“They needed to be cleaned,” he replied. “The pillows.”

“Well, now the entire room needs to be cleaned because there is ash and soot everywhere. Including on Ginny. And Inspector Cork has just arrived—”

“I am aware of that,” he said stiffly. It was a matter of his personal pride that Mr. Dobble should know everyone who came and went from the house.

“And I was going to put him in the sitting room,” she added meaningfully.

Mr. Dobble heaved a sigh but gave no response or attempt to divert the blame. That was so uncharacteristic of him that Phyllida sat down in the chair in front of the desk.

With a sigh, he folded his long, slender body down into his own seat.

“It’s only a matter of time until the press arrive,” she said in an easier voice.

“Quite right,” he replied.

“Perhaps you could station Freddie to keep an eye out and chase them away when they do.”

He nodded absently. Phyllida waited, hoping her silence would induce him to speak about whatever was on his mind.

She had a suspicion she knew what it was, for she had her own similar concerns.

Her patience was rewarded after a pregnant silence, but Mr. Dobble’s response was not what she’d expected.

“Who the bloody hell would have done such a thing?”

Such an outburst could only elicit one response: the simple truth. “One of the murder writers,” Phyllida said. “Someone who’s planned many a death on paper, and now, at last, has decided to execute one—quite literally.”

“That,” replied Mr. Dobble grimly, “is precisely what I’m afraid of.”

She nodded. He was slowly confirming her suspicion. Feeling as though it would be permissible to allow a hint of her own worry to be revealed, she said, “Would someone from the Murder Club actually kill in order to win the writing prize?”

Mr. Dobble lifted his gray-blue eyes to meet hers. They were surprisingly clear. “I’m very much afraid they might, Mrs. Bright.”

Before Phyllida could respond, they heard the distant jangling of the telephone. “Shall I answer it?” she asked in deference to his mood.

“Yes, yes, go ahead, Mrs. Bright,” he replied.

She hurried from the butler’s pantry to the nearest telephone, which was on a table in the hall.

“Mallowan Hall,” she said into the receiver.

“Oh, oh, is it M-Mrs. B-Bright?” someone was sobbing on the other end.

“Yes, it is,” Phyllida replied. The feminine voice was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately place it. “What is it? Are you all right? Who is calling?”

“This is Rita, f-from St. Wendreda’s,” said the maid. “I-I didn’t know who to r-ring, but I h-had to tell s-someone.”

“What is it, then?” asked Phyllida.

“I-it’s Saint Aloysius,” cried Rita. “He’s dead! He’s just . . . dead!”

While a deceased feline was a tragedy in and of itself, Phyllida sensed there was something else wrong about the loss of Saint Aloysius.