There was no sign of anyone in the place. Jonathan had been highly suspicious about the typed and initialled letter which had purported to come from Fullalove, and now he felt perfectly certain that it was a hoax. It was manifestly absurd to suppose that a man with a damaged (possibly a broken) leg, should have been able to sit down at a typewriter and then go out again. He was certain by this time that the anonymous letter-writer had heard that the Fullaloves were going to be away from home, and, for some reason unknown, had brought him out on a fool’s errand. This looked as though the village pest, whoever it was, had decided to make a dead set at him. He wondered who, in the village, possessed a typewriter, and who, in the village, hated him. There was, too, the question of the doorkey. That had come from Anstey, it was true, but it had been enclosed in the envelope with the note. He wondered whether the writer had obtained possession of it by theft or by accident, or whether Tiny Fullalove had really sent it. It was all very puzzling and unsatisfactory.

Meanwhile, where was Tiny? And, equally, where was Bill? And, equally, where were the dogs and cats? Why could not Tiny’s messenger – supposing that the note was genuine – have telephoned the manor house instead of pushing the note under Anstey’s door? Nothing, so far, made any sense at all. Not knowing what else to do, Jonathan hung about for another half-hour. Then he locked up the bungalow and set out for home.

Hardly had he started, however, when he changed his mind. He would go first to Anstey’s cottage and find out what he could about the typewritten note.

CHAPTER 4

The Ghost Faces East

‘Get up! get up! thou leaden man!’

Thomas Campion

Thin, anxious-looking Mrs Anstey opened the door. Her information was very meagre. The note had been put under the door, and with it was a covering letter, also in typescript – she produced it – ordering Anstey to go to Jonathan’s house, and on no account to go to the bungalow.

‘That’s all I know, sir,’ she said. Jonathan believed her. It was obviously all that she knew. He looked at the whirling snow, which was falling fast again, and accepted the woman’s offer of a cup of boiling hot cocoa. While he was drinking it Anstey got back from the village. He could add nothing to his wife’s information.

‘All of a queer do; that’s what it is, sir.’