“So it was possible he had just put the box in the lorry,” Phyllida mused, “and he was afraid someone had seen him.” She frowned, nibbling on the crust of her pasty. She couldn’t imagine the quiet, unassuming vicar as a murderer, but she would not discount it as impossible. “And on Wednesday, when the Murder Club met at Mr. Whittlesby’s house . . . did anyone seem interested in the Vieux Carré cocktail?”

John’s expression turned sour. “The meeting on Wednesday was nothing more than an opportunity for Alastair Whittlesby to lord it over the rest of us that he was going to win the competition. Louis Genevan was livid. I thought he was going to dash the man’s drink in his own face.”

“Mr. Whittlesby had one of his cocktails then,” Phyllida confirmed. “Did anyone else?”

John sighed. “No, I don’t believe anyone did, but he did talk about how he’d come upon the cocktail in New Orleans and how he had to buy special ingredients that no one could get here in England. But I don’t believe he offered that particular drink to anyone—although he did pour a whisky for Sir Rolly, and I had a small glass of brandy. I don’t usually imbibe so early in the day, but . . . well, Mr. Whittlesby was being quite trying.”

“I understand his brother came in for a drink as well,” Phyllida said.

“Yes, but I don’t know what he had. Everyone was drinking some sort of cocktail except for Miss Crowley,” he told her. “Mrs. Whittlesby had several drinks, and she seemed rather loose for it being tea.” His mustache flattened.

Phyllida’s suspicion grew that Mrs. Whittlesby enjoyed her spirits a bit too much. Before she could continue her discussion, however, a sudden gust of wind caught her attention. It was followed by a definite spray of wet.

“Drat!” she exclaimed as the rain began in earnest.

Phyllida had been so busy she hadn’t noticed how quickly the clouds had rolled in. She sprang into action, thrusting what was left of her pasty into Dr. Bhatt’s hand and hurrying off to limit the damage of the rain.

In moments, the lawn at St. Wendreda’s turned into a melee in the rain: servants were running everywhere, shoving boxes of books beneath the tables under the tents and securing the tablecloths over them, the authors being hustled toward the dry safety of St. Wendreda’s rectory, festival-goers scrambling into the church itself, vendors stowing their wares, and Phyllida stalking about, safely covered by the umbrella she’d had the forethought to bring—for Mrs. Puffley’s aching hip was never wrong—supervising the efforts.