All proceeds from the sales would go to the orphanage, for the publishers of Agatha Christie, G. K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Anthony Berkeley had donated the copies to the cause. Publishers saw the benefits of publicity just as much as authors did.

Along with the book tables, the festival included booths set up with tea, pastries, sandwiches, and other foodstuffs for sale. Another table offered pretty bookmarks to buy, made from ribbons trimmed with beads or charms. A small booth offered buttons with THE MURDER FÊTE emblazoned enthusiastically on them, and the image of a dagger dripping with blood beneath. Another enterprising soul was selling film and theatrical posters from some of the adaptations by murder writers—or any suspense or thriller story. The proprietors at each of these tables could keep their proceeds, but they’d had to make a donation to the orphanage’s roof fund in order to reserve their table.

All in all, Phyllida was confident the festival would be a success. . . even with the pall of a real murder hanging over it.

In fact, she thought ruefully, news of the horrendous crime and its intended victim would probably bring more people to the Murder Fête. People were far too enamored with violent death.

As she made her way to the Daimler, where Bradford was waiting to drive her back, Phyllida decided to make a short detour to Panson’s Bakery. It was only a brief walk from the church, and her questions shouldn’t take long.

Even though she hoped the inspector would be proactive enough to question the delivery boy Benny and Mrs. Panson, Phyllida felt the urge to do so herself. Just to be sure.

“I’m going to stop into Panson’s to see about some tea tarts,” Phyllida told Bradford. “I won’t be a minute.”

“Tea tarts? Of course, Mrs. Bright,” he said dryly.

She sailed past him without further comment, and moments later stepped into the bakery. The scents of pastry, sugar, and yeast assailed her.

“Ah, Mrs. Bright, good mornin’ to ye,” said Mrs. Panson. She was a round, shiny-faced woman with pudgy hands and a white apron. She reminded Phyllida of a polished red apple. Her husband was the baker and she managed the front counter, boxing up the confections he made and gossiping with the customers.

It was this latter activity that had prompted Phyllida to come in to speak with her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Panson. I’m in need of some of those tiny currant tarts Mr. Panson makes—with the glaze on them?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, and here I am happy to box them up for you. How many will you have, then, Mrs. Bright?” Her hand hovered over the two stacks of flattened cardboard boxes, waiting to determine which size to choose.