Gasps and low murmurs filled the room, and Mr. Whittlesby appeared just as shocked as his wife did.

But Phyllida knew better.

“I think she’s out of her mind,” said Mrs. Whittlesby to her husband. “First, she accuses you of trying to kill me, and now she accuses me of killing Eugene!”

“It was incredibly risky for you,” Phyllida went on, looking steadily at Mrs. Whittlesby. She saw the flicker of fear that was quickly banked in the other woman’s eyes. “To stage the motorcar accident in such a way for it to be believable—and to facilitate Mr. Eugene’s death—but not enough to actually injure yourself. It was very, very clever. I nearly believed it.”

“But . . . ?” said Mrs. Whittlesby in a challenging voice. “Something somehow made you believe I faked nearly dying in a motor crash? How appallingly ludicrous. She is mad,” she added in a stage whisper to her husband.

Phyllida looked around the room. The faces of her audience were still shocked, and the silence was so taut that she felt the air vibrate. “Mrs. Whittlesby purposely drove the motorcar into the tree, taking care, one must assume, that Mr. Eugene’s side of the vehicle sustained the greater damage. The crash wasn’t enough to kill him, but she took care of that herself. Whilst he was recovering from the shock—or perhaps, you were fortunate enough that he’d been knocked unconscious; but it hardly matters, does it, Mrs. Whittlesby?—you used a tree branch to smash him on the head and make certain he was dead.

“That was one of the mistakes, you know. Bringing your own weapon. You see, that particular branch obviously didn’t belong there. And you were the only one who could have put it there because it had blood on it.”

At first Mrs. Whittlesby didn’t speak or react. Then, after a moment of sharp, jerky breathing, she pulled away from her husband, for the first time putting significant distance between them.

“I had no choice,” said Mrs. Whittlesby at last. “I had to make certain there was something handy to use. I knew I only had a few minutes before someone would come to investigate the sound of the crash.” Her voice was a little unsteady, as if she couldn’t believe she was making the admission.

“And so you put a small but hefty tree branch in the back of the motor to use after the accident, thinking it would simply blend into the environs after you were finished with it. However, it was obviously an old, dead branch, and the motor had driven into a living tree. Any branches that had been knocked loose—as you clearly expected us to believe—would have been green wood. Any old, dead branches that might have already been on the ground wouldn’t have blood on them.