“I wasn’t actually referring to that particular aspect,” Phyllida said frostily. “I was referring to all of the times you conveyed me in the motorcar to where I needed to go, and also for finding the wire cutters in the wood. And the snipped brake hoses.”

“I see,” he replied—but once again, his expression did not seem to support his words.

“Well, then,” she said, wondering why he hadn’t complimented her on her excellent detective work—then realized of course he would never offer any sort of adulation toward her. “I suppose I shall retreat to my domestic domain and leave the two of you to . . . whatever it is you do in the garage all day.”

“Very well. And, Mrs. Bright, I must say, it was bloody clever of you to figure out the wife was behind it all. One does always say cherchez la femme in those murder stories you’re always reading, so it was rather obvious from the beginning that one of the spouses was attempting to off the other.” Bradford’s French pronunciation was shockingly accurate. “Although I do recall your certainty that it was one of the writers desperate for a publishing contract.”

“And, of course, I was correct,” replied Phyllida sharply. “It was a writer desperate for her publishing contract, under her own name and reputation.”

“I suppose if one wants to split hairs, you might be correct. But, really, when one comes down to it, it was more of a domestic murder situation. She wanted rid of her husband, either through murder or prison. And she got rid of a lecherous brother-in-law and a dragon-like mother-in-law at the same time.”

Phyllida was forced to acknowledge his point and nodded stiffly. “Very well—although she’s the one ending up in prison.”

“Indeed. But I do have one unanswered question,” Bradford said.

“And what is that?”

“If Father Tooley hadn’t had a Vieux Carré and died at the party—which your murderess could not have planned for, since the priest didn’t normally imbibe—but Alastair Whittlesby had drunk the poison, how would Lettice Whittlesby have handled that? She was trying to make it look like her husband was trying to murder her.”

“Of course,” Phyllida replied. “If nothing else, we’ve seen that Mrs. Whittlesby is cunning and creative. One could assume one of two possible explanations: first, that it was her initial intention that her husband would drink the poison and die while at the cocktail party, and his death would have been on the tail of that of Father Tooley, who she had hoped would be dead prior to. She’d be rid of her husband and there’d be two deaths to investigate—and she would probably have taken a sip of the cocktail in order to throw suspicion off herself.