by Enid Blyton
‘Well, I’ll go now,’ said Fatty politely, ‘unless you’ve got any more questions to ask me about telegraph-boys, Mr. Goon? Oh - and would you like another clue? Wait a bit, I’ll see if I’ve got one about me!’
To Mr. Goon’s rage he felt in his pockets and produced a doll’s straw hat. ‘Now was that a clue?’ murmured Fatty, but, seeing Mr. Goon gradually turning a familiar purple, he moved swiftly through the door.
‘If you don’t clear-orf,’ said Mr. Goon, between his teeth, ‘if you don’t clear-orf... I’ll... I’ll...’
But Fatty had cleared-orf. He sprinted back to Pip’s. The mystery of the letters was warming up again!
THREE MORE SUSPECTS
He was soon back in the playroom, relating everything to the others. How they roared when they heard about Mr. Goon coming in and hearing that Fatty had seen all the letters!
‘That must have given him a shock!’ said Pip. ‘He’ll wonder for hours how you’ve seen them. I bet he’ll go about looking for that telegraph-boy now - he knows he’s the one who handed him the letters he was supposed to have dropped.’
‘Well, he’ll be lucky if he finds the telegraph-boy, even if he goes up to the post-office to look for him!’ said Fatty. ‘But I say - now we know why none of the bus passengers posted the letter! It was delivered by hand instead! No wonder we didn’t see anyone popping the letter into Sheepsale post-box!’
‘It must be some one who didn’t catch the bus yesterday for some reason,’ said Daisy thoughtfully. ‘We really must find out if anyone who regularly catches that bus, didn’t take it yesterday. If we can find out the person who didn’t go as usual, we may have discovered who the letter-writer is!’
‘Yes - you’re right, Daisy,’ said Larry. ‘Shall one of us catch the 10.15 bus tomorrow, Fatty, and ask the conductor a few questions?’
‘Perhaps we’d better not,’ said Fatty. ‘He might think it a bit funny, or think us cheeky, or something. I’ve got a better idea than that.’
‘What?’ asked the others.
‘Well, what about going in to see Miss Tremble this morning?’ said Fatty. ‘We know she usually takes the Monday morning bus. We could get from her the names of all the people who always catch it at Peterswood. After all, it starts off by the church, and that’s where she gets in. She must know everyone who takes it on Mondays.’
‘Yes. Let’s go and see her now,’ said Bets. ‘Mrs. Moon is back with her kidneys, Fatty. She wasn’t long. Pip gave her the message, and she said, ‘Well, well, she wasn’t surprised to hear that Mrs. Lamb had got one of those letters, she was the dirtiest, laziest woman in the village!’
‘Well, I must say her cottage was jolly smelly,’ said Fatty. ‘Come on - let’s go in next door. We’ll ask Miss Trimble if she’s seen your cat, Pip.’
‘But Whiskers is here,’ said Pip in surprise, pointing to the big black cat.
‘Yes, idiot. But Miss Trimble’s not to know that,’ said Fatty. ‘We’ve got to have some excuse for going in. She’ll probably be picking flowers in the garden, or taking the dog for an airing. Let’s look over the wall first.’
Their luck was in. Miss Trimble was in the garden, talking to Miss Harmer, who looked after Lady Candling’s valuable Siamese cats for her.
‘Come on. We’ll go up the front drive and round to where she’s talking,’ said Fatty. ‘I’ll lead the conversation round to the bus.’
They set off, and soon found Miss Trimble. Miss Harmer was pleased to see them too. She showed them all the blue-eyed cats.
‘And you really must come and see the daffodils in the orchard,’ said Miss Trimble, setting her glasses firmly on her nose. Bets gazed at them, hoping they would fall off.
They all trooped after her. Fatty walked politely beside her, holding back any tree-branches that might catch at her hair. She thought what a very well-mannered boy he was.
‘I hope you found your mother well on Monday,’ said Fatty.
‘Not so very well,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘She’s got a bad heart, you know, poor old lady. She’s always so glad to see me on Mondays.’
‘And you must quite enjoy Mondays too,’ said Fatty. ‘Such a nice trip up to Sheepsale, isn’t it, and such a fine little market!’
Miss Trimble’s glasses fell off, and dangled on the end of their little gold chain. She put them on again, and smiled at Fatty.
‘Oh yes, I always enjoy my Mondays,’ she said.
‘I expect you know all the people who go in the bus!’ said Daisy, feeling that it was her turn to say something now.
‘Well, I do, unless there are strangers, and we don’t get many of those,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘Mrs. Jolly always goes, of course - such a nice person. And that artist-girl goes too - I don’t know her name - but she’s always so sweet and polite.’
‘Yes, we liked her too,’ said Fatty. ‘Did you see the man I sat by, Miss Trimble? Such a surly fellow.’
‘Yes. I’ve never seen him before,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘The vicar often gets on the bus at Buckle, and I usually have such a nice talk with him. Mr. Goon sometimes goes up on that bus too, to have a word with the policeman in charge of Sheepsale. But I’m always glad when he’s not there, somehow.’
‘I suppose one or two of the regular Monday bus-people weren’t there yesterday, were they?’ said Fatty innocently. ‘I thought the bus would be much more crowded than it was.’
‘Well, let me see now - yes, there are usually more people,’ said Miss Trimble, her glasses falling off again. The children held their breath. Now they would perhaps hear the name of the wicked letter-writer!
‘Anyone we know?’ asked Fatty.
‘Well, I don’t know if you know Miss Tittle, do you?’ said Miss Trimble. ‘She always goes up on a Monday, but she didn’t yesterday. She’s a dressmaker, you know, and goes up to Sheepsale House to sew all day Mondays.’
‘Really?’ said Fatty. ‘Is she a special friend of yours, Miss Trimble?’
‘Well, no,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘I can’t say she is. She’s like a lot of dressmakers, you know - full of gossip and scandal - a bit spiteful, and I don’t like that. It’s not Christian, I say. She pulls people to pieces too much for my liking. Knows a bit too much about everybody!’
The children immediately felt absolutely certain that Miss Tittle was the writer of those spiteful letters. She sounded exactly like them!
‘Aren’t the daffodils simply lovely?’ said Miss Trimble, as they came to the orchard.
‘Glorious!’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s sit down and enjoy them.’
They all sat down. Miss Trimble looked anxiously at the children and went rather red. ‘I don’t think I should have said that about Miss Tittle,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking. She sometimes comes here to sew for Lady Candling, you know, and I do find it very difficult not to be drawn into gossip with her - she asks me such questions! She’s coming here this week, I believe, to make up the new summer curtains - and I’m not looking forward to it. I can’t bear all this nasty spitefulness.’
‘No, I should think not,’ said Bets, taking her turn at making a remark. ‘You’re not a bit like that.’
Miss Trimble was so pleased with this remark of Bets that she smiled, wrinkled her nose, and her glasses fell off.
‘That’s three times,’ said Bets. Miss Trimble put back her glasses and did not look quite so pleased. She couldn’t bear Bets to count like that.
‘We’d better be going,’ said Fatty. Then a thought struck him. ‘I suppose there aren’t any other Monday regulars on that bus, Miss Tremble - Trimble, I mean!’
‘You seem very interested in that bus!’ said Miss Trimble. ‘Well, let me think. There’s always old Nosey, of course. I don’t know why he didn’t go yesterday. He always goes up to the market.’
‘Old Nosey? Whoever is he?’ asked Fatty.
‘Oh, he’s the old fellow who lives with his wife in the caravan at the end of Rectory Field,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘Maybe you’ve never seen him.’
>
‘Oh yes, I have! Now I remember!’ said Fatty. ‘He’s a little stooping fellow, with a hooked nose and a droopy little moustache, who goes about muttering to himself.
‘He’s called Nosey because he’s so curious about everyone,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘The things he wants to know! How old my mother is - and how old I am too - and what Lady Candling does with her old clothes - and how much the gardener gets in wages. I don’t wonder people call him Old Nosey.’
Fatty looked round at the others. It sounded as if old Nosey, too, might be the letter-writer. He might be a bit daft and write the letters in a sort of spiteful fun. Fatty remembered a boy at his school who had loved to find out the weak spots in the others, and tease them about them. It was quite likely that Old Nosey was the letter-writer!
‘And then, of course, there’s always Mrs. Moon, your cook, Pip,’ said Miss Trimble, rather surprisingly. ‘She always has Mondays off to go and see to her old mother, just like me - and I usually see her every single Monday. But I didn’t see her yesterday.’
‘Well, you see, our housemaid, Gladys, has gone away for a few days,’ explained Pip. ‘And so I suppose Mother couldn’t let Mrs. Moon off for the day. Yes - now I think of it - Mrs. Moon does go off on Mondays.’
‘Any one else a regular passenger on the bus?’ asked Larry.
‘No, nobody,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘You do seem interested in that bus. But I’m sure you didn’t come in here to ask me about that Monday morning bus, now did you? What did you come to ask?’
The children had forgotten what reason they were going to give! Bets remembered just in time.
‘Oh - we were going to ask if you’d seen our cat!’ she said.
‘So that’s what you came in for!’ said Miss Trimble. ‘No - I’m afraid I haven’t seen your cat. It’s that big black one, isn’t it? I shouldn’t think you need to worry about him! He can look after himself all right.’
‘I’ve no doubt he’s indoors sitting by the fire this very minute,’ said Pip, quite truthfully. ‘Well, we must go, Miss Tremble.’
‘Trimble, dear boy, not Tremble,’ said Miss Trimble, her glasses falling off again. ‘I simply cannot imagine why you keep making that mistake. Any one would think I was like an aspen leaf, all of a tremble!’
The children laughed politely at this small joke, said good-bye and went. They said nothing at all till they were safely in Pip’s playroom with the door shut. Then they looked at one another in excitement.
‘Well! Three more really fine Suspects!’ said Fatty, opening his notebook. ‘Would you believe it? I think there’s no doubt that one of them is the letter-writer.’
‘Not Mrs. Moon,’ said Bets. ‘She was so kind to Gladys. Gladys said so. She couldn’t be mean to her and kind to her as well.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Fatty. ‘But all the same she’s going down on our list. Now then - Miss Tittle-Tattle.’
The others laughed. ‘Miss Tittle, not Tittle-Tattle!’ said Pip.
‘I know, idiot,’ said Fatty. ‘But I think Tittle-Tattle suits her jolly well. Miss Tittle - old Nosey - and Mrs. Moon. We’re getting on. Now we’ll have plenty more inquiries to make.’
‘What inquiries?’ asked Pip.
‘Well - we must try and find out if Old Nosey, Miss Tittle, and Mrs. Moon were out early this morning,’ said Fatty. ‘That letter was pushed under Mrs. Lamb’s door at about half-past six. It was only just getting light then. If we can find out that any of those three were out early, we’ve got the right one!’
‘However are you going to find that out?’ said Larry. ‘I shouldn’t have thought even you were clever enough for that, Fatty!’
‘Well, I am!’ said Fatty. ‘And what’s more I’ll go and do it now - and come back and tell you all about it in an hour’s time!’
FATTY MAKES A FEW INQUIRIES
Fatty went off, whistling. The others watched him from the window. ‘I suppose he’s going to interview Old Nosey, Miss Tittle, and Mrs. Moon!’ said Pip. ‘He’s a wonder! Never turns a hair, no matter what he’s got to do.’
‘All the same, he won’t find Mrs. Moon an easy one to interview,’ said Larry. ‘She doesn’t seem to me to be in a very good temper today - because Mrs. Cockles hasn’t turned up, I suppose.’
An hour went by. It was a quarter to one. The children went to the window and watched for Fatty. He came cycling up the drive - but dear me, how different he looked! He had put on his red wig again, but with black eyebrows this time, and had reddened his face till it looked weather-beaten. He wore a dirty old suit and a butcher-boy apron round his waist!
But the children knew it was Fatty all right, by his whistle! He stopped under their window.
‘Anyone about?’ he said. ‘Shall I come up?’
‘It’s safe,’ said Pip, leaning out of the window. ‘Mrs. Moon’s in the back-yard.’
Fatty came up, looking a real, proper butcher-boy. It was amazing how he could alter even his expression when he was supposed to be somebody else. He took off his apron and wig, and looked a bit better.
‘Well - what have you found out?’ said Larry eagerly. ‘And why ever are you dressed like that?’
‘I’ve found out a lot,’ said Fatty. ‘But don’t know that I’m any further forward really! I’ll tell you everything. I’m dressed like this because it’s natural for a butcher-boy to hang about and gossip.’
He opened his notebook, and turned to the pages headed ‘SUSPECTS.’
‘Old Nosey,’ he began. ‘Old Nosey was up and about before half-past six this morning, with his dog, Lurcher. He left his caravan and went down Willow Lane, and into the village. He was back at eight o’clock.’
He turned over another page.
‘Miss Tittle,’ he said, ‘Miss Tittle was about with her dog at half-past six, as she is every single morning. She lives in a turning off Willow Street. She always wears an old red shawl in the mornings.’
‘Mrs. Moon,’ went on Fatty, turning over a page again. ‘Mrs. Moon was out this morning early, and was seen talking to Old Nosey. Well, there you are, Find-Outers. What do you make of that? Every one of our three Suspects could have popped that letter under the door!’
‘But, Fatty - however did you find out all this?’ said Bets, in great admiration. ‘You really are a most marvellous Find-Outer.’
‘Elementary, my dear Bets!’ said Fatty, putting his notebook down. ‘You know the field opposite Willow Lane? Well, old Dick the shepherd lives there in a little hut. I noticed him this morning. So all I had to do was to go and engage him in conversation, and ask him a few innocent questions - and out it all came! Old Dick was wide awake at five o’clock - always is - and he takes a great interest in the people that pass up and down by his field. They’re about all he has to see, except his sheep. He says Nosey’s always up and about at unearthly hours - a poacher most likely. He’s a gypsy anyway. And apparently Miss Tittle always takes her dog for a trot early in the morning. So there’s nothing unusual about that. He says he saw Mrs. Moon quite distinctly, and heard her voice too, talking to Old Nosey.’
‘I’m sure it’s Mrs. Moon!’ said Larry. ‘She never goes out so early, surely. I’ve heard your mother say she gets up too late, Pip.’
‘Sh! Here she comes, to say our lunch is ready,’ said Pip warningly. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Moon.
She put her head in at the door. ‘Will you come now, Master Philip?’ she said, ‘I’ve put your lunch and Miss Bets’ in the dining-room.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Moon,’ said Pip. Then, on a sudden impulse, he called out.
‘I say, Mrs. Moon - isn’t it queer, the old shepherd told Fatty that he saw you out at half-past six this morning! He must be dreaming, mustn’t he!’
There was a sudden pause. Mrs. Moon looked startled and surprised.
‘Well there now,’ she said at last. ‘Who would have thought anyone’d be peeping out at that time of day. Yes, it’s quite right. I was out early this morning. You see, I usually go up to see my
old mother at Sheepsale on a Monday, and I couldn’t let her know in time that I wasn’t coming yesterday. I knew she’d be worrying, and I remembered that Old Nosey, the gypsy fellow, might be going up today, so I got out early and gave him a note for my mother, and a packet of food in case she hasn’t been able to get someone to buy any for her. He’d be taking the 10.15 bus.’
‘Oh,’ said the children, really quite relieved at this explanation.
‘So that’s it!’ said Pip, without thinking.
‘That’s what?’ asked Mrs. Moon sharply.
‘Nothing,’ said Pip hastily, feeling a nudge from Fatty. ‘Nothing at all!’
Mrs. Moon looked at the children curiously. Fatty got up. He didn’t want to make Mrs. Moon suspicious about anything.
‘Time I went,’ he said. ‘Your lunch will get cold, Pip and Bets, if you don’t go and have it. See you later.’
‘Here’s your notebook, Fatty!’ Bets called after him, as he went downstairs. ‘Your precious notebook with all its Clues and Suspects! Fatty, are you going to write up the case again? You’ve got some more to put down now, haven’t you?’
‘Chuck the book down to me,’ said Fatty. ‘Yes, I’ll write up the case as far as it’s gone. I bet old Goon would like to see my notes!’
He went out of the garden-door with Larry and Daisy. Fatty did not put on his wig or apron again. He stuffed them into his bicycle basket.
‘Good thing I’d taken them off before Mrs. Moon came in,’ he said. ‘She’d have wondered why you were hobnobbing with the butcher-boy!’
‘Fatty, who do you think is the letter-writer?’ said Daisy, who was burning with curiosity. ‘I think it’s Mrs. Moon. I do really.’
‘I do too,’ said Larry. ‘But I don’t see how we are to get any proof.’
‘Yes, it certainly might be Mrs. Moon,’ said Fatty thoughtfully. ‘You remember that Pip told us she wanted her niece to come here? She might have got Gladys out of the way for that. And yet - there are all the other letters too. Whoever wrote them must be a bit mad, I think.’