Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car. Joanna took the wheel, she negotiated with some care the circular sweep round a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, she raised a hand to wave goodbye to our host where he stood on the steps of the house. I leaned forward to do the same.

But our gesture of farewell went unheeded. Mr. Pye had opened his mail.

He was standing staring down at the open sheet in his hand.

Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub. He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherub now. His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise.

And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope. I had not realized it at the time—indeed it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that you do note them.

“Goodness,” said Joanna. “What’s bitten the poor pet?”

“I rather fancy,” I said, “that it’s the Hidden Hand again.”

She turned an astonished face towards me and the car swerved.

“Careful, wench,” I said.

Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.

“You mean a letter like the one you got?”

“That’s my guess.”

“What is this place?” asked Joanna. “It looks the most innocent sleepy harmless little bit of England you can imagine—”

“Where to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens,” I cut in. “He chose the wrong minute to say that. Something has happened.”

“But who writes these things, Jerry?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“My dear girl, how should I know? Some local nitwit with a screw loose, I suppose.”

“But why? It seems so idiotic.”

“You must read Freud and Jung and that lot to find out. Or ask our Dr. Owen.”

Joanna tossed her head.

“Dr. Owen doesn’t like me.”

“He’s hardly seen you.”

“He’s seen quite enough, apparently, to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street.”

“A most unusual reaction,” I said sympathetically. “And one you’re not used to.”

Joanna was frowning again.

“No, but seriously, Jerry, why do people write anonymous letters?”

“As I say, they’ve got a screw loose. It satisfies some urge, I suppose. If you’ve been snubbed, or ignored, or frustrated, and your life’s pretty drab and empty, I suppose you get a sense of power from stabbing in the dark at people who are happy and enjoying themselves.”

Joanna shivered. “Not nice.”

“No, not nice. I should imagine the people in these country places tend to be inbred—and so you would get a fair amount of queers.”

“Somebody, I suppose, quite uneducated and inarticulate? With better education—”

Joanna did not finish her sentence, and I said nothing. I have never been able to accept the easy belief that education is a panacea for every ill.

As we drove through the town before climbing up the hill road, I looked curiously at the few figures abroad in the High Street. Was one of those sturdy countrywomen going about with a load of spite and malice behind her placid brow, planning perhaps even now a further outpouring of vindictive spleen?