“Yes, well,” Phyllida went on in a clipped manner, “if it had been the murderer who came back for the table, wouldn’t he—or she—have looked for the evidence—meaning, the cake—and disposed of that as well? Especially since everyone left the cocktail party believing that Father Tooley had died from nicotine poison meant for Alastair Whittlesby.”

“I didn’t,” Bradford said.

“A fact which you will, no doubt, continue to point out. One might wonder how a motorcar mechanic is so well versed in poisons,” Phyllida said.

“One might wonder the same about a persnickety housekeeper.”

She didn’t rise to the bait. “If it were the murderer who decided to help himself to an antique table—and I suppose we must determine whether it was, in fact, a costly piece of furniture—surely he or she would have searched for the remnants of the cake to destroy the evidence. It wouldn’t have been difficult to locate. Therefore, I conclude that the murderer and the antiques thief are two different people.”

“So by your account, Mrs. Bright, we have a murderer who employs arsenic, a would-be murderer who employs nicotine, and an antiques thief? And they are not the same people.”

Phyllida gave him a smug smile. “We are dealing with murder writers, Bradford. Their plots are meant to be complicated.”

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

INSPECTOR CORK TOOK THE NEWS ABOUT THE POISONED CAKE RATHER well, Phyllida thought. His bushy mustache rippled for only a few moments.

Once she had apprised him of her observations and deductions—and insisted that he have the cake and the cat tested for poisons as quickly as possible—Phyllida decided she had time to return to Mallowan Hall to freshen up and to ensure that everything had been packed up for delivery to the fair before the festivities began.

The side lawn at St. Wendreda’s had been designated as the location for the public fair. It was a square of lush green grass bordered on one side by the church, on the next by the rectory, on the third by the small river that wended its way through Listleigh, and on the fourth by a wrought iron fence. The entire area had been cordoned off with ropes that would do little to keep out anyone determined to make their way into the festival via random locations instead of the front entrance, but at least it was an effort to keep things organized.

Each of the celebrity authors had a table piled with books and his or her own small tent. The Murder Fête attendees—both amateur writers and mere readers—could make their way to each table and have a book signed by the author, and then take all of the books to one table, where they would pay.