"Oh, yes, we'll get to the bottom of it all right.
It's a question of time and routine.
They're slow, these cases, but they're pretty sure.
It's a matter of narrowing things down."
"Elimination?" I said.
"Yes.
And general routine."
"Watching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?"
He smiled.
"As you say."
At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there.
I was introduced to a tall, lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, Inspector Graves.
"Inspector Graves," explained Nash, "has come down from London to help us.
He's an expert on anonymous letter cases."
Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in the pursuit of anonymous letter writers must be singularly depressing.
Inspector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.
"They're all the same, these cases," he said in a deep lugubrious voice like a depressed bloodhound.
"You'd be 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.