“Oh, yes, I was there of course,” said Mr. Genevan as he adjusted his Regency-era waistcoat. He seemed far more at ease than Miss Crowley had been, settling on the sofa and crossing his long legs. He paused in whatever he was about to say when he noticed the small piecrust table next to his seat. His brows rose and he brushed his fingers over the ripply edge of the table, then made a quiet, satisfied noise. He looked up and realized the detective was waiting for him to say more.

“It was Alastair’s way of setting the stage, so to speak,” the antiques dealer went on. “Wednesday’s tea, I mean. He’s so very confident he’s going to win the prize on Sunday.” His thin lips pursed with distaste. “I wouldn’t be so certain about that if I were him. His work has moments of cleverness, but it’s certainly not all that witty or entertaining.” He sat up a little and his expression turned a little crafty. “Is it true that he was the intended victim?”

“Do you know anyone who’d want to kill Alastair Whittlesby?” countered the inspector.

Mr. Genevan’s deep-set eyes glinted with malice. “It might be best to ask who wouldn’t want to kill Alastair Whittlesby.”

“And do you include yourself in that group, Mr. Genevan?” asked Cork, and Phyllida gave an approving nod at his pointed response.

Mr. Genevan shrugged, but the gleam remained in his eyes. “I hardly know the man, other than from the Murder Club meetings. Never been to his house before yesterday—we usually meet at Vera’s—Mrs. Rollingbroke’s, I mean to say. Sometimes we meet at John’s—Dr. Bhatt’s. He’s got quite a laboratory there, you know. Studies the effects of poisons on the body, you know.” His voice had dropped and he leaned forward, giving Inspector Cork a meaningful look.

Phyllida bristled a little at the implication but said nothing and was appeased when the inspector ignored Mr. Genevan’s pointed comment.

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Genevan. What was your relationship with Alastair Whittlesby?”

“As I said, I hardly know the man. I did sell him—well, his wife, really, but he paid the bill and did come to look at it—a Johnstone, Jupe and Jeanes dining table. It was stunning, in perfect condition—1870 was the year they were in their prime, you know—and it was a metamorphic flame in mahogany and it came with two leaves. She wanted the matching chairs—there were twelve—but he put his foot down. That was a bloody shame, because to have a table like that and not to have the chairs . . .” He tsked and shook his head sadly.