To her surprise, Mr. Dobble’s expression tightened. “No, of course not,” he said. “But from everything I hear about him, there are any number of people who might be tempted to do so.”

Phyllida pursed her lips but chose to neither agree nor disagree with his statement. Still, there was something Mr. Dobble wasn’t telling her. She wondered what and why.

As her attention trailed over the partygoers, most of whom had gathered in small clusters where they seemed to be discussing matters whilst draining their glasses of the presumably safe choice of champagne, she understood that one of them was a killer.

She wondered whether they had yet realized one of their companions was a killer.

The Whittlesbys were still monopolizing Constable Greensticks and Inspector Cork, leaving Phyllida to contemplate whether the policemen would ever get to the actual investigation portion of the event. Lettice Whittlesby had released her husband’s arm at last and now held two glasses of sparkling wine. With all of her bright lipstick gone and her mascara smudged under her eyes, she appeared even more faded and wispy than before.

Mr. Chesterton, having been liberated from the attentions of Alastair Whittlesby, was now holding forth in a small group of amateur writers, all of whom clustered around him with wide, fascinated eyes as he weighed in with his opinions about the choice of murder weapon. None of his current audience were from Listleigh, and Phyllida thought it might be acceptable to take them off the list of suspects. After all, if they weren’t from Listleigh, they likely couldn’t have a motive for killing Alastair Whittlesby.

But she’d been fooled by Agatha’s twisty plots before, and Phyllida knew better than to summarily dismiss anyone. Everyone knew that truth was stranger than fiction.

Mathilda Crowley and Vera Rollingbroke were huddled together, making an unusual pair. Miss Crowley, in her dark, drab suit and boxlike hat, looked like a straggly wren next to the silky yellow and blue of Mrs. Rollingbroke’s slender and exuberant figure and her far better chapeau. The latter had tucked away her notebook once more, and both women held glasses of champagne.

Digby Billdop stood a bit away from the others, appearing ill at ease and unsure what to do with himself. The vicar was within hearing distance of the two female members of the Listleigh writers’ club, as well as Louis Genevan in his Beau Brummell cravat. He was hovering near the Whittlesbys and the authorities, perhaps in hopes of overhearing some of the conversation.