Mr. Max half rose from his seat and Inspector Cork clapped a hand to the revolver at his waist, but it was Mr. Max who spoke. “Sit down, Alastair. You’ll do yourself no favors by making a scene.”

As Mr. Whittlesby sank back into his chair, Bradford took a step back to where he’d been leaning against the wall. His expression glittered dangerously as his eyes settled on Mr. Whittlesby.

“You have no proof of any of this,” Mr. Whittlesby said from between clenched jaws. “I’ll sue you for slander, you lying—you interfering madwoman.”

“On the contrary,” said Phyllida. “There was a note for your wife that you would be driving the MG on that morning—a note that you left before she rose so she didn’t have an opportunity to argue. And you left the sedan outside Friday night so that it would seem that anyone could have access to the motor and cut the brake lines. But,” she said, cutting him off when he started to speak, “you weren’t taking any chances of anyone figuring it out.

“It is, after all, a classic murder plot for a presumably accidental victim to actually be the target, whilst the murderer camouflages themselves with several attempts on his or her own life.” Phyllida glanced at Agatha, whose Poirot had nearly missed solving such a twisted case. In that case, as in this one, it was a printed note that helped Phyllida and Poirot solve the killings. Agatha nodded, her eyes twinkling with understanding.

“And since you weren’t taking any chances of anyone figuring out that Mrs. Whittlesby was the actual target and you were the perpetrator, you staged a clever scene last night, here at St. Wen-dreda’s,” Phyllida went on. “You used John Bhatt’s knife to murder Rita, and you left the evidence where it would easily be found—and then you attempted to run me down.”

“That’s a lie! She’s lying! She’s making this all up!” Mr. Whittlesby was so agitated that a fleck of spittle flew out and lodged on the corner of his mouth. “If that man’s knife was found at the scene of the crime, then it’s obvious who—”