‘I’ll turn up that letter the minute we get back,’ said Jonathan. ‘What a good thing I didn’t give it up to the police.’

‘I’m not so sure!’ said Mrs Bradley drily.

The place where Mrs Dalby Whittier’s body had been found was in a direct line with the bungalow, according to the students’ careful maps and plottings. Mrs Bradley led the way back. The walk was uphill and hard going, and in snow would have been almost impossibly bad, but – as Jonathan remarked – it had to be borne in mind that the reverse direction would have given anyone who was walking the benefit of the downhill slopes.

‘I wonder how much she weighed?’ said Mrs Bradley, as though to herself. ‘She looked quite a small woman, but most people would look small against all these shining slopes of snow.’

‘She couldn’t have weighed much above eight stone,’ said Jonathan. ‘She was one of the small, spare, energetic kind. You said before that she could have been carried to where you found her.’

‘It would have been easily possible,’ said Deborah. ‘I wish we knew, though, irrespective of whether she walked or was carried, whether she was coming from the bungalow to the village or from the village to the bungalow. You see—’ She broke off as they came in sight of the bungalow, although it was still some distance away. The map Mrs Bradley was following traced a route across the middle of a field. They had taken this route, and now, keeping the bungalow squarely in front of them, they were soon at its garden gate. ‘You see, it’s the one thing I cannot deduce, and it might make all the difference in the world, don’t you think, between Robert Emming and Tiny (or, possibly Bill) as Mrs Whittier’s murderer.’

‘It could have been both the Fullaloves,’ said Sally. ‘I don’t understand about Emming, though. After all, she was his mother.’

‘I think I’ll go back,’ said Deborah, who had turned very pale. ‘Would you mind very much?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sally, at once. ‘I don’t want to meet Tiny Fullalove. Those two can easily cope.’

A woman from the village was looking after Tiny Fullalove. She opened the door to the visitors and showed them into the lounge. Tiny was able to get about on two rubber-shod sticks. He seemed pleased to see the visitors, invited them to be seated, and asked Jonathan to forage for drinks.

‘I’ll get one for you, if you like,’ said Jonathan, ‘but I won’t have one at this time of day, thanks.’

Tiny flushed.

‘You needn’t keep up this business of being sore with me,’ he growled, in an undertone, as he and Jonathan stood together by the cocktail cabinet.