“I met her this morning,” I volunteered.

“Did you indeed! Cynthia will be quite jealous to hear of it. Well, perhaps not jealous, but possibly just a tiny bit envious.”

“Is Mrs. Richardson one of Phyllis Wyvern’s fans?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Cynthia is, however, the cousin of Stella Ferrars, who, of course, wrote the novel Cry of the Raven, upon which the film is to be based. Third cousin, to be sure, but a cousin nonetheless.”

“Cynthia?” I could scarcely believe my ears.

“Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it? I can scarcely credit it myself. Stella was always the black sheep of the family, you know, until she married a laird, settled down in the heathered Highlands, and began cranking out an endless procession of potboilers, of which The Cry of the Raven is merely the latest. Cynthia had been hoping to pop by and give Miss Wyvern a few pointers on how the role of the heroine should be played.”

I almost went “Phhfft!” but I didn’t.

“And that’s why you’re here? To see Miss Wyvern?”

“Well, yes,” the vicar said, “but not on that particular topic. Christmas, as you’ve no doubt heard me say on more than one occasion, is always one of the greatest opportunities not only to receive but also to give, and I have been hoping that Miss Wyvern would see her way clear to re-create for us just a few scenes from her greatest triumphs—all in a good cause, of course. The Roofing Fund, for instance—dear me—”

“Would you like me to introduce you to her?” I asked.

I thought the dear man was going to break down completely. He bit his lip and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his glasses. When he realized he had forgotten to bring them with him, he blew his nose instead.