“Because the scores had obviously been altered—but not too obviously; the erasures were very subtle—and the winner was Mr. Whittlesby. That would make it appear that he had stolen the score sheets and altered them to make himself the winner. That would thus seal his fate as the presumed murderer of Father Tooley—who would have known the real winner of the contest—and also, logically, the attempted murderer of his own wife.

“But what the murderer couldn’t have anticipated was that, in the absence of Father Tooley’s tally sheets, the Detection Club provided their raw scores again, and I was able to recalculate the correct winner of the contest. And the correct winner was . . . Alastair Whittlesby.”

Anticipation was replaced by confusion on the expression of everyone in the room, except Bradford, who merely nodded as if he understood. Which surely he didn’t; how could he when Phyllida hadn’t figured it out until only hours ago?

“So someone erased some of the numbers but put the same scores back in?” said Miss Crowley. “I don’t understand . . .”

“I didn’t at first, either,” said Phyllida. “But when I realized that this entire plot was a frame-up of Mr. Whittlesby, then it made sense: Mrs. Whittlesby knew the score sheets had to look as if someone had altered them to make certain her husband was the winner so that he had the motive to kill Father Tooley. It was that simple.”

“Simple, and yet so very, very complicated,” said Mr. Chesterton, rising as if on cue to take the stage. “And since Mrs. Bright has taken the wind out of my sails by announcing the contest winner—no, no, not at all,” he said, waving off Phyllida’s apology, “I now call this meeting to an end, and close the festival. And my last task as grandmaster of the Listleigh Murder Fête is to invite Inspector Cork and Constable Greensticks to conduct this clever and diabolical woman into custody. And the rest of us—especially Mrs. Bright—should have a very stiff cocktail.”

“Indeed,” Phyllida replied. “I should be most grateful to imbibe. . . just so long as it isn’t a Vieux Carré!”

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 23

Monday afternoon

WRITERS REALLY ARE CURIOUS PEOPLE,” SAID AGATHA, WAVING AS the motorcar took Mr. Chesterton, Miss Sayers, and Mr. Berkeley down the drive, heading back to London. The driver gave a gay toot of the horn as the vehicle disappeared around the bend.

“Curious and bloodthirsty,” Phyllida said dryly, causing her friend to laugh. “Did you hear the way everyone was arguing about poisons when poor Father Tooley died?”

They were standing on the front porch of Mallowan Hall, the day after Lettice Whittlesby was arrested for murder and Mr. Genevan for theft. The authorities had declined to press charges against Sir Rolly for unlawful entry, for obvious reasons.