‘It’s no good your turning nasty, my boy,’ said the Chief Constable, kindly. ‘I know what’s the matter with you. You’ve got your own reasons for wanting this poison pen tracked down and exposed, and I quite understand your point of view. But this person is just some lunatic trying for a bit of notoriety, that’s all. My reaction is to leave the whole thing to die down. What this letter-writer wants is a bit of excitement. If we fail to provide it, he or she will give up trying. It’s not as though the letters were of really virulent type. I mean, nobody’s going to commit suicide because of these letters. No, what this condemned scribe wants is to have us do just exactly what I for one am not prepared to do – exhume Bill Fullalove’s body and have newspaper headlines about it, and, in the end, make ourselves a laughing stock. That would be meat and drink to this sort of reptile.’

‘You’re prepared, then, to disregard the opinions of your own policemen?’

‘Look here,’ said the Chief Constable patiently, ‘your own Dr Fielding and the local police surgeon gave perfectly clear evidence at the inquest. Plenty of people die of cold and exposure. If those two doctors are going to turn cranky enough to deny their own sworn statements, they’re asking for trouble, that’s all. As for the insurance bloke, he must have made a mistake. I suppose even doctors can be deceived. He may have thought that Bill was a good life, but the fact remains that the poor chap wasn’t, that’s all.’

‘Doctors can be deceived, eh? There you are, you see! And your own police bloke is ready to admit that he might have been deceived, and yet you refuse to act! Well, whether Fullalove died naturally or not is no actual business of mine, but this poison pen is everybody’s business, and I give you my word that if any more anonymous letters are written, I’ll track down the writer myself, and I shall make no bones about what I say to the police if I do. As for the exhumation, I don’t care whether you have that or not, because if there was anything wrong about the death it’ll be your affair, not mine, as I say. But I know there was something wrong!’

‘Hang it, man, what have we got to go on? I can’t just back up an unsubstantiated opinion.’

‘There’s Mrs Dalby Whittier’s disappearance.’

‘We can tackle that, of course, but as for the other matter – this exhumation – well, if Mrs Bradley, whose opinion, needless to say, I respect, can give me a definite pointer …’

‘Suppose another letter – Oh, well, never mind.’