“What a ghastly thing to have happen,” Agatha said to Phyllida, gripping her hand as she stood next to a tall, potted palm that had come back with Mr. Max from one of his expeditions. “I feel terribly for Father Tooley and St. Wendreda’s, and it’s simply unfathomable that someone poisoned a man at our little fête!” There was worry in her eyes, and Phyllida understood why.

Ever since Agatha had famously disappeared for eleven days during the split from her first husband, she had been extremely shy about publicity and journalists. And rightly so, for whenever the writer did any sort of interview or met with the press, the topic always came back to that infamous eleven days, as the public continued to be fixated on it.

Some journalists and reviewers even used the fact that Agatha had disappeared—and somehow “played” or “fooled” the world (for what purpose, Phyllida couldn’t imagine)—as an excuse for accusations of her untrustworthiness as a writer of detective fiction. The extremely clever and surprising solution to The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was cited as an example of such “cheating” of Mrs. Christie’s readers.

Thus, Agatha was extremely opposed to doing anything that brought—as she put it—hordes of reporters down upon her life. When a murder had happened here at Mallowan Hall only a few months ago, the estate had been surrounded by reporters and photographers for days.

That was part of the reason Phyllida had had to take charge of that investigation. She wanted not only to protect her friend and the entire household from the demands of the press but also to get rid of them as soon as possible. If she’d left matters to Inspector Cork, it might have been weeks—or never.

And now it had happened again—a murder tied closely not only to Agatha Christie but also to a group of her writing colleagues. The press would have a jolly time with that! There already would be reporters present for today’s events, which were open to the public, but now with Father Tooley’s death, the hunger for news would be even more savage.

“We’ll keep the reporters away from Mallowan Hall, don’t you worry,” Phyllida said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “And I’m certain Bradford will be able to navigate the motor up to St. Wendreda’s and get you inside the fair without any problem—although I am concerned about the weather ruining it all. Mrs. Puffley said her hip joint is bothering her, and you know that’s a sign of coming rain. At any rate, I’ll post Stanley and Elton by your table to keep the journalists from crowding about and blocking your fans.”

“Thank you for all of that,” Agatha replied with a wan smile. “Max will be with me, too, and you know he might seem quiet and unassuming, but he knows how to stand up to things.”