“I’m very sorry about your brother,” Phyllida said, taking the only tack available in the face of childish male complaints: ignoring them. “But I’m pleased to see that Mrs. Whittlesby’s prognosis appears positive.”

“Yes, at least according to that foreign quack,” he said, taking not the least bit of care to keep his voice down. “Lettice, you really ought to let me take you to the hospital. I don’t trust him.”

“No, no, Allie . . . I’m fine,” she said wearily. “I just need to rest. My head is absolutely thudding.” She reached out with her uninjured hand as if to pat her husband’s arm, but he was sitting too far away. Then her eyes lit on Phyllida. “Mrs. Bright? What are you doing here?”

Phyllida smiled. “I am bringing condolences and best wishes from Mr. and Mrs. Mallowan. I’m very sorry that they won’t be able to visit with you until the festival is over.”

“Oh, yes . . . the festival. Oh, dear, Allie . . . do you think they’ll give up the contest?” Her voice sounded a little stronger. “Cancel the rest of the festival?”

“Surely not,” he replied flatly. “I should hope not! Why, they have to announce the winner! It’s a publishing contract!”

“It would be quite a tragedy for all of those poor orphans,” Phyllida said, “if they canceled the rest of the festival and weren’t able to raise enough money for the new roof.”

“Quite right,” replied Mr. Whittlesby absently.

“How do you feel, Mrs. Whittlesby?” Phyllida asked.

“I’ve certainly felt better,” she replied with a weak smile. “But it could have been so much worse. I cannot believe Eugene is gone.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I’m so sorry, Allie. I’m just so sorry. I tried to avoid the tree, but the car wouldn’t stop and—”

“Perhaps it was the vodka you’d had this morning,” said Mr. Whittlesby flatly. “Drewson told me.”

“Perhaps it was the cut brake lines,” Phyllida said firmly, and perhaps a trifle too loudly. She simply could not stand by and let Alastair Whittlesby berate his injured wife.

“What?” He goggled at her.

It was no surprise to Phyllida that he was unaware of the sabotage; after all, she had only just informed Inspector Cork of it, and he was presumably still at Tangled Vines Cottage.

“What are you saying?” said Mrs. Whittlesby. She shifted awkwardly, as if trying to sit up higher. Her husband ignored her, for he was still gaping at Phyllida.

“Someone cut the brake lines on the sedan,” Phyllida told them. “So you wouldn’t have been able to stop or even slow down, Mrs. Whittlesby, no matter how you tried. It was another case of attempted murder—and since it ultimately resulted in the death of Mr. Eugene, the killer did succeed . . . though not perhaps how he or she intended.”