“GOOD HEAVENS!” CRIED SOMEONE, AND THIS REACTION WAS EXPRESSED in several different ways and phrases by nearly everyone in attendance as they stood in a cluster some distance away from the scene.

Everyone fell silent, staring . . . and then, suddenly, Mr. Genevan began to chuckle, and then to clap his hands. He looked around at the others and offered his applause toward the collapsed priest, his eyes lit with appreciation.

Miss Crowley and Miss Sayers were the first to catch on. The horrified spinster heaved a relieved sigh and she joined the celebrated author in smiling as they joined the antiques dealer in his applause. Soon the tension snapped and everyone was chuckling and doing the same.

“Absolutely screaming!” cried Mrs. Rollingbroke enthusiastically. “What a perfect way to end the cocktail party—with a game of murder for all of us to solve! I cannot wait to tell Rolly! He should be here any moment. Now, shall we begin to gather clues? Obviously, it was poison.”

“I’m not quite certain . . .” Agatha said hesitantly. “Max . . .”

Phyllida, who was crouching next to Father Tooley and smelled the results of his violent bodily discharges, looked up and around. She found Dr. Bhatt’s gaze in the crowd, and the glimmer of delight in it evaporated when he saw the truth in her eyes.

Without a word, he made his way to where she’d remained next to the priest, even as the rest of the attendees buzzed excitedly among themselves.

It wasn’t until Dr. Bhatt silently closed Father Tooley’s eyes that the buzzing began to subside. A second unnatural silence fell over the courtyard, but this time it lasted longer.

“Dear God . . . Is he . . . is he really . . . dead?” murmured a voice that might have been Mrs. Whittlesby.

Dr. Bhatt rose from next to Father Tooley, having covered the priest’s face with his coat, and said simply, “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Billdop pushed his way forward and knelt next to the dead priest. He did a final blessing during the pregnant silence, which was broken only by the distant sound of the church bell tolling seven.

Then someone whispered, “He was poisoned.”

The undertones of agreement rippled through the small crowd as the reality set in—for what else was a group of a dozen murder writers to think after a man actually fell dead in front of them?

And before Phyllida could react, everyone was talking—mostly murmuring—in tight, excited voices.

“But who . . . ?”

“Strychnine. It must be strychnine. It was in his drink.”

“And why?”

“Arsenic?”

“No, not strychnine. It takes longer. It had to be cyanide. Arsenic doesn’t kill that quickly, either. It takes hours.”

“I simply can’t believe it! I thought it was playacting!”

“But he might have ingested it earlier. Perhaps it was strychnine.”

“Digitalis! It had to be digitalis!”

“He was such a kind man! Do you think it was hemlock? Just like Socrates!”