‘Well, yes,’ he answered frankly. ‘It is perfectly true in a way. But I was registered in my present surname owing to the kindness and decency of my father’s brother. He married my mother at once, saying that it was no fault of hers that my father had been killed before he could fulfil his obligations, and then he himself, poor, decent chap, went into the trenches and was killed within a month. That’s my family history, and I don’t see why I should be ashamed of it. But the thing is – well, you know what it’s like in a village. I was conceived out of wedlock, although I was born in it, so to say. If people in a small place like this intend to make a mountain out of a mole-hill they’ll do it, and it’s a bit awkward for the person who’s then got to climb the mountain.’

Jonathan nodded. Mrs Bradley cackled and poked her nephew in the ribs. Emming showed neither embarrassment nor resentment at her reactions.

‘Let’s all have a drink,’ said Jonathan, ‘and, Emming, while I’m getting it, you can tell my aunt what your alibi is for the time of Fullalove’s death. No, I’m perfectly serious! I’m beginning to get a line on this anonymous letter-writer. He or she knows that something was wrong about that death! There’s some grain of truth in every one of the letters, underneath all the nastiness. A chap like Bill Fullalove doesn’t snuff out like that, a mile and a half from his home. Of course, I don’t necessarily mean the poor old chap was murdered, but, once mud begins to fly, you never quite know who’ll be plastered. Tell her about your choirboys’ pig-club, Emming, and what a stink that made in the village.’

‘I sometimes think my nephew has an odd fashion in words,’ said Mrs Bradley, joining in Emming’s laughter as Jonathan went out. ‘Please tell me about the pig-club. Did you cheat the government out of their half of the pig-meat, or did you undercut the village butcher’s prices?’

‘We haven’t a village butcher. Of course, if somebody kills a pig— but really, though,’ said Emming, firmly refusing to be side-tracked, ‘what am I to do about this business?’

‘We must all set to work to find out who writes the letters,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘You know the people in this village pretty well by now. Have you no suspicions on which we could set to work?’

‘Never a one,’ replied the young man promptly. ‘Except for Tiny Fullalove, I haven’t made an enemy in the place, so far as I know. Besides, I can’t think of more than one person besides myself who could possibly have known …’