‘Jon,’ said Mrs Bradley, when the guest had gone, ‘be careful what you say. My secretary sometimes talks about sticking one’s neck out, and if I understand her metaphor—’

‘You mean that supposing there did happen to be something queer about Bill’s death, and it could be shown that Emming had a motive for causing it—’

‘I am not so much concerned about Mr Emming,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘It’s you I’m thinking of.’

‘Me? Oh, Lord, that business about Deb, you mean! But that was Tiny, not Bill.’

‘I know. But you know what gossip can do. And if, as this anonymous correspondent suggests, that whole episode was Deborah’s fault, how are you going to prove that it might not have been Bill as much as Tiny who tried his luck? – No, don’t fume. It suits your saturnine cast of countenance, but it doesn’t assist a reasoned argument.’

Jonathan laughed. Then his face lengthened again into its usual melancholy furrows.

‘You’re taking a very serious view of these letters, aren’t you?’ he said. Mrs Bradley nodded slowly and rhythmically.

‘A very serious view,’ she agreed. ‘I begin to see the pattern behind them. We must certainly watch our words and not appear to know more than we do. There is a great deal more in this business than the desire to give pain and anxiety. Another thing: Mr Emming has just told us that the only enemy he has made (to his knowledge) is Tiny Fullalove. I suppose Tiny isn’t our anonymous friend? We did wonder whether he sent the notes himself to you and Anstey. Couldn’t he—’

‘Oh, he isn’t the type. These people are always thwarted spinsters and so forth. Fullalove is a hairy-heeled brute, but he’s definitely not thwarted—’

‘Except by Deborah,’ Mrs Bradley pointed out.

‘And he’s definitely male,’ concluded Jonathan, scowling again, however, at the reference to his wife. The rest of the conversation was interrupted by a call on the telephone.

‘I can’t talk over the ’phone, Bradley,’ said Doctor Fielding’s voice, ‘but if I could come along when I’ve finished my round, I’d be glad.’

‘Another anonymous letter?’ said Jonathan, putting down the receiver. ‘Will you bet on it?’

‘No,’ replied his aunt. ‘I regard it as a certainty, and it is my practice only to bet on certainties when I myself have proposed the wager. At what time do you expect him?’

‘Oh, at about half-past twelve. He’s got nobody but Baird’s man Evans, down with flu, and young Bob Datchett, with broken chilblains on his feet, and old Mrs Dear with her arthritis.’

‘I wonder whether he’ll expect to stay to lunch?’ asked Deborah anxiously, when she was told of the visitor. ‘There are exactly three chops.’