“I’m an excellent forger, Mrs. Jeffries,” she explained earnestly. “I’ve had ever so much practice. My old mistress used to make me forge letters to her husband’s bank manager.”

They heard Betsy running down the back stairs.

“Slow down,” Smythe cried anxiously. He shoved his chair back and started to get up but sat back down when she gentled her pace to a sedate walk. “That woman is goin’ to give me even more gray hairs,” he muttered.

Betsy smiled sweetly at her husband as she came into the kitchen. She was carrying the long, rectangular basket Mrs. Jeffries kept by the back staircase to hold old copies of the inspector’s Illustrated London News. After he read them, he left them there for the rest of the household. “I’ve brought some plain notepaper, envelopes, and the inspector’s fountain pen and ink pot.” She put her burden on the table in front of the housekeeper. “And the letter from the chief inspector is right on top.”

Mrs. Jeffries rose, grabbed the receptacle, and raced for the end of the table. She put the basket down, grabbed the letter, and handed it to Phyllis. Everyone else got up and hurried to crowd around the maid. Phyllis pulled the letter out and opened it.

“What’s going on?” Betsy asked as she trailed after her husband.

“Phyllis is a forger,” Wiggins replied cheerfully.

“It isn’t her fault she’s a forger,” the cook explained as she moved into the vacant spot next to Mrs. Jeffries. “It was her old mistress making her forge letters to the bank manager.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll explain later, love.” Smythe drew his wife next to him.

“Can you do it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked anxiously.

Phyllis studied the letter for a moment more and then smiled. “Oh yes, this will be very easy to copy. But you’ll have to tell me what to write.”

“And you’d best be quick about it,” Mrs. Goodge warned. She looked at the carriage clock on the sideboard. “Otherwise, the wrong woman will be arrested.”

Barnes paid the driver. “I know you’re not, sir, and, well, I’ve explained my position on the matter. We’re only arresting her because the poison was found in her room.” He nodded to the constables standing by the front gate. They’d sent a message to the local station, and additional men had been posted by the back door as well.

“That’s not the only reason,” Witherspoon interrupted. “There is plenty of additional evidence. And I’ll not have you blaming yourself because the search was terminated before that room was properly explored. I was the one who made that decision, not you, and frankly, Constable, I think I’d make the same decision again in those circumstances.”

“I still feel bad, sir.” Barnes smiled grimly. “I was hoping that gossip I picked up from the Banfield servants might have some bearing on the case, but I guess it was just that, silly rumors of one sort or another.” On the drive over, he’d tried to pass along everything he’d heard from Mrs. Jeffries. He’d pretended it was just talk he’d picked up casually but hadn’t included in his reports because the information hadn’t been gained in formal interviews. “But at least the chief inspector can get Whitehall off his back.” They started for the house. “Do you really think the evidence we’ve got will hold up in the dock, sir?”

“No.” He smiled slightly. “A good barrister should be able to get her off. All we can prove is that she hated the victim, that the murder weapon was found in her room, and that she may have purchased cyanide while on a trip to Battersea.”

“I don’t think hatred is much of a motive,” Barnes muttered as he opened the gate and they went up the walkway. “Half of London would be dead if that’s all it took.” He gave the inspector a sideways glance. “This isn’t like you, sir. You’ve never before wanted to arrest someone unless you were sure. Why now?”

They’d reached the front door. Witherspoon banged the knocker. “Because there is one part of me that thinks she might be guilty and her motive isn’t just hatred. With Arlette out of the way, she probably hoped Lewis Banfield would turn to her daughter for comfort and then marriage.”

“Good day.” Michael opened the door wide. “If you’ll come in, I’ll let the master know you’re here.” He disappeared into the drawing room.

They stepped inside but neither of them spoke as they waited. Lewis Banfield came out of the drawing room and closed the door softly. “You’re not wanting to search the house again, are you?” He tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. He knew why they were here.

“I know this is distressing, Mr. Banfield, but the poison that killed Mrs. Banfield came from the bottle we found in Mrs. Bickleton’s room,” Witherspoon said.

“Was it in the champagne?”

“No, it was in the smaller brown one,” he replied. “We’ve no idea why the killer didn’t leave the champagne in the butler’s pantry. There was nothing in it but champagne.”

Lewis stared at them and then swallowed heavily. “Are you going to arrest someone?”

“We’re going to ask Mrs. Bickleton to come to the station and help us with our inquiries,” he said. “I do hope she’s still in residence here.”

“She is. She wanted to leave this morning, but Aunt Geraldine asked her to stay.” He smiled grimly. “They’re in the morning room.” He turned and went down the corridor. He was moving quickly, almost running. “It’s this way.”

“We know where it is,” Witherspoon said as he hurried after him. “You might want to stay here. I doubt this will be very pleasant.”

“No.” He looked over his shoulder, his expression hard. But he didn’t slow his steps; if anything, he picked up his pace. “I want to see her face when you take her away. If she murdered my wife and my child, I want her to suffer.”

Constable Barnes tried to stay in front of Banfield, but the other man was too quick. Suddenly, Banfield cut in front of the constable and sprinted the last ten yards. He burst through the door of the morning room and slammed it shut behind him.

Alarmed, the two policemen ran after him. Barnes grabbed for the doorknob just as they heard the click of the lock being thrown. “Open the door!” he yelled.

Blast, thought Witherspoon, this isn’t good. His last glimpse of Banfield’s face made him fear for the two women in that room. “Get help,” he said to Barnes.

Barnes rushed back the way they’d just come.

Witherspoon banged on the door. “Mr. Banfield, you must let us in. Let the police handle this matter.”

But inside the morning room, Lewis Banfield stood against the locked door and stared at the two women sitting at the table. They were having morning coffee and there was a silver coffeepot and cups in front of them. Geraldine had been reaching for a lump of sugar with a pair of tongs.

At first she was so startled, she froze with the tongs suspended from her fingers in midair. Then she recovered and dropped the implement next to her cup. “Lewis, what on earth is wrong with you? How dare you come bursting in here like an ill-mannered barbarian.”

He ignored her and focused his attention on her companion. From behind him, he could hear the inspector pounding on the door and shouting at him. He ignored that, too. “You disgusting old cow, how could you? Did you really think that by murdering my wife I’d ever in a million years turn to that horse-faced hag of a daughter of yours?”

Margaret cried out in hurt and surprise. “I didn’t murder Arlette.”

“How dare you speak to her like that.” Geraldine started to get up, but Lewis’ hand came down on her shoulder and pushed her back into her chair.

Witherspoon twisted the knob again and then gave it a good kick with his foot. From inside, he heard a woman’s soft cry of distress. “Mr. Banfield, can you hear me?” he shouted. “You must open this door immediately. You’ve no right to take the law into your own hands. No one in that room has been convicted of anything, so if you do anything to harm either of those women, I’ll arrest you.”

“She murdered my wife,” he cried.

“But I didn’t, I didn’t,” he heard Margaret Bickleton sob.

“Lewis, this is absurd. Get away from that door and let us out,” Geraldine Banfield commanded. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“You never accepted her, did you?” he said, his tone accusing. “Did you plan it together—was it both of you who decided she had to die?”

“This has gone far enough, Lewis. I won’t tolerate being treated like this,” Geraldine said. “Now get your wretched hand off my shoulder or I’ll slap your face.”

Shut up, you silly woman, Witherspoon thought as he glanced down the corridor hoping to see help on the way. Stop provoking him. He heard a slap and then a sob.

“You hated her,” Banfield screamed. There was a thud as if a chair had been kicked aside and then another one and another.

“No one hated Arlette!” Geraldine yelled. “And I shall never forgive you for this, never. I demand that you stop it this instant. How dare you put that interloper before your own blood?”

“Mr. Banfield, open this door in the name of the law.” Witherspoon banged on the wood again.

“You’re not in any position to make demands,” Banfield shouted. “This bitch has murdered my wife and you’re to blame as well. You don’t even like the woman; you simply invited her to spite Arlette.”

The inspector tried again. He was afraid this was going to end in tragedy. “Mr. Banfield, open up, open up, open up.” He continued to pound on the door. He looked down the hallway and saw Barnes and three constables racing toward him. Thank God.

“For God’s sake, Margaret, stop cowering in the corner. Lewis isn’t going to hurt you. Lewis, Lewis, what are you doing? Let go of her.”

There was a scream and then the sound of breaking crockery. “No, Lewis, no,” Geraldine cried as another loud crash filled the hallway.

Fearing that Banfield had gone insane and was hurting the women, the inspector hurled himself at the door, but it held.

“Step away, sir,” Barnes yelled as he and the three constables reached him. Witherspoon scrambled out of the way while the constables lined themselves up in a row in front of the door.

“Now,” Barnes ordered and all four of them thrust hard against the door with their shoulders. Wood splintered but the door held. “Again,” he instructed, and this time door flew open and they were flung into the room.

Witherspoon raced in behind them. The room was in shambles: three of the four chairs had been overturned, the coffeepot was on the floor, and Margaret Bickleton, her hair hanging around her narrow face, was curled up in the corner. Her hands were raised protectively over her head, and Lewis was standing over her, one of his fists raised in a threatening manner while Geraldine Banfield had hold of his other arm and was trying to pull him back.

“Get him away,” Witherspoon commanded. The constables sprang toward him, but Banfield lowered his arm and held up his hand.

“I didn’t hurt her,” he said as the policemen grabbed him from both sides. They held him firmly between them and marched him away from the women. “I wanted to”—Banfield began to weep—“but I didn’t. I’m not a murderer.”

“Neither am I,” Margaret said, her voice trembling. “And I don’t know what is happening. But I want to go home.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Witherspoon said. “You’ll need to come with us now.”

“Why should she come with you?” Geraldine snapped. “What’s she supposed to have done? Surely you don’t believe the mad ranting of my lunatic nephew?” She glared at Banfield, who was standing by the door between two constables. Another constable stood in front of him, and Barnes was in the corridor, picking up something from the floor.

Witherspoon didn’t answer her. He tried to think what to do with Banfield. He needed the men to take Mrs. Bickleton into custody, but he didn’t want to leave Banfield on his own. He didn’t trust that he’d behave himself.

“Let me stay, Inspector,” Banfield pleaded. Tears flooded his eyes. “I promise I’ll be civilized. But I want to see justice done for my Arlette. At least give me that much.”

“Humph,” Geraldine snorted.

Witherspoon nodded and then his gaze shifted to the hallway. Barnes was reading a letter. “Constable Barnes?”

The constable looked up. “Sorry, sir, but there was a messenger boy delivering this just as I reached the lads. I took the liberty of reading it. I think you’d better see it before you do anything else.” He handed the letter to the inspector and tucked the envelope into his pocket. Witherspoon opened the folded paper and read it. Puzzled, he read it again and then looked at the constable. “I don’t know what to make of this.”

“The letter is from the chief inspector, isn’t it?” Barnes asked blandly. He had the strongest suspicion that Barrows had no more written that letter than the man in the moon.

“Yes, but this is most unorthodox,” Witherspoon muttered. “But then again, most of our cases tend to end in an unorthodox fashion.” He noticed that Margaret Bickleton was still huddled in the corner on the floor. He walked across the room and helped her to her feet.

Dazed and confused, she stared at him. “What should I do now?”

“Just stay here for the moment,” he said gently. “And please accept my apologies for what you’ve endured, ma’am.”

“I’ll take her upstairs.” Geraldine started for the door. “Come along, Margaret, you need to rest.”

Witherspoon stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Mrs. Banfield, would you please explain why you went to your country house two weeks ago?”

Surprised, she stared at him for a moment. “That’s none of your concern,” she replied. “And I don’t need to stand here and be spoken to as if I’m a criminal.”

“But it is our concern.” The inspector looked over her shoulder and spoke to the constables holding Banfield. “Let Mr. Banfield go. I don’t think he’ll try to do anything foolish.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “You have my word.”

Barnes looked surprised, but said nothing.

“I’ve no idea what you think you’re doing, Inspector.” Geraldine drew herself up to her full height. “But this has gone too far. First my idiot nephew bursts in here like a madman hurling vile accusations, and now you have the temerity to question me.”

“Just tell me why you went to the country house that day,” Witherspoon pressed. “It’s a simple enough question.”

“If you must know, I went to look at the roof. Lewis asked me to assess the damage before we asked Mr. Bigglesworth to speak to the builders. He’s merely a gardener, and if I hadn’t gone to have a look, they’d try to sell us a new roof.”

“Then why do you think it is that Mr. Bigglesworth told Mrs. Peyton that you’d done no such thing, that you’d come to the house and demanded the keys to the outbuildings? But you certainly never looked at the hole in the attic.”

Instead of answering the inspector, she looked at her nephew. “Lewis, I don’t know what this policeman is trying to do . . .”

“Answer his questions,” Lewis ordered. “Because if you don’t, I swear I’ll throw you out of this house with my bare hands.”

Her eyes widened and then narrowed as she struggled to hold on to her temper. “Alright, if you insist that I be humiliated in this fashion, I’ll answer this man’s stupid questions.” She turned her attention to the inspector. “It’s very simple. I didn’t go and look at the attic because I was tired and I didn’t want to trudge up all those stairs, so I came home,” she replied.

“Why did you need the keys to the outbuildings?” It was Lewis Banfield who spoke.

“I forget; I had a reason but when I got out there, I couldn’t recall.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I’m old, Lewis, and sometimes I forget things.”

“Your gardener keeps vermin poison in the garden shed, doesn’t he?” Witherspoon pressed. “And it’s made to an old family formula containing grains of prussic acid.”

“That’s right,” Lewis responded, his gaze fixed on his aunt.

For a moment, Witherspoon wondered if he had been wise in letting the man stay in here. He turned back to Geraldine Banfield. “But Mr. Bigglesworth is a very careful man; he keeps the poison under lock and key.”

“I imagine he does,” she replied coolly. “But that’s nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t it, Mrs. Banfield?” Witherspoon spoke softly. “You were the last person to go into the garden shed, the place where the poison is kept. The shed has been locked since you handed the keys back to the gardener. But he went into the shed this morning and discovered something was amiss. The bottle of poison was gone.”

“That’s impossible, I brought my own bottle—” She broke off when she realized what she’d done. How she’d given herself away.

Fearing that Banfield would go berserk again, Barnes and Witherspoon both moved toward him, but he just stood there, staring at her. The blood had drained from his face and tears filled his eyes. “How could you? How could you? You knew how much I loved her. She was everything to me, everything.”

“She was dishonoring our whole family,” Geraldine said. “But you were too blind to see it. This is your fault—if you’d been half a man, if you’d told her she couldn’t put that disgusting statue out in public so that every bank clerk or jackanapes could leer at a Banfield, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”

“You were going to let them arrest me,” Margaret Bickleton said softly. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I was never your friend.” Geraldine sneered at her. “And if that simpering mouse of a daughter of yours had been half a woman, she’d have gotten this one to marry her and I wouldn’t have had to do anything.”

Margaret Bickleton stared at her for a moment and then leapt at Geraldine, raking her across the face with her nails. “You horrible old witch,” she cried. She pounded, pummeled, pulled hair, and screamed like a banshee as the two women tumbled to the floor.

It took Witherspoon, Barnes, Banfield, and all three constables to pull her off Geraldine Banfield.

“And she weren’t goin’ quietly,” Wiggins added eagerly. He dropped into his seat. “She was screamin’ and shoutin’ and diggin’ her ’eels in as they dragged her away. She grabbed on to one of the spokes of the fence, and it took three constables to pry her hands off and get her into the police wagon.”

“So I was right.” Mrs. Jeffries slumped in relief. “I wasn’t absolutely certain it was her, you see. All the evidence pointed to her, but her motive just seemed so ridiculous.”

“Alright, the boys are back now, and you promised to tell us how you figured it out,” Betsy said. Smythe took his spot next to her and reached for her hand under the table.

“Let’s pour them a cup of tea.” Mrs. Goodge reached for the pot. “I’m sure they’re thirsty, too.”

As soon as everyone was served, Mrs. Jeffries began. “As you all know, I had a feeling our killer wasn’t Mrs. Bickleton.”

“But so much of the evidence pointed to her,” Hatchet said. “Especially her sneaking back into the Banfield house and reading those newspaper clippings.”

“That’s one of the reasons I was thrown off track, so to speak,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But I was looking at those newspaper clippings the wrong way. What I should have been asking myself was why Geraldine Banfield asked for the trunk to be brought down in the first place.”

“She was the one that wanted to read them.” Mrs. Goodge nodded her head in agreement. “She was of an age to remember the case but she couldn’t recall all the details.”

“That’s right, and then I remembered what you learned from your friend, that it had been Geraldine Banfield and Emma Stafford who’d sneaked out of the Banfield country house to go watch a trial at the assizes in Aylesbury. It was John Talwell’s trial for the murder of Sarah Hart that they went to see. Even though he wasn’t a member of the Quakers, he dressed like one. Fanny had told Wiggins the clippings were about ‘an old murder trial at Aylesbury’; I suddenly realized that must have been the case that Lady Stafford spoke about.”

“So that’s where she got the idea of using prussic acid?” Ruth mused.

“Yes, I’m sure of it. But she didn’t want to make Talwell’s mistakes,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Once I realized that the killer had to be her, it all came together in my mind. It was Geraldine Banfield who went to the country house and she didn’t go there to look at a hole in the roof. She went there because she knew there was poison.”

“That’s why she asked for the keys to the outbuildings while she sent Mr. Bigglesworth off to get the pony and trap,” Ruth added eagerly. “Oh, my gracious, thank goodness I overheard that particular conversation.”

“Agreed. If you hadn’t, we’d never have figured it out,” the housekeeper said.

“The poison was kept in an outbuilding,” Luty said. “You’d not keep dangerous stuff like that in the house.”

“Right, and that’s why she intercepted the telegram boy on the day of the ball,” Mrs. Jeffries continued.

“I don’t understand.” Betsy frowned. “What did he have to do with anything?”

“Her excuse for going to the country house was to look at the damaged roof and give instructions to Mr. Bigglesworth about the scope of the repairs. Mr. Bigglesworth was then to send an estimate to Mr. Banfield. Geraldine knew that she had a few days before the gardener would get impatient and start pestering Lewis Banfield for someone to come down and look at the damage. She probably thought she was well on her way to pulling it off when she spotted the telegram boy coming up the drive on the day of the ball. She was planning to kill Arlette that night, so she intercepted the telegram. She didn’t want to have to explain to her nephew why she hadn’t taken care of business.”

“We know where she got the idea and the poison, but I’m still not sure why she did it,” Luty admitted. “And neither are any of the rest of you,” she charged. “I can tell by lookin’ at yer faces that yer just as puzzled as I am.”

“I was puzzled as well,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “And when I tell you, you’re going to find it difficult to believe. She killed Arlette to save what she thought was the family honor. That was her sole motive and that was the reason she almost got away with murder. She was outraged when she realized that Arlette was going to allow a seminude statue of herself to be mass-produced.” She looked at the skeptical expressions on their faces. “I’m quite serious, that was her motive. Think back to the sequence of events. She knew that Arlette was going to sell the production rights to the statue, but she was overheard to say that she hoped Elizabeth Montrose would convince her to drop the project. But that didn’t happen and, instead, mother and daughter had a terrible row and when it became clear that Arlette wouldn’t be dissuaded, Geraldine decided the woman had to die. She’d already read up on the Talwell case; we know that because she’d made Fanny bring her trunk down from the attic. But as I said, she wasn’t going to make Talwell’s mistakes. She wanted to make sure that someone else would be blamed for the murder.”

“Margaret Bickleton,” Hatchet said. “She was the sacrificial lamb.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Mrs. Bickleton had been hinting for an invitation to stay as a houseguest, and Geraldine needed someone to frame for the murder. As soon as she heard Arlette and her mother arguing, she put her plan into action.” She looked at Wiggins. “Fanny told you that Mrs. Bickleton was standing there when she ordered the maid to drag that trunk back up to the attic and, later, Fanny saw Mrs. Bickleton up in the attic having a snoop. I’ll wager that, knowing how curious the woman was, Geraldine Banfield deliberately piqued her interest.”

“But she couldn’t have known Mrs. Bickleton would sneak up there that very day,” Betsy protested. “No one is that clever.”

“Of course not. I think she assumed that Margaret would have her snoop once she came as a houseguest. Mrs. Banfield’s only goal was to ensure that Margaret had a look at those clippings and that she knew about the Talwell murder. Believe me, she realized exactly what her friend had been up to when Mrs. Peyton told her that Mrs. Bickleton had come back to the house to search for her earring that day. Providence seemed to have smiled upon her plans. She needed an avenue where it could be proved that Margaret Bickleton knew a few grains of prussic acid could kill. If it came to a trial, Mrs. Peyton could testify to her coming back to the house and Fanny could then confirm she went up to the attic and saw the clippings.”

“She played right into her hands, didn’t she?” Ruth murmured.

“Yes, and once Geraldine Banfield realized it, she set about doing everything she could to make sure that if anyone was arrested for murder, it was Margaret Bickleton. She put on the woman’s distinctive blue jacket and veil and went out into the mews with a jug of cream.”

“Why’d she do that?” Wiggins asked.

“She needed it to poison the Millhouse cat,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “Remember, she couldn’t ask the gardener how long prussic acid stayed potent and she needed to know that it would work quickly. She knew the cat was old and liked to nap in the sun, so she lured the poor old thing with the poisoned cream and then quite calmly watched it die. She knew then the poison would work on Arlette.”

“But she was clever enough to wear her houseguest’s clothes so that if anyone saw her or figured out what had been done, she’d not be blamed for it,” Phyllis murmured.

“Correct.” Mrs. Jeffries gave her an encouraging smile and turned to Ruth. “And, remember, you told us that Arlette complained that Mrs. Banfield the elder had harassed the staff on the day of the ball and made them take all the glassware to be washed.”

“Arlette claimed the glassware was perfectly clean because she’d examined it herself.”

“And it was. Geraldine Banfield used the supposedly dirty glassware as an excuse to get the servants out of her way so she could get in and out of the butler’s pantry undetected. That’s when she slipped the grains of prussic acid into the bottom of Arlette’s champagne flute. Except for the staff, she would have been the only one who knew that Lewis Banfield’s glass had a chip in the base. She would have been the only one of the suspects who knew which glass to poison, and once we learned the poison wasn’t in the champagne itself, I knew it had to be her.”

“But she insisted the glasses be washed again,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out.

“The champagne set was kept separate from the rest of the collection and I’ll bet if we ask Michaels or Mrs. Peyton, they’ll confirm that she didn’t insist that set be cleaned again. Then, of course, there was her chasing the police out of her room with an umbrella.”

“I don’t get that bit,” Wiggins admitted.

“According to the inspector, Geraldine and Lewis Banfield had already had words about her lack of cooperation with the police. But that didn’t stop her from raising a fuss and keeping the constables out of her room.”

“You think she had the champagne and the poison hidden there?” Betsy helped herself to more tea.

“I do, and that was the moment she was most vulnerable.”

“Then, she wasn’t doin’ it to get the search called off so she could plant the evidence in Mrs. Bickleton’s room at a later time?” Luty asked.

“Oh no, but when the search was called off, she took advantage of the situation and shoved the evidence under Margaret Bickleton’s bed in the guest room.”

“But she couldn’t have known the police were going to come back and search again,” Smythe protested.

“But she could easily have insisted the maids give the room a thorough cleaning and one of them would have found the box,” Betsy pointed out. “And I’ll wager she’d have made sure that Lewis Banfield was home when it happened. She wanted that box found.”

“Oh, it all pointed to her, but the trouble was, I couldn’t understand the why of it until almost too late. Then I remembered that the first thing anyone who knew the Banfields said about them was that they were obsessed with looking honorable, so obsessed that for the last two hundred years they’ve refused rewards and titles from the crown.”

“Not Lewis Banfield—he’s not very honorable,” Wiggins protested. “Look ’ow he treated Helen Bickleton after promisin’ her father he’d ask for her ’and in marriage.”

“I didn’t say they were honorable, I said they were obsessed with the appearance of honor—and that’s when the motive made sense,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “Geraldine Banfield felt the family honor was going to be completely shattered if Lewis’ wife allowed a seminude statue of herself to be produced. It was that act that sealed the poor woman’s fate. She had to die and she had to die publicly. That’s why Geraldine waited till the night of the ball to kill her.”

“Well, I’m glad that Margaret Bickleton escaped the hangman’s noose,” Ruth said.

“I don’t think she’d have been convicted in any case,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “And thanks to Phyllis’ excellent talents, the inspector has now caught the real culprit.”

Phyllis blushed. “I’m glad I can help. I’m not very good with people and I can’t do what the rest of you can, but at least I could do this little bit. I must say, it’s ever so exciting working for justice.”

“It is very rewarding,” Hatchet agreed. “Madam, now that we know the guilty party has been apprehended and how our Mrs. Jeffries figured it out, I suggest we take our leave. If you’ve forgotten, you’ve dinner guests tonight. The Darringtons and Mr. Widdowes, remember.” He went to the coat tree to get their outer garments.

Luty made a face as she stood up. “Oh, blast and tarnation, I only invited the Darringtons because I thought they might know something about our case. They are two of the most boring creatures on God’s green earth. But John Widdowes is a right interestin’ fellow.” She looked at Hatchet as he draped her shawl around her shoulders. “Make sure the cellar is unlocked,” she told him. “If I can get rid of the Darringtons, I want to give John a taste of my best stuff.”

“Oh, good gracious, madam, you’re not going to give him that awful moonshine, are you?” Hatchet sighed in exasperation. “One of these days it’s going to kill someone.”

“It must have been difficult for him,” she replied. “He’s alone now. I’m sure he must have felt terrible about the way he treated Margaret Bickleton.”

“When we finally managed to pull her off Mrs. Banfield, he apologized profusely. However, I don’t think the two families will remain friends. But I did feel terrible for Lewis Banfield. He genuinely loved his wife and he lost her for the most foolish of reasons: someone else’s vanity.” He drained his glass and put it on the table. He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Murder is always terrible, and I know that the death of any human being shouldn’t be taken lightly. But I’m especially glad I was able to solve this one. I have a feeling I’d have liked Arlette Banfield. If she’d lived, she might have made the world a better place. But then again, I suppose you could say that about almost anyone.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded solemnly. “Lady Cannonberry thought highly of her as well. She came by this afternoon and said she’d love to see you this evening if you weren’t too tired. She wondered if you could have dinner together. I told her I’d pass along the message.”

Witherspoon shot to his feet. “I’m not the least bit tired. I’ll pop over now. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, when you see how fragile life can be, it makes one very grateful for what one has.”

“Indeed it does, sir.”