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 Blacklog, 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 Blacklog, 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.
Craddock thought how incongruous it looked with her tweed coat and skirt.
She said again: "Take the letters."
It was the following afternoon that the Inspector called at the Vicarage.
It was a dark, gusty day...
Miss Marple had her chair pulled close to the fire and was knitting.
Bunch was on hands and knees, crawling about the floor, cutting out material to a pattern.
She sat back and pushed a mop of hair out of her eyes, looking up expectantly at Craddock.
"I don't know if it's a breach of confidence," said the Inspector, addressing himself to Miss Marple, "but I'd like you to look at this letter."
He explained the circumstances of his discovery in the attic.
"It's rather a touching collection of letters," he said. "Miss Blacklog poured out everything in the hopes of sustaining her sister's interest in life and keeping her health good.
There's a very clear picture of an old father in the background - old Dr. Blacklog.
A real old pig-headed bully, absolutely set in his ways, and convinced that everything he thought and said was right.
Probably killed thousands of patients through obstinacy.
He wouldn't stand for any new ideas or methods."
"I don't really know that I blame him there," said Miss Marple.
"I always feel that the young doctors are only too anxious to experiment.
After they've whipped out all our teeth, and administered quantities of very peculiar glands, and removed bits of our insides, they then confess that nothing can be done for us.