VSuperintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From thefirst moment I saw him I took a great liking to him. He was the best type ofC.I.D. county superintendent. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes anda straightforward unassuming manner.

He said: “Good morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what I’vecome to see you about.”

“Yes, I think so. This letter business.”

He nodded.

“I understand you had one of them?”

“Yes, soon after we got here.”

“What did it say exactly?”

I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the let-ter as closely as possible.

The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signsof any kind of emotion. When I had finished, he said:

“I see. You didn’t keep the letter, Mr. Burton?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance ofspite against newcomers to the place.”

The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.

He said briefly: “A pity.”

“However,” I said, “my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her put-ting it in the fire.”

“Thank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you.”

I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it.

It was not, I thought, very suitable for Partridge’s eyes. I gave it to Nash.

He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me:

“Is this the same in appearance as the last one?”

“I think so—as far as I can remember.”

“The same difference between the envelope and the text?”

“Yes,” I said. “The envelope was typed. The letter itself had printedwords pasted on to a sheet of paper.”

Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said:

“I wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the stationwith me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good dealof time and overlapping.”

“Certainly,” I said. “You would like me to come now?”

“If you don’t mind.”

There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.

I said:

“Do you think you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this?”

Nash nodded with easy confidence.

“Oh yes, we’ll get to the bottom of it all right. It’s a question of time androutine. They’re slow, these cases, but they’re pretty sure. It’s a matter ofnarrowing things down.”

“Elimination?” I said.

“Yes. And general routine.”

“Watching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?”

He smiled. “As you say.”

At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were alreadythere. I was introduced to a tall lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, In-spector Graves.

“Inspector Graves,” explained Nash, “has come down from London tohelp us. He’s an expert on anonymous letter cases.”

Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in thepursuit of anonymous letter writers must be singularly depressing. In-spector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.

“They’re all the same, these cases,” he said in a deep lugubrious voicelike a depressed bloodhound. “You’d be surprised. The wording of the let-ters and the things they say.”

“We had a case just on two years ago,” said Nash. “Inspector Graveshelped us then.”

Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front ofGraves. He had evidently been examining them.

“Difficulty is,” said Nash, “to get hold of the letters. Either people putthem in the fire, or they won’t admit to having received anything of thekind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police.

They’re a backward lot here.”

“Still we’ve got a fair amount to get on with,” said Graves. Nash took theletter I had given him from his pocket and tossed it over to Graves.

The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed ap-provingly:

“Very nice—very nice indeed.”

It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in ques-tion, but experts, I suppose, have their own point of view. I was glad thatthat screed of vituperative and obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.

“We’ve got enough, I think, to go on with,” said Inspector Graves, “andI’ll ask you gentlemen, if you should get anymore, to bring them along atonce. Also, if you hear of someone else getting one—(you, in particular,doctor, among your patients) do your best to get them to come along herewith them. I’ve got—” he sorted with deft fingers among his exhibits, “oneto Mr. Symmington, received as far back as two months ago, one to Dr.

Griffith, one to Miss Ginch, one written to Mrs. Mudge, the butcher’s wife,one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the Three Crowns, the one received byMrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burton—oh yes, and one from thebank manager.”

“Quite a representative collection,” I remarked.

“And not one I couldn’t match from other cases! This one here is as nearas nothing to one written by that milliner woman. This one is the dead spitof an outbreak we had up in Northumberland—written by a schoolgirl,they were. I can tell you, gentlemen, I’d like to see something new some-times, instead of the same old treadmill.”

“There is nothing new under the sun,” I murmured.

“Quite so, sir. You’d know that if you were in our profession.”

Nash sighed and said, “Yes, indeed.”

Symmington asked:

“Have you come to any definite opinion as to the writer?”

Graves cleared his throat and delivered a small lecture.

“There are certain similarities shared by all these letters. I shall enumer-ate them, gentlemen, in case they suggest anything to your minds. The textof the letters is composed of words made-up from individual letters cutout of a printed book. It’s an old book, printed, I should say, about the year1830. This has obviously been done to avoid the risk of recognitionthrough handwriting which is, as most people know nowadays, a fairlyeasy matter…the so-called disguising of a hand not amounting to muchwhen faced with expert tests. There are no fingerprints on the letters andenvelopes of a distinctive character. That is to say, they have beenhandled by the postal authorities, the recipient, and there are other strayfingerprints, but no set common to all, showing therefore that the personwho put them together was careful to wear gloves. The envelopes aretypewritten by a Windsor 7 machine, well worn, with the a and the t outof alignment. Most of them have been posted locally, or put in the box of ahouse by hand. It is therefore evident that they are of local provenance.

They were written by a woman, and in my opinion a woman of middle ageor over, and probably, though not certainly, unmarried.”

We maintained a respectful silence for a minute or two. Then I said:

“The typewriter’s your best bet, isn’t it? That oughtn’t to be difficult in alittle place like this.”

Inspector Graves shook his head sadly and said:

“That’s where you’re wrong, sir.”

“The typewriter,” said Superintendent Nash, “is unfortunately too easy.

It is an old one from Mr. Symmington’s office, given by him to the Wo-men’s Institute where, I may say, it’s fairly easy of access. The ladies hereall often go into the Institute.”

“Can’t you tell something definite from the—er—the touch, don’t youcall it?”

Again Graves nodded.

“Yes, that can be done — but these envelopes have all been typed bysomeone using one finger.”

“Someone, then, unused to the typewriter?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Someone, say, who can type but doesn’t wantus to know the fact.”

“Whoever writes these things has been very cunning,” I said slowly.

“She is, sir, she is,” said Graves. “Up to every trick of the trade.”

“I shouldn’t have thought one of these bucolic women down here wouldhave had the brains,” I said.

Graves coughed.

“I haven’t made myself plain, I’m afraid. Those letters were written byan educated woman.”

“What, by a lady?”

The word slipped out involuntarily. I hadn’t used the term “lady” foryears. But now it came automatically to my lips, reechoed from days longago, and my grandmother’s faint unconsciously arrogant voice saying, “Ofcourse, she isn’t a lady, dear.”

Nash understood at once. The word lady still meant something to him.

“Not necessarily a lady,” he said. “But certainly not a village woman.

They’re mostly pretty illiterate down here, can’t spell, and certainly can’texpress themselves with fluency.”

I was silent, for I had had a shock. The community was so small. Uncon-sciously I had visualized the writer of the letters as a Mrs. Cleat or her like,some spiteful, cunning half-wit.

Symmington put my thoughts into words. He said sharply:

“But that narrows it down to about half a dozen to a dozen people in thewhole place!”

“That’s right.”

“I can’t believe it.”

Then, with a slight effort, and looking straight in front of him as thoughthe mere sound of his own words were distasteful he said:

“You have heard what I stated at the inquest. In case you may havethought that that statement was actuated by a desire to protect my wife’smemory, I should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that thesubject matter of the letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know itwas false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, and—er—well, you mightcall it prudish in some respects. Such a letter would have been a greatshock to her, and she was in poor health.”

Graves responded instantly.

“That’s quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signsof intimate knowledge. They’re just blind accusations. There’s been no at-tempt to blackmail. And there doesn’t seem to be any religious bias—suchas we sometimes get. It’s just sex and spite! And that’s going to give usquite a good pointer towards the writer.”

Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips weretrembling.

“I hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wifeas surely as if she’d put a knife into her.” He paused. “How does she feelnow, I wonder?”

He went out, leaving that question unanswered.

“How does she feel, Griffith?” I asked. It seemed to me the answer wasin his province.

“God knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be thatshe’s enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmington’s death may have fed hermania.”

“I hope not,” I said, with a slight shiver. “Because if so, she’ll—”

I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.

“She’ll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that couldhappen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.”

“She’d be mad to go on with it,” I exclaimed.

“She’ll go on,” said Graves. “They always do. It’s a vice, you know, theycan’t let it alone.”

I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, Iwanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.

“There’s nothing more, Mr. Burton,” said Nash. “Only keep your eyesopen, and do as much propaganda as you can—that is to say, urge oneveryone that they’ve got to report any letter they receive.” I nodded.

“I should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things bynow,” I said.

“I wonder,” said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side andasked, “You don’t know, definitely, of anyone who hasn’t had a letter?”

“What an extraordinary question! The population at large isn’t likely totake me into their confidence.”

“No, no, Mr. Burton, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if you knew ofanyone person who quite definitely, to your certain knowledge, has not re-ceived an anonymous letter.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” I hesitated, “I do, in a way.”

And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she hadsaid.

Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: “Well,that may come in useful. I’ll note it down.”

I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in thestreet, I swore aloud.

“What kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and healhis wounds? It’s full of festering poison, this place, and it looks as peacefuland as innocent as the Garden of Eden.”

“Even there,” said Owen dryly, “there was one serpent.”

“Look here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?”

“I don’t know. They’ve got a wonderful technique, the police. They’reseemingly so frank, and they tell you nothing.”

“Yes. Nash is a nice fellow.”

“And a very capable one.”

“If anyone’s batty in this place, you ought to know it.” I said accusingly.

Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked morethan that—he looked worried. I wondered if he had an inkling of somekind.

We had been walking along the High Street. I stopped at the door of thehouse agents.

“I believe my second instalment of rent is due—in advance. I’ve got agood mind to pay it and clear out with Joanna right away. Forfeit the restof the tenancy.”

“Don’t go,” said Owen.

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer. He said slowly after a minute or two,“After all—I dare say you’re right. Lymstock isn’t healthy just now. Itmight—it might harm you or—or your sister.”

“Nothing harms Joanna,” I said. “She’s tough. I’m the weakly one. Some-how this business makes me sick.”

“It makes me sick,” said Owen.

I pushed the door of the house agents half open.

“But I shan’t go,” I said. “Vulgar curiosity is stronger than pusillanimity.

I want to know the solution.”

I went in.

A woman who was typing got up and came towards me. She had frizzyhair and simpered, but I found her more intelligent than the spectacledyouth who had previously held sway in the outer office.

A minute or two later something familiar about her penetrated throughto my consciousness. It was Miss Ginch, lately Symmington’s lady clerk. Icommented on the fact.

“You were with Galbraith and Symmington, weren’t you?” I said.

“Yes. Yes, indeed. But I thought it was better to leave. This is quite agood post, though not quite so well paid. But there are things that aremore valuable than money, don’t you think so?”

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“Those awful letters,” breathed Miss Ginch in a sibilant whisper. “I got adreadful one. About me and Mr. Symmington—oh, terrible it was, sayingthe most awful things! I knew my duty and I took it to the police, though ofcourse it wasn’t exactly pleasant for me, was it?”

“No, no, most unpleasant.”

“But they thanked me and said I had done quite right. But I felt that,after that, if people were talking—and evidently they must have been, orwhere did the writer get the idea from?—then I must avoid even the ap-pearance of evil, though there has never been anything at all wrongbetween me and Mr. Symmington.”

I felt rather embarrassed.

“No, no, of course not.”

“But people have such evil minds. Yes, alas, such evil minds!”

Nervously trying to avoid it, I nevertheless met her eye, and I made amost unpleasant discovery.

Miss Ginch was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Already once today I had come across someone who reacted pleasurablyto anonymous letters. Inspector Graves’s enthusiasm was professional.

Miss Ginch’s enjoyment I found merely suggestive and disgusting.

An idea flashed across my startled mind.

Had Miss Ginch written these letters herself?