for them on Saturday morning, we didn’t find them, either. Quite mysterious, I thought . . . and that had me meditating about who would want the score sheets—that is, information about the winner—to go missing. With Father Tooley out of the way, the thief could change the scores and the winner to anyone he or she wanted it to be, and no one would be the wiser.”

“Are you saying that someone killed Father Tooley in order to change the contest results?” said Mr. Chesterton, his eyes popping from behind his pince-nez.

“That was precisely what I wondered,” Phyllida said. “Particularly when, on Saturday morning, it was discovered that Saint Aloysius—the rectory cat—had died after eating part of a cake that had been left in Father Tooley’s office. A cake that Father Tooley had already consumed a large portion thereof.”

Heads nodded—apparently, this wasn’t news to anyone in the room. But Phyllida felt it necessary to lay it out anyhow. “Thus, it seemed that someone wanted Father Tooley and Alastair Whittlesby dead. And that someone also was, presumably, in possession of the story contest scores. It was beginning to look more and more as if someone wanted the presumed winner of the publishing contest out of the way—actually dead—and they wanted the ability to change the contest winner.”

Phyllida paused to take another sip of tea, for now things were about to become more complicated. Then she went on with her tale.

“Obviously Alastair Whittlesby expected to win the short story contest. In fact, he not only assumed he had done, he put it about publicly at the Murder Club meeting on Wednesday that he was to be announced as the winner.

“But when he discovered that he wasn’t going to be named the winner, he had to take matters into his own hands—including poisoning Father Tooley, who was the only person who knew the actual results of the contest.

“Mr. Whittlesby somehow managed to have Father Tooley divulge the winner to him—or, perhaps, the priest merely indicated that Mr. Whittlesby wasn’t the winner; most likely on Thursday, the morning after his triumphant Murder Club tea party—and so he had to act quickly. If Father Tooley died before the results were announced, Mr. Whittlesby could change them to favor himself—and save face among the other members of the Murder Club.”

“Why that’s preposterous!” shouted Mr. Whittlesby. “I’ve been the intended victim all along—how dare you accuse me!”

“Don’t listen to her, Allie! Just don’t!” cried Mrs. Whittlesby, from her usual position of clinging limpet.