“No, no, no,” Mr. Whittlesby said, his voice rising in volume and pitch. His forehead glistened with perspiration. “Yes, yes, it was true that I told the footman not to bring her any more drinks, but it was just as you said—I didn’t want her to . . . to have anything else. But of course it wasn’t so that she would drink my cocktail. Someone tried to poison me, and they nearly got my wife instead! How dare you try and turn this around and accuse me!” His eyes blazed with fury and indignation.

Phyllida fixed him with a steady gaze. “And then,” she went on without acknowledging his outrage, “on Saturday there was the motorcar crash. Another very convenient, nearly successful murder attempt—purportedly on Alastair Whittlesby. It was the vehicle that you use nearly every day, Mr. Whittlesby, and it was sabotaged on the one day that your wife was left to drive it.

“Two attempts on your life in two days . . . two attempts seemingly on your life in two days, but both of them very nearly killed Mrs. Whittlesby instead. I find that far too coincidental to be believable, Mr. Whittlesby.”

“What are you trying to say?” Alastair Whittlesby hissed, his eyes bulging.

“I’m suggesting that perhaps you weren’t the target after all, Mr. Whittlesby, but that instead it was your wife. It was a clever arrangement—making those events appear like attempts on your life, but really Lettice Whittlesby was the one who was intended to be the victim all along.”

“But who . . . who would do such a thing?” Mr. Whittlesby’s anger turned to confusion. “Who would want Lettice dead?” He reached for his wife’s arm, but she pulled it away. “Lettice!” he exclaimed in shock as her feelings became obvious. “You don’t think . . . ”

“Who would want Mrs. Whittlesby dead? That is an excellent question. It certainly wasn’t Mr. Eugene Whittlesby, for if so, he wouldn’t have ridden in the sabotaged motorcar with her and he couldn’t have engineered the poisoned cocktail at the party. In fact, it had to be someone at the cocktail party on Friday night. Your embarrassment by her clinging and her heavy drinking became quite clear at the cocktail party, Mr. Whittlesby.”

“Are you implying—”

Phyllida cut him off. “And perhaps you realized that, since you were about to become published on two continents and your writing career was about to take off, you no longer wanted a—what did you call her?—oh, yes, a bloody, clinging limpet, or something of that nature. You no longer wanted a clinging, whiny, boring wife in your exciting new life. And so you created this very elaborate plan to make it appear as if you were the intended victim while you were actually trying to kill your wife instead.”

Alastair Whittlesby lunged to his feet. “Why, you impertinent little bi—”