“Yes, you are a suspect. And a strong one, I must say—with your laboratory all set up to test poisons clearly indicating your deep interest in them,” Phyllida said. When he looked at her as if surprised she would agree, his mustache drooped.

“I vow to you, I never would do such—”

“I know,” she interrupted, patting his arm again. She certainly would have recognized John’s voice if he had been one of the speakers. She hesitated, but decided not to tell him about the conversation just yet. “I know,” she said again. “It’s all in the name of research, of course. Nonetheless, the cake and poor Saint Aloysius should be tested immediately.”

“Surely the work has already begun at my own laboratory, unfortunately.” He sounded exceedingly disappointed. “I do wish they would allow me to observe!”

“John, whom do you suspect? You know all the members of the Murder Club better than I do—and definitely better than Inspector Cork.”

He heaved a sigh. “None of them. I do not suspect any of them . . . and yet it must be someone who was there last night.”

“It’s certainly not Mr. Chesterton or any of the other members of the Detection Club,” Phyllida said. “And it certainly wasn’t me or any of my staff. There was no one else there—aside from Rita, the maid at the rectory—and where would she get a bottle of Monteleone’s Special Bitters? For that matter, where would anyone get one?”

“Indeed,” he replied.

Noticing the queue for the food table had shortened, she excused herself from Dr. Bhatt to procure a pasty for herself—his smelled and looked far too delicious to ignore. She also intended for her absence to give him time to think. By the time she returned her attention to him with her own paper-wrapped pasty stuffed with beef, potatoes, and rutabaga, he’d finished his own.

“John,” she said carefully, “you should know Mr. Billdop told Inspector Cork about the—er—altercation between you and Mr. Whittlesby.”

Dr. Bhatt’s mustache flattened and his dark cheeks turned darker. “I dislike speaking ill of anyone, but I admit, I have very little good to say about Alastair Whittlesby—other than that he is a good writer. He has won the contest, I am quite certain of it. He very nearly told us he did on Wednesday. I wish it were not so, but one cannot argue with talent.” He sighed. “His work is good, and that is the only merit on which this contest has been judged.”

“Did your altercation become physical at all?” Phyllida asked. “Or threatening? On the part of either of you? You must tell me all of it, for Inspector Cork will find out regardless.”