“Aside from that, I asked Amsi, the gardener at Mallowan Hall, to identify the variety of tree from which the branch came. There was no maple in the vicinity of the car crash. Only that single, bloodstained branch.”

Mrs. Whittlesby pursed her lips, then nodded grudgingly.

“The other mistake you made was not returning the cutters to the toolbox in the back of the motorcar after you cut the brake lines. Yes,” Phyllida said, once more needing to clarify for her audience, “she cut the brake lines after the accident in order to make it appear as if the crash had been an attempt on her life. Or her husband’s. Either suited her purpose, although she was certainly doing her best to incriminate Mr. Alastair in any way possible, weren’t you, Mrs. Whittlesby?”

“What?” cried Alastair Whittlesby.

More murmurs of surprise rippled through the room.

“We’ll get to that as well in a moment, but first I’d like to finish with poor Mr. Eugene. Since you haven’t answered my question, shall I conjecture as to why you decided to rid yourself of Mr. Eugene Whittlesby as well as your husband.” Phyllida purposely made her words a statement rather than a query. “Presumably, he’d seen something—most likely, you with the bottle of bitters, or perhaps the strawberry jam. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it at the time, but later, of course, he might remember and it would make sense to him. And so he had to be gotten rid of.”

“It wasn’t only that,” Lettice Whittlesby burst out. “He was always grabbing me, trying to back me into a corner. I think he thought he was getting something over on Alastair. It became even worse when I started drinking more heavily over the last few months. He must have assumed that, drunk, I would be an easier target.” Her mouth twisted with distaste.

“You mean to say, when you pretended to start drinking more heavily,” Phyllida said, skewering her with a pointed look. She saw the flare of surprise in Lettice Whittlesby’s face and knew the woman hadn’t expected her to have deduced so much.

“H-how did you know that?” said Mrs. Whittlesby.

“The ficus in your sitting room is dying and its soil is swarming with fruit flies due to being overwatered with whisky, port, sherry—whatever you had on hand. You were pouring your drinks into the soil instead of drinking them. And you dumped your morning vodka into the vase of roses next to your bed or on your desk because it was clear like the water and no one would notice.