He fixed her with a malevolent look. “Not at all, Mrs. Bright. I did not happen to see the results. But there’s simply no one else who has a chance of winning. My story is the best of the lot.”

“I understand Miss Crowley had to change the story she wanted to submit because it was too similar to your plot—even though she had written hers first,” Phyllida said evenly. “Word is that you took her idea.”

Mr. Whittlesby’s expression grew darker, even threatening. “You might take your own advice about defamation, Mrs. Bright,” he said. “In fact, Miss Crowley is wrong—as she often is. The old pussy can’t place a comma properly, let alone plot a cohesive story. If she’s mucking about accusing me of stealing her story ideas, then I shall have to have words with her. Now,” he said, jamming the hat on his head, “I shall go off to the festival. Someone has to see to getting the story contest results.” He took two steps toward the door before turning abruptly. He bent to kiss his wife on the cheek, then strode out of the room.

* * *

When Phyllida marched out of Dr. Bhatt’s surgery, she was surprised to find Bradford approaching.

“What are you doing here?” she said ungraciously. She was still quite irate over Mr. Whittlesby’s intolerant accusations. Her hands were even shaking a bit.

“I came to fetch you,” replied Bradford. Then he paused. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course. It’s only that I have come to see quite plainly why everyone seems to want to do away with Alastair Whittlesby,” she said. The heat in her cheeks grew hotter as she remembered what the horrible man had said. “He really is an odious, boastful arse.”

Bradford nodded. “I see.”

Phyllida collected herself and automatically reached up to check that her hat was still in position. “You came to fetch me?”

“Yes, Molly needs to speak with you,” he replied. “It sounded important, so I offered to track you down—although I was certain I knew where you had gone.”

“Obviously,” she replied as he fell into step with her.

“You spoke with Mr. Whittlesby?” said Bradford.

“As well as with his wife. They were unaware that the motorcar crash was another murder attempt,” she said.

“And how did they take the news?”

“As one would expect.” She walked a bit in silence, thinking about the exchange. Then suddenly she burst out, “I’m finding it difficult to believe it a mere coincidence that both attempts on Mr. Whittlesby’s life nearly took his wife’s as well—or instead.”

“Right,” said Bradford. “It does seem a bit much to swallow.”

“With that in mind, one must begin to wonder whether Mrs. Whittlesby is actually the target,” she said, mulling aloud. “And not her husband.”