‘No, I can’t say that I do. But except for one or two communications from the original owners of this place, a letter or so from Miss Hughes, and several notes from Tiny Fullalove, all about the house and the estate, I don’t think I know the handwriting of anybody in the village.’

‘If you get any more anonymous letters I should submit them, together with the writings at your disposal, to an expert. You will, at that rate, clear your acquaintances of suspicion, even if you accomplish nothing more.’

‘So far as I am concerned, they are cleared already,’ declared Jonathan. ‘Tiny Fullalove would hardly put me wise to his own dirty little games, and the others would have no interest in giving me this sort of information, even if they possessed it.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Mrs Bradley instantly.

‘What about Bill Fullalove?’ asked Deborah.

‘Bill? Well, he could have told me by word of mouth if he was going to tell me at all. That is, if he knew. Did he know, Deb?’

‘Yes,’ said Deborah, ‘he did. I told him myself. I think he blacked Tiny’s eye. He would hardly have done that if he intended to write you anonymous letters, would he?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. But I wish you’d told me, Deb.’

‘She did well not to tell you,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘It would be different if she had really needed protection. Was that the only letter?’

‘No. But there was nothing for you,’ said Deborah. ‘There are one or two parcels, though, Jon. Let’s go and open them, shall we? Come along, Aunt Adela. You can be the one to shake each parcel and guess what’s in it. I haven’t heard from Cecilia Randome yet, so one of the parcels is almost certainly from her.’

The rest of the day, the evening and the night passed without incident, but snow continued to fall, and, by the morning, although the house was not absolutely snowed up, Jonathan gave way to Deborah by putting off his visit to the vicar in favour of a day indoors by the fire. Mrs Fairleaf set to and baked some bread, and this was as well, for the tradespeople apparently considered that the toilsome, snowbound, uphill lane to the house was impassable and rang up to ask for instructions; this was as long as the telephone wires held.