But Phyllida went on, clearly and inexorably stating her case. “You stayed at Dr. Bhatt’s surgery last night with your injured wife, didn’t you, Mr. Whittlesby? I didn’t know about that until I received a telephone call from Tangled Vines Cottage this morning mentioning that you had stayed with her. It would have been very simple for you—in a physician’s surgery—to slip a sedative into Dr. Bhatt’s drink and your wife’s as well, steal a knife, and slip out to do the deed. No one would have been the wiser, and Dr. Bhatt wouldn’t have had an alibi, as you would have claimed you were drugged. It was a very clumsy attempt to frame Dr. Bhatt, but it might have been effective had I not been on the scene.”

“It’s not true,” Mr. Whittlesby said in a quieter voice. “It’s not true at all. I would never . . .”

“And poor Father Tooley, twice poisoned. Fortunately, he could only perish once. The main clue in the murders of the priest and Saint Aloysius was the poisoned cake. I admit, I spent more time than I should have done trying to determine from where the cake had come.

“But everything became much clearer when one of your shirts was found, stuffed under your bed, with strawberry jam on the cuff. Everyone at Tangled Vines Cottage knows you loathe strawberry jam and only eat orange marmalade, Mr. Whittlesby. That, along with your strong and almost obsessive preference for Vieux Carrés was what helped me to make sense of it all. You see, it was these very, very specific and unyielding tendencies of yours, Mr. Whittlesby, that made you such an easy target.”

“An easy target?” Mr. Whittlesby exploded, leaping to his feet again. “I’ll say I was an easy target! Someone has been trying to kill me, and now you’re accusing me of . . . of . . .” He was so furious he couldn’t seem to find the words. But, apparently mindful of the watching Max Mallowan and the glowering Bradford, he didn’t lunge toward Phyllida—although his expression clearly indicated his desire to do so.

Phyllida’s palms were going a little damp, for she knew what was coming . . . what she had to do next. She knew she was correct. The two hat boxes, the fruit flies, the dead branch . . . the misplaced apostrophe . . .

It was the only explanation.

“You were a target . . . but of a very diabolical and twisted plot, Mr. Whittlesby.” Phyllida drew in a steadying breath and looked directly at Lettice Whittlesby. “Why did you kill Mr. Eugene Whittlesby?”

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

THERE WAS A SHOCKED SILENCE, THEN MRS. WHITTLESBY FROWNED, confusion in her expression. “Are you speaking to me?” Her tone was perfectly calm, but Phyllida saw her forefinger tremble a bit as her unwrapped hand pressed to her chest.

“Yes, Mrs. Whittlesby. I’d like to know why you killed your brother-in-law.”