‘The easiest place to have killed her … and the safest … would have been at the bungalow, where she lived,’ said Miss Hughes, ‘but that would involve one of the Fullalove cousins, would it not?’

Mrs Bradley hesitated, and then decided against telling Miss Hughes the story of the curry and the disappearance of the dogs and cats. Miss Hughes glanced at her face and asked no questions.

‘Of course, we know Mrs Whittier left the bungalow before Christmas: that is to say, before the snow fell,’ she said, ‘but I repeat that if she was killed at the bungalow it would be fantastic to suppose that someone other than one of the Fullaloves killed her, unless …’

‘Unless what?’ asked Mrs Bradley, who was anxious to have her own theories tested in every possible way.

‘Unless some friend of one of the cousins had access … that is to say, a key … to the bungalow. And that opens up matter for speculation.’

‘And adds up to the answer I first thought of,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But I came upon a different errand. I wonder whether you would be willing to help me?’

‘I think the students are all litter-conscious,’ said Miss Hughes, when she had heard about the empty aspirin packet, ‘but one never knows. People are so very remiss over these things. Question them, by all means. Will you know whether they are being quite truthful?’

‘What are psychological tests for?’ Mrs Bradley enquired. Miss Hughes, who had often wondered, smiled amiably and went off to arrange for the following day a period during which every student should take Mrs Bradley’s test.

The result was gratifying. It was clear, from the papers sent in, that none of the students had been in Groaning Spinney since they had made the survey of the neighbourhood for Mrs Bradley.

‘And now, what are you going to talk to us about?’ enquired Miss Hughes, when Mrs Bradley had been to the College again to announce the result of the test. A subject was soon agreed upon, and then Mrs Bradley walked through the lovely grounds to the village street, and, when she reached it, stopped at the house where young Emming, the choirmaster, lodged. He was at home and was mending a puncture in the back tyre of his bicycle.

Mrs Bradley came to the point at once.

‘I am beginning to discover,’ she said, ‘that other people besides my nephew received hand-written letters of abuse. These were in addition to the typewritten ones of which we have all heard.’

Young Emming straightened his back, glanced rather wistfully at his upturned bicycle, and asked her to come inside the cottage, for they were in the front garden. Mrs Bradley complied.

‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘am I to understand that there are two anonymous letter-writers in this one small village?’

‘There were two,’ said Mrs Bradley gently. ‘There seems very little doubt that one of them was the late Mrs Dalby Whittier, the Fullaloves’ housekeeper.’