‘Of course, she may have been in love with Tiny. In that case she would have hated anybody in whom he seemed to take any sort of interest,’ said Deborah. ‘We always thought of her as practically middle-aged, but she was younger than Tiny or Bill.’

‘It’s not the first letter that matters so much, except to us personally,’ said Jonathan. ‘We’ve got to find out whether Mrs Dalby Whittier wrote any more of the things before we make sure of Tiny.’

‘I wonder where that typewriter is?’ said Deborah.

‘At the bottom of the millpond, most likely,’ said her husband. ‘The police ought to drag every pond in the neighbourhood. Ten to one it’s been thrown away somewhere.’

The next piece of news was brought by Farmer Daventry.

‘I’ve been going through poor Mr Bill Fullalove’s papers,’ said he, ‘and I find he used to have a typewriter, but there isn’t any typewriter in the place now, and Mr Tiny, he declares there never has been one at the bungalow. I don’t know what to make of it, I’m sure.’

‘I suppose,’ said Jonathan casually, ‘you didn’t happen to find any typewritten papers among Bill’s effects?’

‘Yes, I did; only one, though. It was in a kid’s book on Mr Bill’s bookshelf. There beant many books at the bungalow. Mr Tiny and Mr Bill each had a shelf of ’em in ’is bedroom.’

‘What did you do with the paper?’

‘Nothing. Left it where it was. But I did mention it to Mr Tiny. He agreed that Mr Bill must have used a typewriter at some time, but he went on and said that there never had been one brought to the bungalow, same as he told me before. Proper put out he was about it.’

‘Ah!’ said Jonathan. ‘Look here, Daventry, are you going back that way?’

‘Well, I wasn’t, but I could do.’

‘Good. Come along, then. I want to borrow a book. I suppose that will be all right?’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so, sir. There’s the question of probate. I think we ought to keep all the stuff together just now, do you see.’

‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten all about that. All right, then. But I’d like to see that bit of typing. Bill joined Tiny here at the bungalow as soon as he gave up the sea, and surely he wouldn’t have had a typewriter on board ship with him? If he had, he’d have brought it along.’

‘He may have had regular lodgings ashore, sir. Portsmouth, or Southsea, or somewhere.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, come on, and let me see this typewritten paper.’

The paper was a quarto sheet torn raggedly at the bottom, and bore, in careful typescript, the excerpt from Sir Thomas Browne’s Christian Morals: