‘No, it didn’t. There was nothing in Bill’s manner to suggest it, and when they both turned up on Christmas Day and again on Boxing Day, there was nothing wrong between them. Bill was no good at hiding his feelings, and Tiny is a complete and utter oaf. If they’d had a row, he’d have continued it, even in someone else’s house.’

‘I agree,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Next came the business of the ghost. Mr Obury and Mr Mansell said that they saw something leaning over that gate at the top of Groaning Spinney. The point is, what did they see? – that is, if they saw anything, and weren’t making it all up.’

‘You tell us,’ said Jonathan. Mrs Bradley looked at him expectantly.

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Your turn.’

‘Well, I still think they saw Bill.’

‘Then why should he have lied about it?’ asked Deborah. ‘There was no reason why he should have denied being the figure with the white face, is there?’

‘Every reason, if he was there for some bad purpose. Look here, let’s suppose that Bill lied. He was at the top of Groaning Spinney, and we may ask ourselves what his reason could have been. If he did lie, he might have been Mrs Dalby Whittier’s murderer. But, of course, he may have told the truth, and, in that case, who was the ghost? – because I quite refuse to believe that there was a real one!’

‘And that’s not the only question,’ said Deborah. ‘There’s still the main point about Mrs Dalby Whittier to be solved. If she left the bungalow on Christmas Eve, as she is supposed to have done, where was she between about four o’clock on Christmas Eve and the time when she was first hidden away in the snow?’

‘Where she was, or where her dead body was … Yes, that could be the hell of a gap,’ said Jonathan. ‘I don’t see how we can possibly fill it up. The police can’t, and they’ve far more chance than we have.’

‘At any rate, we can begin to try,’ said his aunt, ‘and the first move now, as I see it, is to find out (through the official channels, of course) whether she wrote that first anonymous letter. If she wrote one, she may have written more, and therein may lie the motive for her death, particularly as her murderer can hardly have complained to the police.’

‘Ah!’ said Jonathan. ‘Now you’re talking! And, rather than that the anonymous letters should cease suddenly, the murderer typed a few more. He didn’t dare write them because of the altered handwriting! I say! That opens a considerable field for research! We shouldn’t need to worry all that much about the Fullaloves. The murderer could have been anybody! There isn’t a clue!’