“And Mr. Whittlesby went with her into town?” Phyllida found that interesting. Had Mr. Whittlesby spoken to Father Tooley and somehow learned about the results of the story contest? But he had been gloating about it during the Murder Club meeting on Wednesday, which was the day before, so he must have known before he accompanied his wife on Thursday.

But what if Mr. Alastair had spoken to Father Tooley on Thursday and learned that perhaps he wasn’t going to be the winner of the contest . . . ?

“Oh, yes. Mr. Alastair likes to meet with Father Tooley; or perhaps it’s the other way around, with Father Tooley wanting to talk to Mr. Alastair to get more money from him. But I suppose he won’t be doing that anymore, now will he?—now, wait a moment. Wait a moment. That wasn’t Thursday, now, was it? No, no, no, it was Wednesday morning, Mrs. Bright. It was Wednesday that Mr. Alastair and Mrs. Alastair brought the flowers in to St. Wen-dreda’s. I remember now, because on Thursday, it was the morning after the Murder Club meeting and, unsurprisingly, Mrs. Alastair did not get up early that day.”

“But she went into Wenville Heath later that afternoon. On Thursday. And you’re certain Mr. Eugene wasn’t with her.”

“I’m quite certain he wasn’t.”

“What about Mr. Alastair? Did he go with her to Wenville Heath?”

“No, he was closed away in his office, typing. We aren’t to bother him whilst he’s writing, you know.”

Just then, they heard the sound of a motor approaching. A quick glance out the window indicated that it was not Mr. Whittlesby returning early.

“Ah. Someone must have telephoned to the constable. And it appears the inspector is with him,” Phyllida said, then hurried lightly down the stairs. It wouldn’t do for her to be caught snooping around in the private areas of the Whittlesbys’ house.

She was sitting innocently in the kitchen when Constable Greensticks and Inspector Cork were shown in.

The inspector did not appear pleased. “Why am I not surprised to find you here, Mrs. Bright.” As there was clearly no question mark at the end of his statement, Phyllida took it as rhetorical and declined to respond—at least on that topic.

“The car crash that took Mr. Eugene Whittlesby’s life and injured Mrs. Alastair Whittlesby was murder,” Phyllida told him instead.

“And why do you think that?” he replied dismissively. “It’s obvious she’s a bit of a sot, and from what I’ve heard, there was the smell of spirits all over her when they pulled her out of the car. Appears she lost control and hit a tree. Oi, unless you’re suggesting she was attempting to off her own brother-in-law by driving whilst intoxicated,” said Cork with a rude guffaw. “And nearly offing herself in the process.”

“The brake hoses on the motorcar were cut,” said Bradford evenly.