Miss Hughes, although not immediately visible, was soon run to earth by the College secretary, who found her supervising a group of history students.

‘Good to see you,’ she said to Mrs Bradley, as soon as they met. ‘The students are always asking when you are coming to talk to them again, and when you’ve another job that you want them to do.’

‘I’ll come when you like,’ Mrs Bradley promised, ‘provided it can be fairly soon. I really ought to go back and look at my clinic next month.’

‘Well, these students go down in May. We only have them for thirteen months, as you know. What about one day next week?’

The arrangements were made there and then, but before Mrs Bradley was able to come to her real business Miss Hughes began to talk about the inquest on Mrs Dalby Whittier.

‘I am interested that the jury brought in an open verdict,’ she said. ‘You know, it never seemed natural to me that that poor woman should have wandered so far from the track and died in the snow, and when I looked at the students’ maps and plans of the hillsides it seemed more unreasonable still. And, by the way, talking of hand-written anonymous letters – well, I didn’t intend to mention the fact because I put the thing straight on the fire and took no further notice – but I had one myself last term.’

‘Last term? Before Christmas?’ said Mrs Bradley, producing from a capacious skirt pocket the inevitable notebook.

‘Yes. Last November. About the middle of the month. It accused me of knowing the students to have immoral relations with the brothers Wootton who do the gardening here and look after the boilers. It added that I did nothing to prevent this.’

‘Indeed?’ exclaimed Mrs Bradley. ‘That is more than interesting!’

‘If you knew the complete detestation and fear in which the younger Wootton, Harry, the unmarried one, holds all women, not even excepting his own sister,’ said Miss Hughes, with a deep chuckle, ‘you would also find it more than amusing. But no! Anonymous dirt is never that! I’m sorry now that I didn’t keep the letter, but it was a real piece of nastiness and I didn’t like the idea of leaving it about. My secretary is utterly discreet, of course, but naturally she has access to all my drawers and pigeonholes. I must confess I never faced the fact that there might be other letters. I thought it came from one of the villagers who disliked having the College take over the biggest house in the place … a sort of perverted local patriotism, you know.’

‘I see.’ Mrs Bradley nodded. ‘Still, it establishes my theory that at least one other person must have received one of these hand-written letters besides yourself and my nephew, and that that person may have killed Mrs Dalby Whittier and dumped her body where we found it.’