Phyllida watched as Dobble made his way out into the courtyard, stopping to speak sharply to Stanley, the head footman. Stanley looked out into the courtyard in Mrs. Whittlesby’s direction, then back at Dobble, and gesticulated in a questioning manner. Dobble spoke again, more firmly this time, and the footman shrugged. Moments later, Stanley was filling a tray with coupes and flutes of champagne. The mismatched glasses had been a deliberate decision on Phyllida’s part; she liked the way the different heights and shapes mingled on the tray.

On that note . . . assured that all was well in hand, and that the party was soon to be over, she helped herself to a second glass of the sparkling wine. Before making her way back out into the garden, she told Stanley to deliver a glass to Mrs. Whittlesby.

“But, Mrs. Bright, he told me not to bring any more to her,” said Stanley.

Phyllida frowned. “Do you mean Mr. Whittlesby asked you to refrain from serving his wife any more drinks?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

She smoothed out her frown lines, but warred internally. Perhaps Mr. Whittlesby was merely looking out for his wife by keeping her from embarrassing herself from overimbibing in a public setting, or perhaps he was merely being overbearing. Based on both of her encounters with Mr. Whittlesby, she suspected it was the latter.

“Very well. Don’t offer her anything more, but if she approaches and takes one, I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do. Certainly don’t refuse her,” she advised, deciding on a compromise.

The party would be ending very soon, leaving everyone to make their respective ways for their evening meal. The Detection Club members were being hosted for a private dinner at Mallowan Hall, and the amateur writers would dine wherever they chose—possibly the Screaming Magpie, or their own homes.

Back out in the courtyard, Phyllida paused for a moment to survey the scene. John Bhatt caught her eye from a short distance away, and he lifted his glass in a silent toast to her, smiling warmly beneath his mustaches, then returned his attention to a conversation with Anthony Berkeley, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha, and Mr. Max.

She hoped the doctor won the prize tomorrow.

As if the thought had manifested into reality, she caught sight of Father Tooley, who would surely have calculated the contest results by now, at the bar. He was conversing with Mr. Whittlesby, who Phyllida was certain would be attempting to acquire any sort of hints about the winning story. The vicar, Mr. Billdop, and the antiques dealer, Mr. Genevan, hovered on the outskirts of the conversation, likely for the same reason.

As Phyllida watched, Mrs. Rollingbroke and her cunning yellow hat joined the little group. She appeared to have resigned her notebook for the time being, for she sipped from a champagne flute and her other hand was empty of pen and paper.