‘But, hang it all, the person, whoever it is, and my bet is that it’s a woman, is somebody living in this village! What’s more, it’s somebody who has access to a typewriter. All the letters I’ve seen have been typewritten, except the one which came first to me. Yes, and that reminds me! There was the very odd business of that typed note pushed under Anstey’s door. We’ve never found out who did that.’

‘There’s nobody in the village with a typewriter. That brings us up all standing. Two of the blue-stocking ma’ams at the College have got one, but I can’t get at even the smell of a typewriter here, and when we tested the College ones they proved to be out of the question. The doctor writes everything by hand, and so does the vicar. There isn’t even one at the post-office. You haven’t got one, have you?’

‘Yes, of course I have, but the type is quite different from that used for the letters. You’re welcome to test it for yourself. In fact, I wish you would. The point is, not that there isn’t a typewriter, but that you haven’t found it. Moreover, whoever types or writes the letters goes into Cheltenham to post them. All have a Cheltenham post-mark. Isn’t that anything to go on?’

‘Half the village goes into Cheltenham at least once a week. Some go oftener. You can’t get anything from that. They go there for shopping and the pictures,’ said the Chief Constable, shaking his head.

‘In other words, you’re hedging. You don’t want to ask for an exhumation, but you’re afraid you’ll have to. That’s about the size of it, isn’t it? I can’t see what you’re waiting for! If the poor bloke was murdered you’ve got to investigate, and if he wasn’t an exhumation will stop this scandalmonger’s tongue. There’s nothing to lose! For goodness’ sake get on with your job and stop stalling!’