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this question was in the offing.
    Sunday was not a guaranteed day of rest for a C.I.D. officer, but when the exigencies of his job allowed, Petrella liked to go to Matins or Evensong at St. Marks, which was the Parish Church of Riverside South. He enjoyed the Rector. The Reverend Patrick Amberline had been many things before, late in life, he had come to the church. He was a man who was large in every dimension of body and mind.
    On this particular Sunday evening, having heaved himself up into the pulpit like a circus elephant mounting a tub, he opened the proceedings by saying, “I have some news for you. I am—” he consulted a paper which he had in his hand, “a lecherous beast and a seducer of young girls. In fact, a thoroughly dirty old man.” After a moment of stunned silence, the church rocked with laughter.
    When order had been restored, the Rector said, “It’s really no laughing matter. I propose to pin this remarkable communication on to the notice board in the porch, so that you may see it for yourselves. The bit about my making improper advances to the ladies in the choir, you’ll have to take with a pinch of salt. I’m too fat to make advances, and they’re much too sensible to receive them. However, my object in mentioning this”—he paused and looked round the congregation, “was a serious one. If any of you have received these products of a sick mind, don’t hide them. The answer to corruption is fresh air. Show them to everyone. Above all, show them to the police. And now, to my text—”
    During the sermon Petrella cast an eye over the young ladies of the choir, and wondered which of them the anonymous letter writer had had in mind. Two rather severe ones, with glasses. Two flashy blondes, two or three who were obviously schoolgirls. One red-head, a bit older than the others, and more self-possessed. She looked the most plausible candidate.
    Coming out of church, and noticing the chattering groups which had gathered at the door, he came to the conclusion that Father Amberline had done the preliminary part of the police work more effectively than they could possibly have done it themselves.
    The results started to come into Patton Street Police Station at an early hour on Monday. Petrella left the scholarly Sergeant Ambrose to deal with them and walked round to Mrs. Key’s little terrace house in Smarden Lane.
    He found two people there. He had met Mrs. Oldenshaw before. She was a woman designed by nature to be a companion, being negative in character and accommodating in disposition. The young man with her wore large round spectacles which made him look like an owl. He turned out to be Ronald Blanshard, Mrs. Key’s nephew.
    Petrella said, “I don’t want to bother you with a lot of questions at a time like this, but we’ve got the inquest on Wednesday and there are one or two points we must clear up.”
    The owl-like young man blinked at him and Mrs. Oldenshaw said, “I can’t hardly bring myself to speak of it. She was driven to it, poor soul, that I do know.”
    Petrella said, “That’s what I was wondering about. She didn’t leave any note behind her, but it did occur to me—”
    He let the sentence hang. Mrs. Oldenshaw looked at the young man, who stared sadly back at her.
    “If there was anything,” said Petrella gently, “we must be told.”
    “It was all so beastly,” said Ronald. “I’ve seen some of the letters. The ones she kept. Mrs. Oldenshaw just showed them to me. They accused her”—he seemed to have difficulty in getting the words out, “of killing both her brothers and her husband.”
    Petrella stared at him.
    “They were all killed in action. Her older brother, my uncle Edward, on the Somme in the first war. Her younger brother George – that was my father – he was killed in Germany in 1945.” The young man paused, blinked in a very owl-like way, and added, “I can’t remember him at all. To me, he’s just a photograph and some relics my mother