Dr. John Bhatt: Listleigh’s local physician who has begun to create his own crime-solving lab and who writes stories about a detective named Dr. Graceley

MALLOWAN HALL STAFF

Phyllida Bright: housekeeper and amateur detective extraordinaire

Mr. Dobble: Mallowan Hall’s very proper and often intimidating butler

Mrs. Puffley: cook at Mallowan Hall who insists that murder is no excuse for inadequate meals

Bradford: the chauffeur, who has adopted an adorable canine named Myrtle

Molly: first kitchen maid and a favorite of Mrs. Bright’s

OTHER CHARACTERS

Father Tooley: pastor of St. Wendreda’s Catholic Church, at which the Murder Fête is being held to raise money for St. Wendreda’s orphanage’s roof

Rita: maid at St. Wendreda’s rectory

Lettice Whittlesby: wife of Alastair Whittlesby

Eugene Whittlesby: estranged brother of Alastair Whittlesby, who nonetheless lives in the same house

Old Mrs. Whittlesby: mother of Alastair and Eugene; is bedridden and “dragon-like” in her personality

“Rolly” Rollingbroke: Vera Rollingbroke’s doting husband

Drewson: the Whittlesbys’ butler

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

Friday morning

“I JUST DON’T SEE ANY WAY AROUND IT. HE’S SIMPLY GOT TO BE DONE away with,” said a hushed voice.

“Right. The problem is . . . how to do it . . .” replied another voice. “Soon . . .”

While anyone else overhearing such an exchange would surely be alarmed, Phyllida Bright merely smiled to herself and went about the business of counting tablecloths for the welcome luncheon at the Listleigh Murder Fête.

Being the housekeeper at the vast and elegant Mallowan Hall, the home of the famous novelist Agatha Christie and her husband, Max Mallowan, Phyllida was quite used to overhearing—and participating in—discussions about murder and the finer points of how to permanently do away with an inconvenient person.

Whether abovestairs or belowstairs, there was always some conversation going on about which poison to use, whether a knife or a gun would be more or less bloody when employed than the other, and if a blow to the head would actually do the deed or whether a spike shoved into the back of the neck would need to be added to complete the task before stuffing the body of a maid into a downstairs cupboard.

“Poison . . .” replied the first person, whose words were becoming less audible. Perhaps they were walking away. “Coffee. Or a drink . . . ?”

“There is . . . that,” replied the other. “. . . his new car, eh?”

Phyllida was fairly certain the first was a man speaking, but it was difficult to be certain as she was inside the social hall at St. Wendreda’s Catholic Church and the voices were coming through an open window. Regardless, surely it was one of the detective fiction writers who were here for the Murder Fête. There were dozens of them milling about—both published and unpublished writers—many hoping to get a glimpse of some of the popular and well-known authors, such as G. K. Chesterton or Dorothy L. Sayers.