“I certainly do,” Phyllida replied. “Writers by nature are competitive and desperate to be published, and murder writers are the worst of the lot. They’re appallingly bloodthirsty—and they spend all their time thinking about ways to kill people.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bradford said. “Killing two people in order to have a bloody story printed in a magazine? Best find another motive, Mrs. Bright, because I think that one is a load of rubbish.”

She gave him a dark look. “Believe what you want, Bradford, but you’ll see. When the scores for the short story contest are discovered to be missing—and mark my words, they’ve gone—or,” she added with a rush to forestall any argument he might make, “when the results are discovered and can be proven to have been falsified with someone other than Alastair Whittlesby as the winner, you’ll see just how desperate an unpublished writer can be.”

He gave a sardonic chuckle and shook his head. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Bright. You’re the detective. But remember who was right about the arsenic.”

She sat up straight, folding her hands over her lap, and declined to speak with him for the remainder of the journey.

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

Saturday afternoon

ONCE THE FESTIVAL WAS UNDER WAY, PHYLLIDA DIDN’T HAVE MUCH to do. A good number of her staff had been brought up to St. Wendreda’s for the day, for she preferred to have maids she knew and trusted helping out for such a public event. They all had their assignments, and she knew them well enough not to have to watch over them.

Nonetheless, she did observe with satisfaction the maids and footmen scurrying about, refreshing tea, coffee, or water for the authors at their respective tables; bringing new supplies of books as needed; and doing their best to keep the press out of the way. Even Mr. Dobble had come up for the festival, although Phyllida wasn’t certain whether his presence was more to criticize her organizational skills, determine whether she really needed most of the staff at the festival (of course she did), or purchase a signed book from Miss Sayers.

She was hoping for the opportunity to speak with each of the Murder Club members in an effort to try to identify the clandestine speakers from yesterday morning.

Phyllida noted that Mr. Billdop was standing off to the side, as if uncertain which author’s queue he should join—or perhaps he was merely watching to see which wait was shorter. Miss Crowley had been standing at Miss Sayers’s table for quite some time— much longer than it would take to purchase a signed book—and the queue behind her had begun to snake around into the center of the festival. The people on line did not look pleased.