Brierly grinned. “No. It’s who she described as her soon-to-be ex-husband. Name of—” He flipped the notebook open again. “Servino. Tony Servino. Her story is that Servino turned up by surprise very angry over having received the divorce papers. Although they’ve been separated for nearly two years, according to her, and he knew he’d be served those papers very soon. Mad as a hornet, she said. Threatened her, yelled at her. Rolled up the papers and took a swing at her with them. She was scared and went to the desk where her uncle keeps a .35 in a locked drawer—hardly adequate safety precautions, he’ll find out—and aimed it at Servino, but not at his chest, more at his feet, as she just meant to back him off. Shot it, and that’s where the shot came from. But someone—she claims someone else must have come in through the French door back there—” Brierly pointed his notebook at the glass doors behind him that were more or less in line with the body of the victim, only farther away “—and fired the shot that must have killed him, she claims.”

“Another gun—”

“Well, that’s the thing. It would have to have been another .35, which would be a hell of a coincidence. Because forensics is saying even before they dig the bullets from the floor and from the body, the casings are both .35s. No second gun has been found and no one saw anybody near the French door or anywhere else. Quite a yarn, right?”

Jury loved the old-fashioned Americanisms. He hadn’t heard the word “yarn” since he was a kid. “It is, indeed.” Jury looked toward the body. “Is that Dr. Keener doing the exam?”

“Yep. But hold off talking to him, will you, until we’re done?”

“Absolutely. Sorry to be messing about in your crime scene, Ian. It’s just that her next-door neighbor, Lord Ardry, is extremely anxious about her. We were about to have dinner when one of the guests said there’d been this shooting. I’ll be off.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean for you to go. Look around as much as you want. Talk to the alleged shooter if you want, too. She’s over there.”

Jury saw Flora Flood, looking as if she were trying to disappear into the deep down-cushioned chair in which she sat, pressing a tissue to her eyes. One of many, for her lap was full of them.

“No; she looks too distressed to be talking to anyone except the man who’s in charge, which would be you. I’ll be going. Thanks, Ian.”

Brierly walked with him to the door, saying, “Even just knowing what we do, I’d say her story sounds, well, fishy, wouldn’t you?”

Fishy. Jury smiled. “I’d say it sounds impossible. ’Night.”