surprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say.'
'We had a case just on two years ago,' said Nash. 'Inspector Graves helped us then.'
Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.
'Difficulty is,' said Nash, 'to get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they won't admit to having received anything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. They're a backward lot here.'
'Still we've got a fair amount to get on with,' said Graves.
Nash took the letter I had given him from the pocket and tossed it over to Graves.
The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed approvingly, 'Very nice, very nice indeed…'
It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in question, but experts, I suppose, have their own point of view. I was glad that that piece of paper with obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.
'We've got enough, I think, to go on with,' said Inspector Graves, 'and I'll ask all you gentlemen, if you receive any more letters, to bring them along at once. Also, if you should know of someone who has received them (you in particular, Doctor, among your patients), do your best to get them to come to us. 'I've got here, for example, one to Mr. Symmington, received two months ago, one to Dr. Griffith, one to Miss Ginch, one written to Mrs. Mudge, the butcher's wife, one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the 'Three Crowns', the one received by Mrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burton, and one to the bank manager.'
'Quite a representative collection' I remarked.
'And there isn't one case that is very different from the others. This one is very similar to the one written by that girl from the hat shop. That one is practically the same as the one written in Northumberland by a student. Believe me, gentlemen, sometimes I'd like something new, instead of this boring routine.'
'There is nothing new under the Sun' I observed.
Nash sighed and said: 'How true. You would know that in our profession.'
Symmington asked:
'Have you come to some conclusion about the author?'
Graves cleared his throat and delivered a small lecture:
'There are certain similarities shared by all these letters. I shall enumerate them, gentlemen, in case they suggest any thing to your minds. The text of the letters is composed of words made up from individual letters cut out of a printed book. It's an old book, printed, I should say, about the year 1830. This has obviously been done to avoid the risk of recognition through handwriting which is, as most people know nowadays, a fairly easy matter… the so-called disguising of a hand not amounting to much when faced with expert tests. There are no fingerprints on the letters and envelopes of a distinctive character. That is to say, they have been handled by the postal authorities, the recipient, and there are other stray fingerprints, but no set common to all, showing therefore that the person who put them together was careful to wear gloves.
'The envelopes are typewritten by a Windsor 7 machine, well worn, with the 'a' and the 't' out of alignment. Most of them have been posted locally, or put in the box of a house by hand. It is therefore evident that they are of local provenance. They were written by a woman, and in my opinion a woman of middle age, or over, and probably, though not certainly, unmarried.
We maintained a respectful silence for a minute or two.
Then I said, 'The typewriter's your best bet, isn't it? That oughtn't to be difficult in a little place like this.'
Inspector Graves shook his head sadly and said, 'That's where you're wrong, sir.'
'The typewriter,' said Superintendent Nash, 'is unfortunately too easy. It is an old one from Mr. Symmington's office, given by him to the Women's Institute where, I may say, it's fairly easy of access. The ladies here all often go into the Institute.'
'Can't you tell something definite from the – er – the touch, don't you call it?'
Again Graves nodded. 'Yes, that can be done – but these envelopes have all been typed by someone using one finger.'
'Someone, then, unused to the typewriter?'
'No, I wouldn't say that. Someone, perhaps, who can type but doesn't want us to know the fact.'
'Whoever writes these things has been very cunning,' I said slowly.
'She is, sir, she is,' said Graves. 'Up to every trick of the trade.'
'I shouldn't have thought one of these bucolic women down here would have had the brains,' I said.
Graves coughed. 'I haven't made myself plain, I'm afraid. Those letters were written by an educated woman.'
'What, by a lady?'
The word slipped out involuntarily. I hadn't used the term 'lady' for years. But now it came automatically to my lips, re-echoed from days long ago, and my grandmother's faint unconsciously arrogant voice saying, 'Of course, she isn't a lady, dear.'
Nash understood at once. The word lady still meant something to him.
'Not necessarily a lady,' he said. 'But certainly not a village woman. They're mostly pretty illiterate down here, can't spell, and certainly can't express themselves with fluency.'
I was silent, for I had had a shock. The community was so small. Unconsciously I had visualised the writer of the letters as a Mrs. Cleat or her like, some spiteful, cunning half-wit.
Symmington put my thoughts into words. He said sharply, 'But that narrows it down to about half a dozen to a dozen people in the whole place! I can't believe it.'
Then, with a slight effort, and looking straight in front of him as though the mere sound of his own words was distasteful, he said:
'You have heard what I stated at the inquest. In case you may have thought that that statement was actuated by a desire to protect my wife's memory, I should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that the subject matter of the letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know it was false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, and – er – well, you might call it prudish in some respects. Such a letter would have been a great shock to her, and she was in poor health.'
Graves responded instantly:
'That's quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signs of intimate knowledge. They're just blind accusations. There's been no attempt to blackmail. And there doesn't seem to be any religious bias – such as we sometimes get. It's just sex and spite! And that's going to give us quite a good pointer toward the writer.'
Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips were trembling.
'I hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wife as surely as if she'd put a knife into her.'
He paused.
'How does she feel now, I wonder?'
He went out, leaving that question unanswered.
'How does she feel, Griffith?' I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.
'God knows. Remorseful, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that she's enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmington's death may have fed her mania.'
'I hope not,' I said, with a slight shiver. 'Because if so, she'll -'
I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me: 'She'll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher goes to the well once too often, remember.'
'She'd be mad to go on with it,' I exclaimed.
'She'll go on,' said Graves. 'They always do. It's a vice, you know, they can't let it alone.'
I shook my head with a shudder. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. The atmosphere seemed tinged with evil.
'There's nothing more, Mr. Burton,' said Nash. 'Only keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as you can – that is to say, urge on everyone that they've got to report any letter they receive.'
I nodded.
'I should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,' I said.
