“I know it looks bad; but I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t shooting to kill. I just meant to scare him. Uncle Frank has a gun case in the mudroom off the kitchen. But it’s always locked. Who on earth could have—?”

Apparently satisfied that she was finished with her account, Tom said, “Your husband, given your description of him, must have had enemies, or at least been much-disliked.”

She nodded. “But not that much.”

“So how would you explain this?”

“I can’t, can—” Suddenly she looked up, toward the little balcony. She yelled, “Bub! Stop that!”

But Bub didn’t stop, and the ones below ducked as if the chandelier were coming close to their heads, which it wasn’t. Bub sailed above them but quickly lost momentum and he dropped down on the big sofa.

The chandelier was narrowed at each end and, with wires attached to the chain like rigging, looked more like a boat than a lighting device, oddly modern for a house of this age. Jury could see the temptation for a little kid.

“If it needs dusting or the lights need to be changed, the housekeeper pulls it in with a pole and ties it by its chain. I’ve told her not to leave it hooked to the bannister because Bub loves to take rides on it. I had the beam reinforced, but one day the ceiling will come down in bits and pieces.”

“And who’s this, then?” said Tom, looking at Bub.

“This is Bub, my husband’s—” Her cough was tight, choked. “—little nephew.” She reached out, shook him by the shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Bub stood there looking shaken, until Tom Brownell said, “Come on over here, Bug; maybe you can help out.”

“My name’s not Bug, it’s Bub.” He seemed to think this error was rich with humor. But he went over to Tom.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Are you a policeman?”

“No.”

“Are you a detective?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m not anything.”

Bub appeared delighted that a grown person wasn’t anything. “What do you do, then?”

“Ask little boys questions.”

Bub liked that too.

Jury said, “Mr. Brownell was with Scotland Yard for many years.”

“Did you catch bad people?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you ever shoot anyone?”

“Sure. Did you?”

“Me? I don’t have a gun!”

“Were you upstairs last night when all of this happened?”

Bub nodded vigorously. “Me and Chester.”

Tom looked around. “Where’s Chester? Maybe he has a gun.”

“Chester’s my dog.”

“Oh. And did you and Chester hear noises in the drawing room?”

“No.” Bub shook his head hard.

Tom turned again to Flora. “Has your husband come here before?”

“No. We don’t—didn’t—really communicate. Which is what surprised me so much when he did come.”

“Although it would seem to me not so surprising given he’d just been served divorce papers.”