‘Well,’ said Jonathan patiently (for he was particularly anxious to discover the identity of the anonymous letter-writer), ‘it’s like this.’ He took his own letter out of a drawer and handed it to the vicar. ‘I had that the other day. It’s ridiculously untrue in the suggestion it makes, but the fact behind it is that Tiny Fullalove did make a pass at my wife, and she didn’t tell me. I know why she didn’t. I’m a short-tempered bloke and I should probably have gone straight to Fullalove and twisted his head off. It wouldn’t have been necessary, of course, because Deb can look after herself, as she very rightly pointed out. But where she is concerned I have certain definite reactions which I shouldn’t trouble to control. Well, that’s that. It seems to me that this report’ – he flicked at the vicar’s letter – ‘can’t be fact, but there may be something about Emming’s birth which he wouldn’t care to have broadcast. Scurrilous comments are not facts, but once they become public property, which is what this anonymous pest is anxious for, they can be very damaging, and, of course, if you know what I mean, Emming is rather the village mystery man, isn’t he? Anyway, there’s nothing like a grain of truth for causing the water in the pot to boil over, so I expect the writer really has something to go on.’

‘I see,’ said the vicar, thoughtfully. ‘But please do read it. I should like to have your advice.’

Jonathan read the letter.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘I wish you would let me show this to my aunt, who is staying with us. She’s a psychiatrist, and she would advise us, I’m sure. By the way, what did you think of the inquest? Were you there?’

‘Yes,’ said the vicar. There was a pause. ‘Yes, I was there.’

‘Death by misadventure,’ said Jonathan, beginning to fill a pipe. ‘Could mean anything, when you come to think of it.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said the vicar, taking out his own pipe and accepting the pouch which Jonathan pushed towards him. ‘Mrs Blott keeps only one brand of tobacco, fortunately. No, I don’t like it, Bradley. I don’t mean the tobacco. I don’t like what’s happening here. There’s something going on.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Jonathan.

‘The inquest, these letters, that injury to Tiny Fullalove. I don’t know … In my work, Bradley, one gradually grows to believe in good and evil. Really to believe in them, I mean. The devil is about these parts.’ He lit his pipe and the two men smoked in silence for some minutes. Jonathan waited. ‘I wish you would let your aunt see this letter,’ the vicar continued at last. Jonathan went to find Mrs Bradley and brought her back with him.