“Good God!” Mr. Whittlesby’s face had gone white. “Why, that might have been me driving the BMW—it should have been me! I always drive—if you hadn’t been out of petrol, I would have driven it into town!” This last was directed at his wife, who lay there, still and wide-eyed.

“Someone tried to kill you again,” Mrs. Whittlesby wailed. “Oh, Allie, what is happening?”

“Someone tried to kill your husband,” said Phyllida firmly, “but very nearly killed you in the process, Mrs. Whittlesby. Again. While Mr. Eugene was the real victim. . . .”

“Good heavens,” said Mr. Whittlesby, grasping his wife’s pale hand as it occurred to him that his life wasn’t the only one that had been in danger. Phyllida wondered when—if ever—it would sink in that his brother had actually been killed. “It might have been you, Lettice! And then what would I have done?”

She shook her head slowly, as if in pain. “You would have carried on, darling, as you always do. Belfast and Millie would have been just fine in your—”

“But how could someone have done it?” he said, his voice spiraling higher and tighter than before. “Sneaking around our house? Cutting brake lines?” Horror filled his voice. “Someone is trying to kill me, Lettice! What will they do next? Shoot at me through a window?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phyllida said, cutting into his hysterics. “Thus far, the murderer has limited himself or herself to secretive, anonymous tactics. There’s simply no reason to think someone would march up to your home and point a gun at you. It doesn’t match the psychology of the killer. Still,” she went on, “you ought to take extra care, Mr. Whittlesby. And you as well, Mrs. Whittlesby. But at least you’ll be here tonight, won’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Whittlesby. “Yes, I agreed to stay overnight here instead of going to hospital. It was simply too far away. And I will,” she said in a surprisingly firm tone when her husband began to object. “I’m in no danger. It’s you who’s the target, Allie. Not me. Besides, Dr. Bhatt will be here.”

“Doctor Bhatt.” Mr. Whittlesby’s mouth twisted, and Phyllida heard him mutter an appalling phrase under his breath. It was all she could do not to lash out at him.

Instead, she swallowed her outrage and said, “Indeed.” She rose. “I suppose I should be going now. There’s much to attend to at the fête.”

“I should return to the festival myself,” said Mr. Whittlesby, standing. “Surely they’re missing me. Mr. Chesterton and I were having quite an animated conversation about characterization through backstory.” He reached for his hat. “Not that he’s done much of that at all with Father Brown, you know. You will be all right, now, won’t you, Lettice?”