“Yes, poison . . . wouldn’t it? . . . something . . . done,” replied the companion, whose sex was indistinguishable due to its hushed tone. “And soon . . . cannot bear his boastful, overbearing nastiness any longer.” These last phrases became stronger and more distinct, clearly indicating the frustration of the speaker, whose voice was low and crusty enough to be either male or female.

Phyllida tsked to herself, wondering how writers could come to dislike characters they’d created. Of course, not being a writer herself, she couldn’t imagine such an occasion.

However, there was a time only recently when Agatha had become weary of and annoyed by her most popular fictional detective, Hercule Poirot. Like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes had so become the bane of his existence that he actually killed off the character—only to be required to revive him in order to silence his fans—Agatha had become fed up with Poirot and his persnickety, bombastic ways.

Fortunately, Agatha hadn’t actually plotted to kill the little Belgian detective—an event that would have prompted Phyllida to have a pointed and impassioned conversation with her employer. For Phyllida had what one might term a literary tendre for the brilliant, mustachioed detective.

Of course, the discussion to which she was currently privy might very well be about a villain rather than a meddlesome crime fiction detective, but she quite doubted it. The tone of voice implied a person very much at the end of their rope in dealing with the individual, which implied someone well-known to the speaker, such as a recurring character.

She hoped it wasn’t Dorothy Sayers speaking about her detective character Peter Wimsey. Not that Lord Peter could hold a candle to Poirot, but Phyllida certainly enjoyed his detective work—and having recently solved a real-life murder herself, she highly approved of the intrepid Harriet Vane as his partner (although she was no comparison to Agatha’s spunky Tuppence Beresford).

“Mrs. Bright, ma’am, the flowers for the tables are here. The vases are on their way.”

Phyllida turned from her stack of tablecloths to speak to Ginny, the first parlourmaid from Mallowan Hall. Presumably, the person standing next to her was Amsi, the gardener from the manor house, but it was impossible to tell for certain as the figure was completely obliterated by the mountains of roses, Michaelmas daisies, and gladioli in the cart he was pushing.

“Excellent. When they arrive, line up the vases on the table there and you may arrange them—five roses, six daisies, and two gladioli for each. Make certain the glads are in the center, mind, and mix the colors,” Phyllida told her, even as she scrutinized the fresh apron and uniform her maid was wearing.