“There were several clues. The first is the nature of the stories themselves. The entire premise is that Theodore Belfast is a brilliant detective, but it’s really his sister Millie who’s the brilliant one. No one would believe that about her—she’s rather Miss Marple-ish in a way, though much younger and more energetic than Mrs. Christie’s Jane—and so she guides her brother, who takes all of the credit for solving the cases. It’s so very obvious, I’m surprised no one figured it out before now,” Phyllida said, looking at the other members of the Murder Club, all of whom appeared stunned. She gave Mr. Whittlesby a pitying look. “Often the person who crows the loudest about his or her accomplishments is the one who actually has the fewest of them all.”

Phyllida paused for another sip of tea; she had been talking for a long while. “I didn’t even think of it myself at first, but there were two things that made it clear to me. First, the note that was enclosed with Father Tooley’s cake included an incorrect apostrophe with the possessive form of the word its. Everything I had heard about Mr. Whittlesby was that, despite his smugness and boorishness, he was very particular and knowledgeable about grammar, and that was one of his most relevant contributions to the club.

“Still, I didn’t think much of it—so many people make that error—until I saw the note your husband left for you yesterday morning about driving the motorcar. In that note was the possessive form of the word its, correctly without the apostrophe. Again, I didn’t draw any firm conclusions until I . . . er . . . had a look at the papers in Mr. Whittlesby’s sitting room.”

“You what?” cried Mr. Whittlesby, bolting from his chair. “You were snooping about my sitting room?”

Phyllida gave him her best quelling look. “If I hadn’t done so, you’d either be dead or going to prison for attempted murder.”

He gave her a malevolent look—which in Phyllida’s opinion should have been directed at the woman who’d tried to kill him instead of the one who’d saved him—but closed his mouth and sat down.

“There was a stack of papers next to Mr. Whittlesby’s typewriter—presumably his current work in progress. So of course I took a look at them. And they were . . . well, they weren’t very good at all.”

“Do you mean to say that you were writing your own Inspector Belfast stories, Alastair?” cried Mrs. Whittlesby. “Without me? Why you—” She clamped her mouth shut, but her fingers were opening and closing furiously as if they’d like nothing better than to slip around his throat.