Then she walked briskly to the high road, took the bus into Cheltenham, and went to a cinema. She remained there until seven, dined alone at an hotel, and returned on the half-past eight bus.

‘I say,’ said Deborah, when she returned, ‘Jon’s had another anonymous letter.’

‘What about this time?’ But Mrs Bradley did not seem surprised.

Deborah giggled.

‘About you. You are supposed to be corrupting the minds of the village children. What have you been a-doing of?’

‘I suppose my immediate removal from the vicinity is demanded?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. There’s a postscript which says that all witches ought to be burnt. Who on earth does write the beastly, silly things?’

‘Was it written or typed this time?’

‘Oh, typed again, and on the same typewriter. At least, Jon thinks so.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

‘Oh, you shall. He’s taken it to show the vicar and Mr Baird. He says you said they were to be called in to conference. He’s gone in the car. He went directly after dinner. I don’t expect him home until after midnight. He’ll go to Mr Baird second, and they’re certain to gossip.’

‘I wonder what luck Mr Mansell has had in getting people to work on his trial dig?’ Mrs Bradley enquired.

‘I don’t know. We shall hear from Jon when he comes home, because Mr Baird knows everything. I shall wait up, I think. What would you like to do?’

‘Knit,’ replied Mrs Bradley. She went up to her room and returned with a repulsive bundle of dead-looking natural-coloured wool. ‘Do you think purple or puce would look better as a contrast with this?’

‘Good heavens!’ said Deborah, expressing simple horror. ‘It’s bad enough as it is!’

Mrs Bradley grinned amiably and set to work on huge wooden needles to fabricate what appeared to be some sort of shawl, a type of garment which, needless to say, she never wore.

Jonathan came back earlier than his wife had expected. He was in the house by half-past ten, and brought news that Mansell was experiencing some difficulty in recruiting men for the trial dig. He seemed rather annoyed about it.

‘It’s a lot of ballyhoo,’ he said. ‘They don’t fancy the job for some reason, so they are saying they don’t like to interfere with something which has been there for hundreds of years. Just imagine chaps like these Gloucestershire fellows talking such rot! No, there’s something the matter with them, and I don’t know what it is.’

‘Perhaps they haven’t the time to spare,’ Mrs Bradley suggested. Her nephew snorted.

‘He’s prepared to offer handsome pay for next Saturday afternoon,’ he said. ‘They’d jump at it if they really wanted the work. No, there’s something up, and I’d like to know what it is.’

‘What about this anonymous letter?’ Mrs Bradley enquired. Jonathan grimaced.