Bradford made a sound of agreement.

“The timing is suspect as well,” Phyllida went on, marshaling her little gray cells into Poirot-like order. The cake was delivered yesterday, and the obvious intention was that he should eat it yesterday. Presumably, there was enough arsenic in it to ensure it was a fatal dose, rather than a slow poisoning. The size of the confection was indicative of that—it was large enough to harbor a good amount of arsenic, but small enough that someone like Father Tooley wouldn’t hesitate to eat a good portion of it.”

“So someone wanted him to die yesterday,” Bradford said.

“Precisely.”

“Whoever poisoned that cake would have known it would take some time before he died,” Bradford went on.

“An hour or perhaps more for someone like Father Tooley, who was rather large due to his love of sugary sweets.”

“Did they want him dead before the cocktail party?” Bradford mused.

“That is an excellent question,” Phyllida replied, forgetting for the moment that she didn’t need any assistance from the driver for her investigation. Still, it was nice to be able to discuss such matters with a relatively quick-minded individual. “One can’t help but wonder if that was precisely the point—to get rid of Father Tooley before the Murder Club gathered. Perhaps,” she said as a little idea began to solidify in her mind, “the poisoner didn’t want Father Tooley to give any indication as to who had won the publishing prize. He’d finished calculating the results earlier this week.”

Suddenly she straightened. “I didn’t see anything on his desk that was indicative of the results of the short story contest, or his calculations.”

“He might have already given them to Mr. Chesterton or Mrs. Agatha,” Bradford said.

“I don’t believe he could have done,” Phyllida said, frowning. “He joined the cocktail party a bit late—perhaps he was already feeling the effects of the arsenic—and the Detection Club members were absolutely swarmed all evening. Surely if he’d presented one of them with the results, it would have been noticed or remarked upon.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe he delivered the results. And I didn’t see anything like that on his desk.”

“They could be in his pocket,” Bradford said. “He may have intended to give them up but died first.”

“Yes,” Phyllida said, turning over the thought in her mind. “Yes, that’s quite possible. Someone will have to go through his pockets to determine whether he has them.”

Bradford looked at her. “I suppose you’ll insist on doing so.”

“It would be preferable,” she replied agreeably. “I, at least, wouldn’t overlook anything. If the contest information is missing, and the one who calculated the scores is dead . . . anyone could change the winner.”

“Do you truly think one of those writers offed a priest and attempted to poison someone else just to win a publishing contract?” Bradford scoffed.