• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 440 0

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, say, 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, reechoed 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 visualized 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!”

“That’s right.”

“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 were 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 towards 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