A Trace of Poison

Book 2: Phyllida Bright Mystery

by Colleen Cambridge

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Mystery fans will revel in this historical series set in the fascinating world of Agatha Christie, as her ever-capable housekeeper endeavors to solve mysteries far stranger than fiction—a treat for fans of Anna Lee Huber, Jacqueline Winspear, Alyssa Maxwell, and of course the grand dame of fiction herself.

In England's stately manor houses, murder is not generally a topic for polite conversation. Mallowan Hall, home to Agatha Christie and her husband, Max, is the exception. And housekeeper Phyllida Bright delights in discussing gory plot details with her friend and employer . . .

The neighboring village of Listleigh has also become a hub of grisly goings-on, thanks to a Murder Fête organized to benefit a local orphanage. Members of The Detection Club—a group of celebrated authors such as G.K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Agatha herself—will congregate for charitable events, including a writing contest for aspiring authors. The winner gets an international publishing contract, and entrants have gathered for a cocktail party—managed by the inimitable Phyllida—when murder strikes too close even for her comfort.

It seems the victim imbibed a poisoned cocktail intended for Alastair Whittlesby, president of the local writers' club. The insufferable Whittlesby is thought to be a shoo-in for the prize, and ambition is certainly a worthy motive. But narrowing down these suspects could leave even Phyllida's favorite fictional detective, M. Poirot, twirling his moustache in frustration.

It's a mystery too intriguing for Phyllida to resist, but one fraught with duplicity and danger, for
every guest is an expert in murder—and how to get away with it . . .

Release date: October 25, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Friday morning

“I JUST DON’T SEE ANY WAY AROUND IT. HE’S SIMPLY GOT TO BE DONE away with,” said a hushed voice.

“Right. The problem is . . . how to do it . . .” replied another voice. “Soon . . .”

While anyone else overhearing such an exchange would surely be alarmed, Phyllida Bright merely smiled to herself and went about the business of counting tablecloths for the welcome luncheon at the Listleigh Murder Fête.

Being the housekeeper at the vast and elegant Mallowan Hall, the home of the famous novelist Agatha Christie and her husband, Max Mallowan, Phyllida was quite used to overhearing—and participating in—discussions about murder and the finer points of how to permanently do away with an inconvenient person.

Whether abovestairs or belowstairs, there was always some conversation going on about which poison to use, whether a knife or a gun would be more or less bloody when employed than the other, and if a blow to the head would actually do the deed or whether a spike shoved into the back of the neck would need to be added to complete the task before stuffing the body of a maid into a downstairs cupboard.

“Poison . . .” replied the first person, whose words were becoming less audible. Perhaps they were walking away. “Coffee. Or a drink . . . ?”

“There is . . . that,” replied the other. “. . . his new car, eh?”

Phyllida was fairly certain the first was a man speaking, but it was difficult to be certain as she was inside the social hall at St. Wendreda’s Catholic Church and the voices were coming through an open window. Regardless, surely it was one of the detective fiction writers who were here for the Murder Fête. There were dozens of them milling about—both published and unpublished writers—many hoping to get a glimpse of some of the popular and well-known authors, such as G. K. Chesterton or Dorothy L. Sayers.

“Yes, poison . . . wouldn’t it? . . . something . . . done,” replied the companion, whose sex was indistinguishable due to its hushed tone. “And soon . . . cannot bear his boastful, overbearing nastiness any longer.” These last phrases became stronger and more distinct, clearly indicating the frustration of the speaker, whose voice was low and crusty enough to be either male or female.

Phyllida tsked to herself, wondering how writers could come to dislike characters they’d created. Of course, not being a writer herself, she couldn’t imagine such an occasion.

However, there was a time only recently when Agatha had become weary of and annoyed by her most popular fictional detective, Hercule Poirot. Like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes had so become the bane of his existence that he actually killed off the character—only to be required to revive him in order to silence his fans—Agatha had become fed up with Poirot and his persnickety, bombastic ways.

Fortunately, Agatha hadn’t actually plotted to kill the little Belgian detective—an event that would have prompted Phyllida to have a pointed and impassioned conversation with her employer. For Phyllida had what one might term a literary tendre for the brilliant, mustachioed detective.

Of course, the discussion to which she was currently privy might very well be about a villain rather than a meddlesome crime fiction detective, but she quite doubted it. The tone of voice implied a person very much at the end of their rope in dealing with the individual, which implied someone well-known to the speaker, such as a recurring character.

She hoped it wasn’t Dorothy Sayers speaking about her detective character Peter Wimsey. Not that Lord Peter could hold a candle to Poirot, but Phyllida certainly enjoyed his detective work—and having recently solved a real-life murder herself, she highly approved of the intrepid Harriet Vane as his partner (although she was no comparison to Agatha’s spunky Tuppence Beresford).

“Mrs. Bright, ma’am, the flowers for the tables are here. The vases are on their way.”

Phyllida turned from her stack of tablecloths to speak to Ginny, the first parlourmaid from Mallowan Hall. Presumably, the person standing next to her was Amsi, the gardener from the manor house, but it was impossible to tell for certain as the figure was completely obliterated by the mountains of roses, Michaelmas daisies, and gladioli in the cart he was pushing.

“Excellent. When they arrive, line up the vases on the table there and you may arrange them—five roses, six daisies, and two gladioli for each. Make certain the glads are in the center, mind, and mix the colors,” Phyllida told her, even as she scrutinized the fresh apron and uniform her maid was wearing.

Not one straggle of honey-gold hair escaped Ginny’s cap, and her stockings were sleek and smooth—as they should be. Phyllida had extremely high expectations of her staff at all times, but she was particularly exacting when they were to be interacting with the public.

She turned to the second of the maids she’d brought with her from home. Despite being a kitchen maid and not usually seen by guests or even the family, Molly was just as clean and pressed and starched as Ginny was—and could be counted on not to gossip quite as much. Phyllida mentally nodded approval. “Molly, you can put out the tablecloths—there’s a rectangular one for the head table and the rest are circular—and then help Ginny place the flowers. Directly in the center of the tables, if you please, with three spaced out across the head table.”

Phyllida gestured to the tablecloths she’d just finished counting. As anticipated, there were sixteen round ones, which left two extra since there were fourteen luncheon tables. Phyllida always had an extra of everything.

Except patience, when it came to Myrtle—who’d just made her appearance.

“What is that beast doing in here?” she demanded as the dark, curly-haired mop of a puppy barreled into the hall.

Bradford, the Mallowans’ chauffeur and Myrtle’s master (Phyllida used the term loosely, for she wasn’t quite certain who was the master of whom when it came to the two of them), came casually strolling into the room as if he had not just unleashed a hellhound in a church hall. He was carrying a large crate that presumably held the vases. “She wanted to come with me,” he replied, as if it were the least bit permissible to allow a puppy to run rampant through a luncheon hall. “Where do you want these, Mrs. Bright?”

Every time he said her name in that drawling, ironic tone, Phyllida’s hackles went up. She couldn’t help it. The man was impossible and simply filled with arrogant criticisms and unwanted observations. “On the table there,” she replied frostily. “Dogs are not allowed in the luncheon hall.”

Myrtle was tearing about the space, her tail flying behind her like a banner, barking, bouncing, skittering, and generally making a nuisance of itself. Phyllida removed herself quickly from the beast’s path as it streaked past her. Since Myrtle’s invasion of the grounds at Mallowan Hall, Phyllida had had to retire three pairs of silk stockings due to rents from the creature’s paws, as, for some reason, the beast seemed particularly enamored with her.

Needless to say, Myrtle was not welcome inside Phyllida’s domain of the manor house.

“Of course not, Mrs. Bright,” replied Bradford as he set down the crate. Was he chuckling at her quick footwork to avoid the beast? “But the luncheon isn’t for four hours. She’ll be long gone by then.”

Phyllida was interrupted from a tart reply about the remnants of Myrtle’s hair being everywhere by the arrival of Mrs. Agatha, Miss Sayers, Mr. Chesterton, and Mr. Berkeley.

“Good morning, Phyllida. I see you have everything well under control here,” said the lady of Mallowan Hall. There was a hint of laughter in Agatha’s voice, for upon her entrance, Myrtle had come charging up to her, tail wagging wildly. “Yes, you are quite adorable, aren’t you?” As Agatha bent to scratch the wriggling four-legged bundle of curls, Phyllida smothered an acerbic comment.

She and Agatha had become friends during the Great War, when women were eagerly conscripted for all sorts of jobs. At the time, both were single women, and since they were about the same age, their rapport was natural. Agatha had worked in the dispensary at the hospital—which was how she’d learned so much about the poisons she used in her books—and Phyllida had worked as a nurse at the same hospital before going to the front lines. They were great friends and had got along tremendously for more than ten years. The fact that Phyllida had chosen to take the position as housekeeper at Mallowan Hall had not altered their relationship in the least, although they did take pains to keep from being too familiar around each other in front of the other servants or guests.

One thing housekeeper and mistress did not agree upon was an affection for dogs. Mrs. Agatha had a wire terrier named Peter, and when Bradford had brought Myrtle to live with him in the garage apartment, both of the Mallowans had taken to the beast with rapturous affection.

Phyllida had not.

“Mr. Bradford promises to remove it well before the food arrives,” she told Agatha primly, knowing he was listening. “But of course we will have to sweep again due to the dog hair.” She shot the chauffeur a dark look and was rewarded by him ignoring her.

“I have no doubt everything will be in strict shipshape with you at the helm, Phyllida.” Agatha straightened, leaving Myrtle to find another victim.

Phyllida quickly sidestepped the slathering, drooling, panting beast once more, and so the mop transferred its attentions to Miss Sayers.

“You’ll be sitting at the head table there, G. K.,” said Agatha. She was speaking to Mr. Chesterton, who had agreed to be the Grand Master for the Murder Fête, as it was a charitable event being sponsored by the Detection Club.

The Detection Club was a group of detective fiction writers, including Agatha Christie, G. K. Chesterton, Dorothy L. Sayers, Anthony Berkeley, Hugh Walpole, Freeman Wills Crofts, and a dozen or so other popular authors. They met regularly in London to discuss the techniques and travails of crime fiction writing and to provide support to one another. Each had taken an oath to be fair to their readers in creating and presenting the solutions in their stories, but whether the oath was anything more than an inside joke, Phyllida wasn’t certain.

The Murder Fête in Listleigh was a weekend event that had been arranged to allow aspiring writers of detective stories the opportunity to meet successful writers of such works, as well as for the public to come and listen to the authors speak and to buy their books.

The aspiring writers paid a fee for the first day, which included the private Welcome Luncheon at half past one with the Detection Club attendees who were present—Sayers, Chesterton, Berkeley, and Christie—along with short classes taught by some of the published writers. The highlight of the first day was an outdoor cocktail party in the evening, giving the hopeful writers another chance to hobnob with the author celebrities. Along with their entrance fee, each amateur author had been offered the opportunity (for an additional fee) to submit a short story for a contest to be judged by the professionals. Tomorrow, Saturday, the fair on the grounds of St. Wendreda’s would be open to the public for book sales and a general festival. On Sunday at teatime would be the awarding of the Murder Fête Grand Prize.

As Grand Master, G. K. Chesterton would speak at the luncheon today, and on Sunday he would give out the prize for best short story to one of the aspiring authors. The prize was a publishing contract for the story in both England and the United States. Phyllida was privately rooting for Dr. Bhatt to win, for she’d read some of his work about a physician turned amateur detective. She thought it was exceedingly good.

Listleigh had been chosen as the site for the Murder Fête because of the local writers’ club. After John Bhatt, the town’s doctor and a member of the local club, heard about a fundraiser the Detection Club had participated in in London, he conceived the idea of a local fundraising event. This one was for the nearby orphanage and school for wayward children sponsored by St. Wen-dreda’s, which needed a new roof. Dr. Bhatt had sent a very compelling proposal to Mr. Chesterton, by way of Mrs. Agatha. The publicity such an event would afford the writers, the money it would raise for children in need, and the opportunity to get out of London during the hottest part of the summer prompted the Detection Club to accept the Listleigh writers’ club’s proposal.

Because of Agatha’s involvement, Phyllida had readily taken charge of the planning and execution of the event. Not only was this sort of activity exactly what she loved to manage—and was exceptional at doing—but also being at St. Wendreda’s for several days during the setup and event meant she was not at Mallowan Hall, and therefore did not have to interact with Mr. Dobble, the butler.

“Very well,” Mr. Chesterton replied after he looked at the table. Approaching his sixties, the writer of the popular Father Brown stories had masses of thick dark hair and habitually wore a pince-nez. He was a bulky, imposing man whose dark clothing merely added to his commanding persona. “How many aspiring writers will be here?”

“There are fifteen of them who have registered, and paid, of course,” Agatha told him. “They aren’t all from Listleigh. Some are coming from as far away as Wales.” She had declined the local club’s request to be the Grand Master, for she was quite shy and preferred not to speak in public or even in small groups unless she knew them well. It was a monumental decision for her to agree to participate at all, for Agatha disliked publicity and the press—but she could hardly decline with the event being such a local undertaking.

Being instrumental in the planning and executing of the event afforded Phyllida the opportunity to help keep her reclusive friend out of the public eye as much as possible, and the only public event was tomorrow’s book fair and the announcement of the grand prize winner.

“I trust you all received your copies of their short stories—there were only ten submitted—for the judging?” Agatha asked her colleagues.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Miss Sayers. “I received my packet a fortnight ago, which gave me ample opportunity to read them—although I had to finish the last on the train here.” Dorothy Sayers was a large, boisterous woman who tended to wear long black frocks that ebbed and flowed around her. Her dark hair was cut short in a style called the Eton crop, giving her a mannish appearance despite her draping clothing. “Some of them were actually quite good.”

“Quite. I thought so myself. Might be some competition at the publishers for us,” said Mr. Chesterton with a chuckle.

As she watched Ginny make up the vases and Molly finish the tablecloths, Phyllida couldn’t help but listen in hopes of overhearing any hint about who might be awarded the prize.

“Father Tooley has had all of the rankings since Monday of this week,” said Agatha. “So no one can accuse us of falling to any undue influence once we begin mingling with the writers.” She smiled.

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Chesterton. “A holy man counting the tallies would be above suspicion.”

“Have you decided on a favorite yourself?” asked Miss Sayers.

“Oh, yes,” replied Agatha. “There was one tale that particularly stood out to me. I found it quite entertaining, as well as clever. But there were several others with great merit. It should be quite interesting to see where we all stand with our preferences.”

Before she could get any indication of which story that was, Phyllida was required to move out of earshot when Myrtle discovered the swaying tail of a tablecloth that had just been placed.

“Leave that be, you little recalcitrant, annoying, hairy, beastly thing,” Phyllida said as she marched over to stop the nonsense. “Mr. Bradford, if you would remove this nuisance at once.”

Looking not the least bit abashed, the chauffeur swooped up the motley beast. As Myrtle began to slather his face with what passed for affection, Phyllida couldn’t help but notice that the beast’s thick curls were indistinguishable from her master’s unruly mop of hair. Two of a kind, she thought irritably. Both lacking any sort of decorum or respect.

“All right, then, Mrs. Bright,” said Bradford. The bridge of his arrogant, blade-like nose was shiny where the dog had been licking him. Phyllida suppressed a shudder. “We’ll take ourselves off, then. What time shall we return to bring you back?”

It was Phyllida’s current private hope that the Mallowans would either hire a second chauffeur or that Bradford would leave—and take his dog with him—for some greener pastures or greasier garages. Having to ride in the Daimler with him whenever she wanted to go into town or anywhere else was nearly as trying as dealing with Mr. Dobble.

Nonetheless, she was the consummate professional, and she had learned over the years that she could get along with anyone, regardless of how irritating or sardonic they might be, as long as they did their job. And unfortunately, Bradford was more than equal to his job.

“I should like to be picked up at three o’clock, and then I’ll need to return here by half five in order to see to final preparations for the cocktail party, if you please, Mr. Bradford.”

He looked at her from over the top of the panting puppy’s head. The beast’s little pink tongue was lolling from the side of its mouth like an unfurled ribbon. “Right, then. Myrtle and I will be here to collect you just before three o’clock.” He gave her a cheeky grin, obviously knowing how much she loathed the idea of being trapped in a vehicle with that slathering menace.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradford.”

A loud thud followed by an ominous crash had her spinning from further repartee with the driver.

One of the tables had somehow been upended. Flowers, water, and a shattered vase were all over the floor.

It was a good thing Phyllida had extras . . . of everything.

“I’m so very anxious about meeting all of them!” said Digby Billdop. “All of those famous writers!”

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.”

“Oh, thank you for saying so,” replied Digby, clasping his hands even tighter together. His eyes glittered with raw emotion. “That is quite a compliment, as M. Poirot is simply . . . well, parfait—as he would say—as is Madame Christie.” He gave a little chuckle that trailed off into a sigh. “I know I must sound silly, but Alastair Whittlesby is always picking at every little detail in my stories, and sometimes I simply can’t help but wish he’d run out of ideas, or that his words would dry up, or . . . or that his pages would get accidentally dropped into the fire and destroyed. Or . . . or that something would happen to him. Even though it’s not very Christian of me,” he added ruefully.

“Alastair Whittlesby is an unmitigated arse, and I have no qualms about wishing his papers would go up in flames—or worse,” Dobble said stoutly, for there had been more than one occasion when Digby had been near tears after a Listleigh Murder Club meeting. Mr. Whittlesby reigned as president of the group and, in his mind, as the as-yet-undiscovered Shakespeare of Detective Fiction. “From what his butler tells me, the man is no more civil at home than he is at the writers’ club meetings. Drewson claims the rows between him and his brother are something to behold.”

Alastair Whittlesby was meddlesome, opinionated, and oftentimes rude and cruel. But he was the only solicitor in the village, and his father had had a baronetcy and a bit of money, so the man thought himself above most everyone he encountered even though he was barely considered a gentleman.

“Even Wednesday, when we were all there at his house for tea and cocktails, he was simply insufferable. He’s so very certain he will win the story contest and the publishing prize—I’m certain that’s why he had us all there. To gloat in advance,” said Digby.

“Was everyone there?” asked Dobble. His attention slid—not for the first time—to the cake sitting on the counter, and he was feeling quite regretful that his friend hadn’t yet cut into it. A piece of whatever it was—a luscious white confection—would be an excellent partner to the tea he’d been sipping. Digby’s housekeeper was a formidable baker, a fact which Dobble would never even think of acknowledging in the hearing of Mrs. Puffley, who reigned in the kitchen at Mallowan Hall.

“All of the members of the Murder Club were there,” replied the vicar, seemingly oblivious to Dobble’s interest in an early-morning dessert. “Even Miss Crowley, who refused to touch even a glass of sherry.” Digby sighed. “If Whittlesby does win the prize, I might have to quit the club. He’ll be utterly intolerable! I just wish something would happen to him, to . . . to put him out of the way.”

“Now, now, Digs, let’s not put the cart before the horse. You’ve as good a chance of winning as anyone—save Vera Rollingbroke.”

They chuckled, and Dobble was relieved that his friend seemed to relax a little. He very much hoped that Digby would win, but more than that, he desperately hoped that Alastair Whittlesby would not. Even if Dr. Bhatt won instead of Digby, it would be far better—though in that event, Dobble would have to contend with Mrs. Bright’s subtle, but smug, satisfaction.

Dobble glanced at the clock and saw with a start that it was past time for him to return to the manor house to see that breakfast had been cleared, and tea and dinner were being prepared. For the last few days during the preparations for the Murder Fête, the residence had been unusually quiet. This was mainly due to the long absences of Mrs. Bright. She’d taken he. . .