That was an excellent idea, she thought. Between her own observations—of which there were varied and excellent ones—and that of Molly, Stanley, and Mr. Dobble, Phyllida was fairly confident she could plot out the guests’ movements for much of the evening.

The constable left the room with his coffee, as well as a small plate of food. Moments later, there was a knock at the door, which was ajar, and Miss Crowley’s face peered hesitantly through the opening.

“Yes, yes, come in,” said the inspector.

Phyllida took her time fussing with the tray, adjusting the pillows on the sofa, drawing the curtains, turning on lamps, and every other bit of tidying she could think of whilst Miss Crowley spoke to the authorities. She would even locate and use a carpet sweep if it became necessary.

Miss Crowley introduced herself but remained near the door as if hedging her bets on escape. Then, without waiting for the inspector to begin, she launched right into her own speech.

“I don’t drink spirits,” she said, obviously forgetting or ignoring the two glasses of champagne in which she’d indulged that evening. “When Mr. Whittlesby invited us on Wednesday, I had no intention of drinking anything but tea. And now I’m particularly glad that I didn’t. Is it true that someone poisoned him with his own spirits? Why, he could have served any one of us one of those Carry-thingabobs! That’s why I never touch the stuff.”

“Have a seat, Miss Crowley,” said the inspector.

She eyed the sofa but settled for a straight-backed chair that looked utterly uncomfortable but was closest to the door.

“Now what’s this about Mr. Whittlesby inviting you on Wednesday?” asked Cork.

“Why, he had all of us from the Murder Club over for tea. He said it was to go over the final details for the Murder Fête, but it was really about him preparing us all for the contest judging results. He’s going to win, of course.” Her lips pursed sourly. “Everyone knows it. He made it quite clear he anticipated the results.”

“Oh, yes, the story contest,” Cork said vaguely. “What’s the prize? Money, I suppose. Can’t be very much, can it?”

Miss Crowley sat up even straighter. “Why, it’s publication, Inspector. In Cosmopolitan over in New York, and in The Strand here. Both very reputable publications, as I’m certain you know. And an offer of representation from a literary agent.”

“Right.” The inspector seemed unimpressed. Phyllida would have to enlighten him about the desperation of writers to have their work published, for if Miss Crowley was correct—that Mr. Whittlesby being the winner was a foregone conclusion—then that could very well be a motive for murder, no matter how inconsequential it might seem to a non-writer.

“Who attended tea at Mr. Whittlesby’s home Wednesday?” asked Cork.