“Last night, you arranged to meet Rita in the church, where you knew she’d be lighting an offering candle for Father Tooley and Saint Aloysius,” Phyllida said, still speaking to Mrs. Whittlesby. “You took the story contest results—which you had previously stolen from the rectory, probably either Thursday or Friday, when you slipped the cake onto the Panson’s delivery truck—and gave them to her to make certain we would find them on her body. Then you killed her with Dr. Bhatt’s knife—something you’d easily found and taken from his surgery.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Mr. Whittlesby. “Why, Lettice has a sprained wrist, and she was in a terrible accident and . . .” His voice trailed off when he noticed the disdainful expression on his wife’s face.

“Presumably the sprained wrist is either faked or exaggerated,” Phyllida said. “Just as were all of her injuries. She needed to be hurt enough to stay the night at Dr. Bhatt’s surgery—with proximity to the church and village—but not so hurt that she had to go to hospital. It was a stroke of genius to get your husband to stay with you at the surgery last night, Mrs. Whittlesby,” she went on. “I can only guess that you used his distrust of Dr. Bhatt’s medical abilities to convince him to do so.”

The expression on Mrs. Whittlesby’s face told Phyllida she had guessed correctly.

“I . . . I can’t believe this,” said Alastair Whittlesby. “And I don’t quite understand . . . you . . . you tried to kill me? But you also tried to frame Dr. Bhatt for the murder?”

“It is quite complicated, but it makes great sense when one considers with whom we are dealing in this situation. A collection of murder writers,” Phyllida said. “People who read and write and are familiar with the most twisty and devious plots ever created . . . and so Mrs. Whittlesby had to outsmart them all.