“And so she cleverly made it appear that she was meant to be the victim of the killings even though her husband seemed the obvious target, and then she clumsily—purposely clumsily—attempted to frame Dr. Bhatt, so that it would seem that you, Mr. Whittlesby, were in fact the killer and were framing Dr. Bhatt as the culprit in an effort to turn suspicion away from yourself. But it was such a clumsy tactic that she knew it wouldn’t hold up for very long.” Phyllida cast a sidelong look at Inspector Cork, hoping he was paying close attention to this part. He’d been just about to put handcuffs on John Bhatt when Mr. Max convinced him to stand down. “And so once the false framing was exposed, and the jam-stained shirt was discovered—that was also quite clever of you, Mrs. Whittlesby, to call and tell the servants to clean up the bedchambers for your return home. You needed the shirt to be found at the perfect time, and that was it. Once the framing of Dr. Bhatt was exposed, it would become clear and obvious that Alastair Whittlesby was not the victim, but the murderer—and that he’d been trying to rid himself of his own wife.”

The room was silent for a moment as Phyllida’s words were digested, and everyone’s brains caught up with her explanation. She saw the light of understanding come into pairs of eyes around the room; saw nods and heard murmurs and even noticed a few admiring grins—from Miss Sayers and Mr. Berkeley in particular.

“So Mrs. Whittlesby has been trying to get rid of her husband while framing him for trying to kill her—or possibly even killing him outright at some point,” said Dr. Bhatt after a moment. “What I don’t understand is . . . why?”

Phyllida smiled. “Because Lettice Whittlesby is the real author of the Inspector Theodore Belfast stories.”

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

THE ROOM ERUPTED WITH EXCLAMATIONS; THE LOUDEST BEING Mr. Whittlesby himself.

“Why, that’s . . . that’s . . .”

“It’s true, Alastair,” said Mrs. Whittlesby flatly. “You know it’s true. You can’t hide behind me any longer. I wanted the recognition and the prize, and he simply wouldn’t agree to it. Said no one would believe it of me, little plain, wispy Lettice Whittlesby writing the smart Millie and Belfast stories. If I were rid of him—either through death, or in prison for murder—then no one could hold me back. Besides,” she went on, a furious, unholy light coming into her eyes, “I was tired of being called a clinging limpet and being spoken to like I’m a child. I’m through with you, Alastair.”

Having finished that impassioned speech, Mrs. Whittlesby turned her attention to Phyllida. “You’re the first person to figure it out. How did you know?”