“You’ve said it yourself, Jim—there’s a French term, postiche. It means a counterfeit, an inartistic addition to an otherwise perfect work of art. Well, the murder was perfect. It was too perfect. No one suspected it was murder. So Miriam had failed. Had failed unless she could get someone—someone without official standing—like me—to look into it; perhaps to discover some little thing, not too much (she was very sure of herself); but enough to make Durrie think it might have been murder. And that if it was murder, only Rosina could have done it. She didn’t know exactly how much she could trust me to see or not to see. I think she meant to watch—to—to—gauge—me. If necessary to introduce a little evidence against the nurse, as she did. It’s queer; her very words of praise for Rosina made me suspect the nurse. At first. She’s very clever—Miriam Wiggenhorn.”

“Then the housemaid was in danger from her—”

“The housemaid is a very valuable witness. And Miriam might have discovered that I had something of the true story from her. The real story. It wasn’t just accident that Miriam was pickling peaches that afternoon, filling the house with a smell of vinegar that would mask any other smell. This isn’t the season for putting up fruit. She had to pickle canned fruit. Besides there was the inartistic addition—”

“You mean her calling you and talking of murder when nobody had suspected it was murder shows that she thought of murder when, if she were innocent, she would have had no reason to suspect it. And that for some reason she was determined to suggest that it was murder.”

“To suggest it anyway. The perfect murder, except for the inartistic addition. Postiche. And I,” said Susan, “am it.”

“But”—Jim paused and said in a helpless way: “All this is very nice. But angel, it’s only theory. It isn’t a bad idea, you know, to have proof.”

“Oh, yes—proof. It’s in my bag. Wrapped in a handkerchief and mixed with bath salts. But identifiable.”

“What!”

“Smelling salts. When she emptied the bottle she kept the salts in case her investigation should need a little steering. Rosina, you see, has a fine temper. When I hinted there was something preventing their marriage as if I were suspicious about it, she flounced down to tell Durrie and Miriam that she wanted it to take place at once. Durrie agreed, of course. Rosina had much the stronger will. Miriam agreed, too—and came straight upstairs to plant the clue. Nobody in the house ever used smelling salts but Keller Wiggenhorn.”

“Framing her.”

“Exactly. I suppose she would have tried something more open, given time.”

“How did you know it was Miriam?”

“Saw her.”

“From where?” demanded Jim.

“N-never mind,” said Susan in a small voice.