Mystery #04 — The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters tff-4

by Enid Blyton

  ‘Perhaps whoever comes up on the bus to post the letters each Monday didn’t come today for some reason,’ said Bets.

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Fatty. ‘When we go back on the bus we’ll ask the conductor if he always has his regular passengers each Monday, and see if any didn’t go this morning. We could make inquiries about them too - see if they’ve got any spite against Gladys or Molly or the others, and so on.’

  ‘When’s the next bus back?’ asked Bets. ‘I wish we could stay here for the day, Fatty. You’d love the market. But we haven’t got our lunch with us.’

  ‘We could have it in that little shop over there,’ said Fatty, pointing. ‘Look - it says, ‘Light Lunches.’ That probably means eggs and bread, and butter and cake. How would you like that?’

  ‘Oh, it would be lovely,’ said Bets. ‘You do have good ideas, Fatty. But Mother would be anxious if we didn’t come back.’

  ‘I’ll do a spot of phoning,’ said Fatty, who never minded doing things of that sort. Bets thought how like a grown-up he was, always deciding things, and, what was more, always seeming to have plenty of money to pay for everything!

  Fatty disappeared into the post-office and went into the telephone box. He made three calls very quickly and came out.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I phoned up your mother and Larry’s mother and mine - and they all said, “Good riddance to you for the day!” ’

  ‘They didn’t, Fatty!’ said Bets, who simply couldn’t imagine her mother saying any such thing.

  ‘Well - not exactly those words,’ grinned Fatty. ‘But I could tell they weren’t sorry to be rid of us for the day. I don’t think my mother, for instance, liked that new game of ours very much.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think she did, really,’ said Bets, remembering the yowling and groaning and rolling over and over that went with Fatty’s new game.

  ‘Let’s go and tell the others we can stay here for lunch. Won’t they be thrilled!’

  They were. ‘Good old Fatty!’ said Larry. ‘It’s a treat to be up here on a day like this, among all the farming folk and their creatures. What’s the time? I’m getting jolly hungry.’

  ‘It’s a quarter to one,’ said Fatty. ‘I vote we go and have some lunch now. Come on. It looks a nice little place like a dairy and cake shop mixed.’

  It was a nice little place - shining and spotless, with a plump woman in a vast white apron to serve them and beam at them.

  Yes, she could do two boiled eggs apiece and some plates of bread and butter, and some of her own bottled gooseberries if they liked, with a jug of cream. And she’d made some new buns, would they like some?

  ‘This is just the kind of meal I like,’ said Bets, as the eggs arrived, all brown and smooth and warm. ‘I like it much better than meat. Oh - is that strawberry jam, how lovely!’

  ‘I thought you might like some with the bread and butter, after you’ve had your eggs,’ said the plump woman, smiling at them all. ‘They’re my own growing, the strawberries.’

  ‘I think,’ said Daisy, battering with her spoon at her egg, ‘I think that there can’t be anything nicer than to keep your own hens and ducks, and grow your own fruit and vegetables, and do your own bottling, and pickling, and jamming. When I’m grown-up I’m not going to get a job in an office and write dreary letters, or things like that - I’m going to keep a little house and have my own birds and animals and make all kinds of delicious food like this!’

  ‘In that case,’ said Larry, ‘I shall come and live with you, Daisy - especially if you make jam like this!’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said both Fatty and Pip at once.

  ‘Oh - wouldn’t it be lovely if we could all live together, and have lovely meals like this, and solve mysteries for the rest of our lives!’ said Bets fervently.

  Everybody laughed. Bets always took things they said so seriously.

  ‘Well, I can’t say we’ve made much headway at solving this one!’ said Fatty, beginning his second egg. ‘All right, Buster, old fellow, we’ll get you a meal too when we’ve finished. Be patient!’

  Fatty paid the smiling woman for the meal when they had finished. The others wanted to pay their share, but hadn’t enough money. ‘We’ll take it out of our money-boxes when we get home,’ said Larry. ‘And give it to you, Fatty.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Fatty. ‘Now let’s go and watch them clearing up the market. Then we’d better inquire about our bus.’

  They spent a lovely time watching the market folk packing up their unsold goods, taking away the birds and animals bought and sold, talking, laughing, and clapping one another on the back. Mrs. Jolly was there, talking to her sister, and she called to them.

  ‘Don’t you miss that bus back now! There’s only two more today, and the last one goes too late for you!’

  ‘Golly! We forgot to look up the bus-time,’ said Fatty, and ran to a bus time-table to look. ‘We’ve only got three minutes!’ he said. ‘Come on, we must run for it!’

  They caught the bus with about half a minute to spare. But to Fatty’s deep disappointment the driver and conductor were different. Apparently the morning and afternoon buses were manned by different men.

  ‘Blow!’ said Fatty, sitting down at the front. ‘I call this a real waste of a day!’

  ‘Oh Fatty - how can you say that?’ said Daisy, who had enjoyed every single minute of it. ‘Why, it’s been the nicest day we’ve had these hols!’

  ‘I daresay,’ said Fatty. ‘But if you remember, we came up here to try and get a bit further forward in our Mystery - and all we’ve done is to have a jolly good time, and not find out anything at all. A good day for five children - but a poor day for the Find-Outers - and Dog!’

  ANOTHER OF THOSE LETTERS

  Next day the children felt rather dull after their exciting time at the market. They met in Pip’s playroom, and Fatty seemed rather gloomy.

  ‘I wish we could find out if anyone has had an anonymous letter this Tuesday,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see how we can. Old Clear-Orf is in a much better position than we are - such a thing would probably be reported to him at once!’

  ‘Well - never mind about the letters today,’ said Pip. ‘My mother’s out - so if you want to play that woo-hoo-colly-wobbles game, we can.’

  ‘Won’t Mrs. Moon object?’ asked Fatty.

  ‘I shouldn’t think she’d hear, away down in the kitchen,’ said Pip. ‘Anyway, we don’t need to bother about her!’

  They were just beginning their extremely hilarious game, when a knock came at the playroom door and Mrs. Moon stuck her head in. The children looked at her, expecting a complaint.

  But she hadn’t come to complain. ‘Master Philip, I’ve got to run down to the shops,’ she said. ‘The butcher hasn’t sent me my kidneys this morning. Will you answer the telephone whilst I’m gone, and listen for the milkman?’

  ‘But isn’t Mrs. Cockles here?’ asked Pip. ‘She always comes on Tuesdays, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She does, usually,’ said Mrs. Moon. ‘But she hasn’t turned up yet, so I’m all on me own. I won’t be above ten minutes gone - but I must get my kidneys.’

  She disappeared. The children giggled. ‘I hope the butcher hands her her kidneys all right,’ said Larry. ‘I shouldn’t like to be without mine!’

  ‘Idiot!’ said Daisy. ‘Come on now - we can really let ourselves go, now the house is empty!’

  In the middle of all the hullabaloo, Pip heard a noise. He sat up, trying to push Fatty off him.

  ‘Listen - is that the telephone?’ he asked.

  It was. Goodness knows how long the bell had been ringing! ‘I’ll go, if you like,’ said Fatty, who knew that Pip hated answering the telephone. ‘It’s probably from the butcher to say he’s sending Mrs. Moon’s kidneys!’

  He ran downstairs. He lifted the telephone receiver and spoke into it. ‘Hallo!’

  ‘’Allo!’ said a voice. ‘Can I speak to Mrs. Hilton, please?’

  ‘She’s
out,’ said Fatty.

  ‘Oh. Well, is Mrs. Moon there?’ said the voice. ‘It’s Mrs. Cockles speaking.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Cockles, this is Frederick Trotteville here, answering the phone for Philip Hilton,’ said Fatty. ‘Mrs. Moon has just gone down to - er - fetch her kidneys. Can I give her a message when she comes back?’

  ‘Oh yes, Master Frederick, please,’ said Mrs. Cockles. ‘Tell her, I’m that sorry I can’t come today - but my sister’s upset and I’ve had to go round to her. Tell Mrs. Moon she’s had one of them there letters. She’ll know what I mean.’

  Fatty at once pricked up his ears. ‘One of them there letters!’ That could only mean one thing surely - that the wicked letter-writer had been busy again as usual, and had sent a letter to somebody else - Mrs. Cockles’s sister this time. His brain worked quickly.

  ‘Mrs. Cockles, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ he said in a rather pompous, grown-up tone. ‘Very sorry indeed. So upsetting, those anonymous letters, aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh - you’ve heard about them then,’ said Mrs. Cockles. ‘Yes, right down wicked they are. Upset folks properly they do. And to think as my pore innocent sister should have had one of them. Mrs. Moon will be sorry to hear that - not that she ever had much time for my pore sister, they never did get on, but Mrs. Moon she knows how it upsets people to get one of these here nonnimus letters, and she’ll understand why I’ve got to be with my pore sister this day instead of coming to help as I usually do...’

  This was all said without Mrs. Cockles taking a single breath, and Fatty felt slightly dazed. He felt that if he didn’t interrupt, Mrs. Cockles might quite well go on for another ten minutes.

  ‘Mrs. Cockles, do you think your sister would let me see the letter?’ he asked. ‘I’m - er - very interested in these things - and, as you perhaps know, I am quite good at solving mysteries, and...’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard how you found Lady Candling’s cat for her, and found the real guilty person too,’ said Mrs. Cockles. ‘You come round to my sister’s if you like, and she’ll show you the letter. She lives at 9, Willow Lane. I’ll be there. And give my regrets to Mrs. Moon and say I’ll be along on Thursday for sure.’

  Fatty replaced the receiver and rushed upstairs in the greatest excitement. He burst into the play-room and stood dramatically in the doorway.

  ‘What do you think!’ he said. ‘There’s been another of those beastly letters - sent to Mrs. Cockles’s sister! She got it this morning and is all upset and that’s why Mrs. Cockles didn’t turn up to help Mrs. Moon! And Mrs. Cockles said if I go round to her sister’s, she’ll show me the letter. I simply must find out where it was posted and when.’

  ‘Golly!’ said everyone.

  ‘Let me come too,’ said Pip.

  ‘No. Best for only one of us to go,’ said Fatty. ‘Give Mrs. Moon this message when she comes back, Pip - say that Mrs. Cockles rang up and said she had to go to her sister, who was upset because she’d had a nasty letter. Don’t let on that you know any more than that.’

  ‘Right,’ said Pip. ‘Well, you hop off now, Fatty, before old Goon gets going on the job. He’ll be round at Mrs. Cockles’s sister in no time, as soon as he hears about the letter.’

  Fatty shot off. He knew where Willow Lane was. He found number 9 and went to the little front door. It was a dirty, untidy little place. He rapped on the wooden door.

  ‘Come in!’ called Mrs. Cockles’s voice. ‘Oh, it’s you, Master Frederick. Well, my sister says she won’t show you the letter. She says what’s in it isn’t for anyone to read but me and the police. And I won’t say but what she’s right, now I’ve read the letter properly.’

  Fatty was most bitterly disappointed. ‘Oh, I say!’ he said. ‘You might just let me have a squint. I’ve seen all the others. Go on, be a sport and let me see it.’

  Mrs. Cockles’s sister was a fat, untidy woman, who breathed very loudly through her mouth and talked through her nose.

  ‘’Taint fit for a child to read,’ she said. ‘It’s a right down spiteful letter, and not a word of truth in it, neither!’

  ‘I’m not a child!’ said Fatty, making himself as tall as he could. ‘You can trust me to read the letter and not say a word to anyone. I’m - er - I’m investigating the case, you see.’

  Mrs. Cockles was very much impressed. But she still agreed with her sister that the letter was not one for him to read. Fatty, of course, was not in the least curious about its contents - but he did badly want to see the printing and, of course, the envelope.

  ‘Well - could I just see the envelope!’ he asked. ‘That would do quite well.’

  Neither Mrs. Cockles nor Mrs. Lamb, her sister, could see any reason why he should not see the envelope. They handed it to him. Fatty looked at it eagerly, to make out the post-mark.

  But there was none! There was no stamp, no post-mark! Fatty stared in surprise.

  ‘But - it didn’t come by post!’ he said.

  ‘I never said it did,’ said Mrs. Lamb. ‘It come this morning, very early - about half-past six, I reckon. I heard something being pushed under the door, but I was too sleepy to get up. So I didn’t get it till about half-past eight - and then I was that upset, I sent for Mrs. Cockles here. And you come at once, didn’t you, Kate?’

  ‘Course I did,’ said Mrs. Cockles. ‘Only stopped to have a word with Mr. Goon about it. He’ll be along soon to have a look at the letter too.’

  Fatty felt slightly alarmed. He didn’t want to bump into Clear-Orf at the moment. He stared hard at the envelope once more. The name and address were printed in capital letters again, and the square envelope was the same as the others that had been used. Fatty took his note-book out of his pocket and looked at the page headed CLUES.

  He compared the tracing of the word PETERSWOOD with the same word on the envelope. Yes, there was no doubt at all, but that the same hand wrote both words. They were exactly alike.

  Fatty handed the envelope back to Mrs. Lamb. He had got from it all he wanted. He didn’t want to see the letter inside. He could imagine it - a few sentences of spite and hurtfulness, with perhaps a little truth in them. He had enough to puzzle himself with - here was the usual letter, received on a Tuesday morning - but this time not through the post, and not from Sheepsale. Funny!

  ‘Well, I’ll be going,’ said Fatty. ‘Thanks for showing me the envelope, Mrs. Lamb. I’m so sorry you had one of these beastly letters. I shan’t rest till I find out who is the writer of them.’

  ‘Mr. Goon, he’s on to them too,’ said Mrs. Cockles. ‘Says he’s got a very good idea who it is, too.’

  Fatty doubted that. He was sure that Mr. Goon was as puzzled as he was. He said good-bye and went out of the dirty little room.

  But coming in at the front gate was the burly figure of Mr. Goon! Fatty was annoyed. He tried to get out of the gate before Mr. Goon came in, but the policeman, surprised and exasperated at seeing Fatty there, caught hold of his arm. He pulled the boy inside the cottage.

  ‘Has this boy been interfering with the Workings of the Law?’ he demanded, in an angry voice. ‘What’s he doing here, that’s what I want to know?’

  Mrs. Lamb was afraid of Mr. Goon, but Mrs. Cockles was not.

  ‘He’s not been interfering,’ she said. ‘Only taking a friendly interest like.’

  ‘How did he know that Mrs. Lamb had received one of these here letters?’ inquired Mr. Goon, still in a furious voice.

  ‘Well, I had to ring up Mrs. Moon to tell her as how I wouldn’t be along this morning, because my sister had had a letter,’ said Mrs. Cockles. ‘And Master Frederick, he happened to be there, and he took the message. And he said he knew all about the letters and would like to see this one, and I knew he wasn’t half-bad at snooping out things, so...’

  ‘Mrs. Lamb, you didn’t show this interfering boy that letter before you showed it to me, did you?’ thundered Mr. Goon.

  ‘Well - well, sir - he did say as he’s seen them all,’ stammered poor Mrs. Lamb, frightene
d out of her life. ‘So I thought there wouldn’t be much harm. I only showed him the envelope though, Mr. Goon, sir.’

  Mr. Goon turned his frog-like gaze on to Fatty. ‘What’s that mean - that you’ve seen all the letters?’ he demanded. ‘They’ve been in my possession - never out of it for a minute. What you mean - you’ve seen them all?’

  ‘I must have been dreaming,’ answered Fatty, in an amiable voice. This was the voice that drove poor Mr. Goon to fury. He snorted.

  ‘You’re telling untruths,’ he said. ‘Yes, you know you are. Them letters haven’t been out of my possession, not for one minute!’

  ‘Haven’t they really?’ said Fatty. ‘Well, I couldn’t have seen them then.’

  ‘Unless you know more about them than you make out!’ said Mr. Goon, darkly and mysteriously, suddenly remembering how he had seen Fatty post a letter at Sheepsale the morning before. ‘Ho, you’re a deep one, you are - never know what your game is, I don’t! I wouldn’t put anything past you, Master Frederick Trotteville!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Theophilus Goon,’ said Fatty, and grinned. Mr. Goon longed to box his ears. Then he suddenly remembered that those letters had been out of his possession once - that time when he had apparently dropped them in the road, after colliding with the red-haired telegraph-boy. He stared suspiciously at Fatty.

  ‘That telegraph-boy your friend?’ he asked suddenly. Fatty looked mildly surprised.

  ‘What telegraph-boy?’ he asked.

  ‘That red-haired fellow with the freckles,’ said Mr. Goon.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no red-haired, freckled telegraph-boy for a friend, much as I would like one,’ said Fatty. ‘But why all these questions about a telegraph-boy?’

  Mr. Goon wasn’t going to tell him. But he made a mental note to get hold of that telegraph-boy and ask him a few questions. Perhaps he and Fatty were in league together!