He nodded his head. He remembered Belle Goedler saying that Charlotte Blacklock had a disfigurement or deformity of some kind. Letitia had, in the end, resigned her job, to go and look after her sister. These letters all breathed the anxious spirit of her affection and love for an invalid. She had written her sister, apparently, long accounts of everyday happenings, of any little detail that she thought might interest the sick girl. And Charlotte had kept these letters. Occasionally odd snapshots had been enclosed.

Excitement suddenly flooded Craddock’s mind. Here, it might be, he would find a clue. In these letters there would be written down things that Letitia Blacklock herself had long forgotten. Here was a faithful picture of the past and somewhere amongst it, there might be a clue that would help him to identify the unknown. Photographs, too. There might, just possibly, be a photograph of Sonia Goedler here that the person who had taken the other photos out of the album did not know about.

Inspector Craddock packed the letters up again, carefully, closed the case, and started down the stairs.

Letitia Blacklock, standing on the landing below, looked at him in amazement.

“Was that you up in the attic? I heard footsteps. I couldn’t imagine who—”

“Miss Blacklock, I have found some letters here, written by you to your sister Charlotte many years ago. Will you allow me to take them away and read them?”

She flushed angrily.

“Must you do a thing like that? Why? What good can they be to you?”

“They might give me a picture of Sonia Goedler, of her character—there may be some allusion—some incident—that will help.”

“They are private letters, Inspector.”

“I know.”

“I suppose you will take them anyway … You have the power to do so, I suppose, or you can easily get it. Take them—take them! But you’ll find very little about Sonia. She married and went away only a year or two after I began to work for Randall Goedler.”

Craddock said obstinately:

“There may be something.” He added, “We’ve got to try everything. I assure you the danger is very real.”

She said, biting her lips:

“I know. Bunny is dead—from taking an aspirin tablet that was meant for me. It may be Patrick, or Julia, or Phillipa, or Mitzi next—somebody young with their life in front of them. Somebody who drinks a glass of wine that is poured out for me, or eats a chocolate that is sent to me. Oh! take the letters—take them away. And afterwards burn them. They don’t mean anything to anyone but me and Charlotte. It’s all over—gone—past. Nobody remembers now….”

Her hand went up to the choker of false pearls she was wearing. Caddock thought how incongruous it looked with her tweed coat and skirt.

She said again:

“Take the letters.”

III