‘Well, we didn’t, for nearly four months. She used to write the letters on her afternoon out and post them in various pillar-boxes, so it wasn’t at all easy to find her out. But one day she was a bit too clever. She wrote a letter to Mother and put in something which only a person living in our house could know.’

‘What was that?’

‘Where Mother kept the wine-cellar key. Even Higgs, our butler, didn’t know. You see, Mother’s got a “thing” about drink, and she said she would never put temptation in anybody’s way. But this girl found out one day about the key because we were having some house repairs done and she came in just as Mother was taking out the key to hide it somewhere else from the workmen. She accused Mother in the letter of being a secret drinker, so, of course, we tumbled to her.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Bradley, very thoughtfully. ‘Too clever, but not quite clever enough to hide the fact. Go on. You’ve something else in your mind.’

‘Well, it’s only this – and, mind, I may be talking medical rubbish. But – well, when doctors fix the time of death, don’t they go by the stiffness of the body?’

‘Yes. What about it?’

‘Take Mr Fullalove,’ said Sally. ‘He might have been dead longer than the doctors thought. If so, Mr Tiny would have had time to establish an alibi for the time of his cousin’s death. He could have typed the notes to Anstey and Jonathan. He might have taken the risk of being seen pushing them under Anstey’s door, for there was nobody to fear, I suppose, so long as Anstey or his wife or Jonathan didn’t catch him at it, and he could then have damaged his knee.’

‘You are referring to the fact that the weather was so cold,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But there is Jonathan’s evidence to consider. The body was not hanging over the gate when he went up to the bungalow, but it was there when he returned. That fixed the time of the death almost more surely than the medical evidence, you know.’

‘Oh, of course!’ said Sally, crestfallen.

‘I am more interested, really, in the anonymous letters,’ Mrs Bradley continued. ‘You see, the fact that they have suddenly ceased is rather curious.’

Sally looked at her sharply.

‘You mean that the person who wrote them may be dead? And the police are still looking for that Mrs Dalby Whittier? Do you think she wrote the letters?’

‘I don’t know. In any case, how could she have typed them?’

‘Yes, the typewriter is the snag. But Bill Fullalove made a will and nobody has turned up to claim the money. The lawyers have advertised. I should think they’d have to let Tiny have it in the end. And if he did kill Bill—’