“Are you going to tell me to whom they were addressed?”

“Yes, I think so. Colonel Repton had one, the Vicar another, and a third was for Miss Valentine Grey.”

“Well, Randal?”

“I understand that the wedding has been put off.”

She inclined her head. He said,

“On account of Connie Brooke’s death? Or because of something in those letters? Or because Jason Leigh has come home?”

Miss Silver gazed at him. After what seemed like a deliberate silence she said,

“Mr. Gilbert Earle has returned to London.”

“Yes-we knew that. It may, or may not, be significant.”

“It has been remarked that he has neither written nor telephoned. The postman is naturally acquainted with his writing, and the two girls who work in the telephone exchange are familiar with his voice.”

“There are, in fact, no secrets in a village.”

“Very few, Randal.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me who went into Ledlington on Wednesday morning.”

Miss Silver considered.

“I went in myself on the ten o’clock bus. The wedding was next day, the rehearsal that afternoon, and Miss Wayne had decided to purchase a light pair of gloves. I accompanied her and-now let me see-Miss Eccles was also going in, and I think for the same purpose. We met in Ashley’s, where she was buying a blue evening scarf. Such a good shop. I always enjoy going there. We had quite a pleasant time. Miss Wayne met a number of friends.” She appeared to hesitate for a moment. “She also pointed out to me someone who was not a friend.”

“Are you being mysterious?”

She did not respond to his half laughing intonation, but said gravely,

“No, I am only trying to be accurate. The person pointed out to me was Mr. Barton, the occupant of Gale’s Cottage. He is Miss Wayne’s neighbour on the side nearer the village, and he attracts a good deal of local attention because he does his own housework and cooking and keeps his house locked up. He also keeps seven cats who accompany him on his nocturnal rambles. I believe he very seldom goes out in the day.”

“And he was in Ledlington on Wednesday morning? I presume without the cats.”

“Yes. Miss Wayne remarked on it as a most unusual occurrence.”

“And how did he strike you?”

“He is tall and thin, and his clothes are old and shabby. He has a listening look. I wondered if he was perhaps a little deaf.”

“I believe not.”

She said, “It is a look which elderly people sometimes have.”

“You had not seen him before?”

“Not by daylight. But perhaps I had better tell you that I did see him on Wednesday night.”

“At what time?”

“It was just after half past ten. I had put out my light and was opening the window, when I heard, first footsteps, and then the click of a gate. I leaned out a little and saw that it was the gate of Gale’s Cottage. Mr. Barton was standing by it. After a little he shut the gate again and went up to the door of the house, which is at the side. He switched on a torch and opened the door, allowing the beam to fall upon the threshold. Seven large cats entered the house, after which he went in himself and locked the door behind him.”

“I don’t wonder the village talks. It sounds like the Arabian Nights. Did you notice from which direction he came?”

“From the direction of the Croft. Two or three cars had just come out of the Manor Gate, and most of my attention was taken up with that side of the Green, but I heard the footsteps and the click of the gate.”

He frowned.

“Are you aware that quite a number of people at Tilling Green are firmly persuaded that Mr. Barton is the author of those anonymous letters?”

She said in her most restrained manner,

“They would naturally suspect a stranger and one whose way of life does not conform to the village pattern.”

“Has no one suggested him to you as a suspect?”

“My dear Randal, no one except Mrs. Rodney has mentioned the anonymous letters to me at all.”

“Well, I suppose that is natural. You are a stranger too, and this is a village affair. But they do suspect Barton, and if you saw him coming home at half past ten he could have been along at the Croft taking steps to silence Connie Brooke, though one would hardly expect a would-be murderer to pursue his nefarious purpose attended by a retinue of cats.”

Miss Silver said,

“Since it was his habit to go out with them at night, to leave them at home would attract more attention than to take them with him-always supposing that he was about some unlawful business.”

He laughed.

“Of which there is no proof! Let us return to your expedition with Miss Wayne to Ledlington on Wednesday morning. Were you together the whole time?”

“Oh, no. I found that Ashley’s had some extremely pretty wool. I bought enough to make a jumper and cardigan for my niece Ethel Burkett for Christmas-a really charming shade of red. And then I had the great pleasure of meeting dear Mrs. Jerningham.”

Old memories rose between them. There had been a time when Lisle Jerningham had stood on the very edge of death and these two had watched her. Randal March said,

“She’s a lovely creature and Rafe is a good chap. They are very happy now. But to get back to these Tilling people. As far as I can make out from the bus drivers there were quite a lot of them in Ledlington on Wednesday morning. Odd thing human nature. With all the other days of the week to choose from, they make a bee line for Wednesday because it is early closing, so the shops and the buses are packed. The herd instinct, I suppose. A string of Tilling people as long as your arm were in Ledlington that morning. The Reverend Thomas Martin was there. Roger Repton was there, and his decorative wife, and his sister Maggie. Valentine Grey was there, and a girl who was going to be one of her bridesmaids, Daphne Hollis. And Miss Mettie Eccles and at least a dozen others. I don’t hail from Tilling myself, but I was in Ledlington on Wednesday morning and so was Rietta, and I saw quite a number of Tilling faces. And every single one of those people could have posted those three letters.” Miss Silver was silent for a moment, then she said, “What do the people who received the letters say?”

“Tommy Martin says yes, he got a letter. No, he couldn’t tell me what was in it. Not exactly secrets of the confessional, but getting on that way. It wouldn’t be any help if he told me, and anyhow he wasn’t going to. Valentine Grey flushed up and turned pale. Then she said she had had a nasty letter and she had put it in the fire, and she didn’t want to talk about it. Things like it being her duty to help the police just rolled off. I don’t know whether you-” She shook her head.

“I have not even met her. There would have to be some natural opportunity.”

“Something might be contrived. So far it’s no more than one might have expected-a parson in his office, a girl and her secrets. But when you come to the third letter, there’s something odd. The postman says he delivered it, but Roger Repton says it never reached him.”