“Why, all of us who were here tonight—that is to say, myself, Mrs. Rollingbroke, Mr. Genevan, Mr. Billdop, Dr. Bhatt, and Mr. Whittlesby. And even though the gathering was supposedly for the members of the Murder Club, Sir Rolly came along with his wife, and Mrs. Whittlesby was there as well, being the hostess. Oh, and Mr. Whittlesby’s brother, Eugene, dropped in to get a drink near the end, but he didn’t stay. It really was only for the Murder Club, you see. Despite the spouses.”

“I see.” The inspector scrawled the names on his notepad, then lapsed into silence as he helped himself to a thick piece of cheddar.

Phyllida took the opportunity to interject. “Miss Crowley, do you happen to know whether Mr. Whittlesby had one of his particular cocktails Wednesday at the tea?”

“I have no idea,” replied Miss Crowley in a gruff voice. “Quite frankly, I pay as little attention to that man and his overbearing nastiness as possible. The only reason I deigned to attend his little soiree was because I was—” She stopped herself abruptly. Folding her hands, still appropriately gloved, she settled them in her lap and looked unblinkingly at Inspector Cork.

Just as he was about to speak, Miss Crowley launched herself down a different tangent. “If you want to know who really has it in for Mr. Whittlesby, you need to look no further than his own.”

“What do you mean by that, Miss Crowley?” said the inspector.

“Well, I don’t believe there’s any love lost between him and his brother, you know. Filberto had a case like that once—always look at family first, you know, and he did, of course—even though the sister had an alibi, it turned out to be faked and she was the one who did it. It was quite clever, if I do say so myself—not even Mrs. Christie could have come up with such a twist. You see, she used blue ink.” Miss Crowley nodded sagely.

“Erm . . . Mrs. Christie?” The detective blinked owlishly, pausing in his notes.

“No, no, of course not. The sister with the fake alibi,” Miss Crowley said impatiently. “Filberto discovered the discrepancy and—”

“Filberto?” said Inspector Cork.

“Filberto Fiero,” Miss Crowley replied. “My detective. He spends most of the time in the French Riviera and is particularly adept at finding stolen jewels—there are so many that go missing down there, you know, with all of the rich people. Filberto has gotten into solving murder cases, though, and I think he might well do more. It really does seem to be what readers want, you know. A stolen tiara simply can’t compete with a good old, cold-blooded, gory murder.”

“I see,” said the inspector, although he clearly did not. “Right. You say Mr. Whittlesby’s brother might have it in for him?”