Livingston stepped back into the foyer. “Are you saying that anyone who desired to use the W.C. on Sunday afternoon had to come up to this one?” He pointed to the lavatory to the right of Penelope’s room.

“Yes, sir. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You must know how valuable this property is. A hotel chain has been after Lady Exner to sell even half of it. A fortune she could make, then she could do this place properly and enjoy it. Philip’s just as bad. Him and his garden! I must say, however, he seems to be getting a little more aware of creature comforts as he gets older.”

“Quite so.” Livingston retraced his steps and walked down the foyer again as though he were headed for the W.C. He realized that at the sight of an open door most people instinctively glanced into a room. That meant that anyone here on Sunday who chose to use the facilities could have seen the purloined tasty pasties at Penelope’s bedside. He inspected the room and returned downstairs, realizing he had established opportunity but certainly not motive.

When Livingston rejoined Twyler and Whitcomb on the terrace, it was clear to him that they had been quarreling. Philip Whitcomb’s normally pale face was flushed. His forehead was furrowed, accentuating his seemingly permanent expression of a bewildered scholar. Except, Livingston thought, he’s now a very angry bewildered scholar, or else is giving an excellent imitation of one. Livingston realized he did not know why that thought had risen unbidden from his subconscious.

Valerie Twyler did not seem to be angry so much as forceful. She was leaning forward in her seat, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed unwaveringly onto Whitcomb’s face. She did not seem to notice Livingston’s return as she said, “Philip, my dear, I know how distasteful and horrible this is for you, but you simply must admit that it is a distinct possibility, and rather than have Livingston looking for a potential murderer, we must stop this nonsense in its tracks.”

“But Val, I s-s-say, it’s so disloyal.”

Was it really possible that neither one of them heard my footsteps? Livingston thought. He wondered if this exchange was for his benefit. But then maybe not. “I’m afraid I should have a heavier step,” he said as they both looked up, their expressions now startled. “I could not help overhearing what you said just now and I most urgently suggest that if there is anything you know that can shed some light on this investigation, it is your duty to share it with me.”

“Philip.” Twyler’s hand reached over and patted his shoulder.

“Oh, g-g-go ahead if you must, but, Inspector”— Philip stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets— “this m-m-must be confidential. I mean you certainly wouldn’t press charges on an ei-ei-eighty-year-old woman, would you?”