Dobble had taken his place behind the counter, mixing two dark cocktails with several different types of spirit whilst Stanley poured fresh glasses of champagne.

She noticed that Dobble suddenly frowned, pausing in his task. He looked around, then ducked behind the counter as if searching for something. When he rose, he had a small bottle in his hand, which he used to finish the drinks he was mixing.

“Oh, Mrs. Bright, how lovely to see you here tonight. Am I correct in assuming this is all your handiwork?”

Phyllida turned to see Miss Crowley in her dark, uninteresting suit. The spinsterish creator of the charming and flamboyant Filberto Fiero was holding her teacup at half-mast as if to protect herself from the evils of wine and spirits.

“I had quite a lot of assistance, but I do thank you for your kind words,” Phyllida replied. “How did you find the macarons?”

“They were quite lovely indeed. Just the sort of thing my Filberto would enjoy, you know. He really does have exquisite taste when it comes to food,” she replied, revealing a crooked front tooth when she smiled.

Phyllida nodded. “Quite.” She was, of course, very used to writers talking about their characters as if they were real people.

“I’m just so very anxious about the contest announcement,” Miss Crowley went on, hardly pausing for Phyllida’s response. “I so want dear Filberto to be set free into the public eye for all to enjoy. He really is a most charming man! And a bit of a scoundrel, too, of course.”

“Scoundrels can be quite intoxicating—and tiresome,” Phyllida said with feeling.

But Miss Crowley hadn’t taken a breath. “I’m not shy about admitting he was inspired by that Flambeau character in Mr. Chesterton’s stories. But, of course, my Filberto is more of a charmer than a thief. Did I tell you that his latest adventure is about a man mauled by a tiger who’s got loose from its master? It’s a pet tiger, but he has a wild, feral side, of course, and the victim has been smeared with raw steak—which makes it murder, of course, and—”

Phyllida heard a clink and a crash, followed by a strange, horrible sound behind her. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. As she spun, she was aware that everyone had gone silent and still and they were staring at someone.

It was Father Tooley.

He was clutching his middle with both hands and moaning as if in great pain. His face was pale, and his skin appeared clammy.

Phyllida’s battlefield nurse’s training was instinctive, and she pushed her way through the staring crowd as the priest collapsed onto the ground, convulsing violently.

But she was too late.

Father Tooley gave one strangled scream of pain . . . and then he went horribly, horrifically still.

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3