“Well, Louis Genevan was quite infuriated when Mr. Whittlesby backed out of a deal a few months ago to purchase some expensive antiques from his shop. Apparently they were pieces he’d set aside just for them—Mr. and Mrs. Whittlesby, I mean—and he lost quite a lot of money when the purchase didn’t go through because he’d turned away other buyers. It all came out during a meeting when Alastair criticized the characterization of Louis Genevan’s sleuth, who happens to be a spinsterish old lady with a fondness for Bordeaux and cross-stitching. Not that either of them know anything about being a spinsterish old lady, let alone cross-stitching, but Alastair insisted that a little old lady of sixty must have a cat and would never drink anything stronger than sherry. It turned into quite a heated exchange about it. Apparently Louis Genevan quite despises cats.”

Thankfully, Inspector Cork intervened. “There was a problem with an antiques sale between Mr. Whittlesby and Mr. Genevan?”

“It was something about the set being broken up and now it was worthless.... They didn’t actually row, but it was quite uncomfortable for the rest of us. Mr. Genevan left abruptly and did not attend the next meeting, he was so furious. Wednesday was the first meeting he attended since that one.”

“And who else?” asked Cork.

“Well, Mathilda Crowley claimed that Alastair poached one of her plots and put it in his own story. It was the piece he submitted for the Murder Fête contest, you see, and she felt she couldn’t submit her story because the plot was so similar and so she had to use a different one.” Mr. Billdop sipped from his tea more quietly this time. “And if one were being honest, Miss Crowley’s second choice submission was her second choice for a reason. I mean to say, who would care about blue ink?”

“Right, then. Anyone else?”

“Dr. Bhatt and Alastair had a serious row a while back,” said Mr. Billdop. “I quite thought they were going to come to blows. It was most unsettling.”

Phyllida’s ears perked up. John hadn’t said anything to her about a set-to with Alastair Whittlesby.

“Over what?” asked the inspector.

The vicar frowned. “It was all about Alastair’s circulation problems. Apparently his feet are always cold. Dr. Bhatt suggested he come in to his surgery so he could be of help, but Alastair made it clear he wasn’t going to have ‘a dark, foreign quack’—those were his words—medicating him and all. Said he was just as likely to end up dead or missing a limb as not. It was exceedingly unpleasant, and Dr. Bhatt was quite overset about it. Did you know that he went to Edinburgh University?”