Because of Agatha’s involvement, Phyllida had readily taken charge of the planning and execution of the event. Not only was this sort of activity exactly what she loved to manage—and was exceptional at doing—but also being at St. Wendreda’s for several days during the setup and event meant she was not at Mallowan Hall, and therefore did not have to interact with Mr. Dobble, the butler.

“Very well,” Mr. Chesterton replied after he looked at the table. Approaching his sixties, the writer of the popular Father Brown stories had masses of thick dark hair and habitually wore a pince-nez. He was a bulky, imposing man whose dark clothing merely added to his commanding persona. “How many aspiring writers will be here?”

“There are fifteen of them who have registered, and paid, of course,” Agatha told him. “They aren’t all from Listleigh. Some are coming from as far away as Wales.” She had declined the local club’s request to be the Grand Master, for she was quite shy and preferred not to speak in public or even in small groups unless she knew them well. It was a monumental decision for her to agree to participate at all, for Agatha disliked publicity and the press—but she could hardly decline with the event being such a local undertaking.

Being instrumental in the planning and executing of the event afforded Phyllida the opportunity to help keep her reclusive friend out of the public eye as much as possible, and the only public event was tomorrow’s book fair and the announcement of the grand prize winner.

“I trust you all received your copies of their short stories—there were only ten submitted—for the judging?” Agatha asked her colleagues.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Miss Sayers. “I received my packet a fortnight ago, which gave me ample opportunity to read them—although I had to finish the last on the train here.” Dorothy Sayers was a large, boisterous woman who tended to wear long black frocks that ebbed and flowed around her. Her dark hair was cut short in a style called the Eton crop, giving her a mannish appearance despite her draping clothing. “Some of them were actually quite good.”

“Quite. I thought so myself. Might be some competition at the publishers for us,” said Mr. Chesterton with a chuckle.

As she watched Ginny make up the vases and Molly finish the tablecloths, Phyllida couldn’t help but listen in hopes of overhearing any hint about who might be awarded the prize.

“Father Tooley has had all of the rankings since Monday of this week,” said Agatha. “So no one can accuse us of falling to any undue influence once we begin mingling with the writers.” She smiled.

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Chesterton. “A holy man counting the tallies would be above suspicion.”

“Have you decided on a favorite yourself?” asked Miss Sayers.