“Oh, yes,” replied Agatha. “There was one tale that particularly stood out to me. I found it quite entertaining, as well as clever. But there were several others with great merit. It should be quite interesting to see where we all stand with our preferences.”

Before she could get any indication of which story that was, Phyllida was required to move out of earshot when Myrtle discovered the swaying tail of a tablecloth that had just been placed.

“Leave that be, you little recalcitrant, annoying, hairy, beastly thing,” Phyllida said as she marched over to stop the nonsense. “Mr. Bradford, if you would remove this nuisance at once.”

Looking not the least bit abashed, the chauffeur swooped up the motley beast. As Myrtle began to slather his face with what passed for affection, Phyllida couldn’t help but notice that the beast’s thick curls were indistinguishable from her master’s unruly mop of hair. Two of a kind, she thought irritably. Both lacking any sort of decorum or respect.

“All right, then, Mrs. Bright,” said Bradford. The bridge of his arrogant, blade-like nose was shiny where the dog had been licking him. Phyllida suppressed a shudder. “We’ll take ourselves off, then. What time shall we return to bring you back?”

It was Phyllida’s current private hope that the Mallowans would either hire a second chauffeur or that Bradford would leave—and take his dog with him—for some greener pastures or greasier garages. Having to ride in the Daimler with him whenever she wanted to go into town or anywhere else was nearly as trying as dealing with Mr. Dobble.

Nonetheless, she was the consummate professional, and she had learned over the years that she could get along with anyone, regardless of how irritating or sardonic they might be, as long as they did their job. And unfortunately, Bradford was more than equal to his job.

“I should like to be picked up at three o’clock, and then I’ll need to return here by half five in order to see to final preparations for the cocktail party, if you please, Mr. Bradford.”

He looked at her from over the top of the panting puppy’s head. The beast’s little pink tongue was lolling from the side of its mouth like an unfurled ribbon. “Right, then. Myrtle and I will be here to collect you just before three o’clock.” He gave her a cheeky grin, obviously knowing how much she loathed the idea of being trapped in a vehicle with that slathering menace.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradford.”

A loud thud followed by an ominous crash had her spinning from further repartee with the driver.

One of the tables had somehow been upended. Flowers, water, and a shattered vase were all over the floor.

It was a good thing Phyllida had extras . . . of everything.

* * *

“I’m so very anxious about meeting all of them!” said Digby Billdop. “All of those famous writers!”