Phyllida had indeed known John Bhatt attended the Royal College of Medicine in Edinburgh, and she was disgusted by Alastair Whittlesby’s rude intolerance. But she was also somewhat surprised that John had never mentioned the incident to her. After all, they had been meeting for tea regularly over the last several months. Perhaps the row had been too upsetting for him to recount.

“I thought they might come to blows,” Mr. Billdop went on with a grimace. “Dr. Bhatt was quite livid over the insults, and added a number of his own about Mr. Whittlesby’s writing and his personality and his professional skills. I . . . I had the impression something else had happened between the two men previously to cause such a quick and volatile outburst.”

“I see,” said the inspector. “How long ago did this altercation happen?”

The vicar thought for a moment. “Perhaps two months past? We meet every fortnight, and the latest meeting was to be at Dr. Bhatt’s office—the latest meeting before Wednesday’s tea at Mr. Whittlesby’s, of course—and I recall there being several pointed comments being made between the two men. However, they remained civil throughout the meeting.”

Phyllida could hardly imagine John Bhatt angry, for he’d always been unfailingly polite and calm in her presence. She wondered if he’d mentioned the row during his interview with Inspector Cork.

“Very well,” said the inspector. “Is there anyone else you can think of who had a set-to with the chap? Yourself, perhaps?”

“Oh. Oh.” The vicar’s face turned pink. “Well, no, of course not. I don’t care for Mr. Whittlesby’s incivility, but I’ve never had a row with him. In spite of it all, he is a good writer and does offer helpful criticisms of one’s work, and that is truly the purpose of the Murder Club. One doesn’t have to like one’s writing advisors in order to benefit from it. But Vera Rollingbroke seemed a bit put out with him a while back,” he went on, fingering the cleft in his chin. “I don’t know what prompted it, but it seemed she made a point of not inviting him to a soiree she hosted last month. She ignored his hints for a while, until finally he said something like, ‘And what would one do about one’s friends if they suddenly cut one off’ . . . and then the next thing I heard, he was attending the soiree. It was as if he were hinting at her about something.”

Inspector Cork narrowed his eyes. “Your impression was that his comment induced her to change her mind and invite him to the party?”

“One doesn’t know for certain, but that was the impression I had,” replied the vicar. His teacup was empty and he placed it on the table without a clink or rattle.

“Do you have any idea what he was referring to when he said that?”