He was the vicar at St. Thurston’s Church, C.O.E. His parish was located across the village green from St. Wendreda’s, the papist church in Listleigh and the bane of his existence due to competition for flock members.

He was still annoyed that St. Wendreda’s had landed the distinction of being the location for the Murder Fête instead of his own St. Thurston’s, which didn’t have an orphanage with a conveniently bad roof.

As if that should have made a difference.

Both churchyards were shaded by many maples and oaks and had colorful gardens, as well as residences for the vicar and priest, respectively. Digby grudgingly admitted that even though St. Thurston’s yard was larger, St. Wendreda’s did have the nicer lawn, for it was bordered by the small river that ran through the village. Tomorrow it would be filled with tents and festival-goers.

“I’m certain it will be far less taxing than you imagine,” said Harvey Dobble, the butler at Mallowan Hall. “Meeting all of them.”

They were sitting at the same table at which they played their weekly chess game at the vicarage. Dobble had risen unusually early and slipped away from his duties at Mallowan Hall this morning in order to buck up his friend before the Murder Fête luncheon—and to make certain the vicar didn’t back out of going at the last minute. Digby was prone to anxiousness and he had delicate nerves, but in Dobble’s opinion, the vicar was a gifted writer, as well as a worthy chess opponent.

Digby clasped his pudgy fingers together on the table in front of him as if to keep them from fluttering. “To meet Mr. Chesterton in particular is quite upsetting my insides, because he’s simply. . . but you know how he’s my inspiration. Oh dear . . . what if none of them liked my story?”

Dobble shook his head. “Not at all, Digs,” he said. “I’ve read your stories and they’re eminently publishable. Why—and don’t repeat this—I find your Father Veritas to be far more compelling than Mr. Chesterton’s Father Brown. He overdoes the umbrella bit, Mr. Chesterton does, and ‘little’ Father Brown—as he continues to describe him—is far too doddering for my taste. Gives the clergy a bad name when he’s so rumpled and vacant-eyed.”

“Do you really think so?” replied the vicar, his eyes hopeful.

“I certainly do.” Dobble gave him a warm smile—something that would never be seen by any of the staff at Mallowan Hall. “Don’t I always insist on reading your new pages the moment I arrive, even before dinner? Father Veritas has become my favorite detective—after M. Poirot, of course.”