Mystery of the Spiteful Letters (8 page)

‘Here comes the bus,’ said Bets in excitement. ‘And look - there are quite a lot of people in it!’

‘Five!’ said Larry. ‘One for each of us. Oh gosh! One of them is old Clear-Orf!’

‘Blow!’ said Fatty. ‘So it is. Now whatever is he doing on the bus this morning? Has he got the same idea as we have, I wonder? If so, he’s brainier than I thought. Daisy, you sit by him. He’ll have a blue fit if I do and I know Buster will try to nibble his ankles all the time.’

Daisy was not at all anxious to sit by Mr. Goon, but there was no time to argue. The bus stopped. The five children and Buster got in. Buster gave a yelp of joy when he smelt the policeman. Mr. Goon looked round in astonishment and annoyance.

‘Gah!’ he said, in tones of deep disgust. ‘You again! Now, what you doing on this bus today? Everywhere I go there’s you children traipsing along!’

‘We’re going to Sheepsale market, Mr. Goon,’ said Daisy politely, sitting beside him. ‘I hope you don’t mind. Are you going there too?’

‘That’s my business,’ said Mr. Goon, keeping a watchful eye on Buster, who was trying to reach his ankles, straining at his lead. ‘What the Law does is no concern of yours.’

Daisy wondered for a wild moment if Mr. Goon could possibly be the anonymous letter-writer. After all, he knew the histories of everyone in the village. It was his business to. Then she knew it was a mad idea. But what a nuisance if Mr. Goon was on the same track as they were - sizing up the people in the bus, and going to watch for the one who posted the letter to catch the 11.45 post.

Daisy glanced round at the other people in the bus. A Find-Outer was by each. Daisy knew two of the people there. One was Miss Trimble who was companion to Lady Candling, Pip’s next-door neighbour. Larry was sitting by her. Daisy felt certain Miss Trimble - or Tremble as the children called her, could have nothing to do with the case. She was far too timid and nervous.

Then there was fat little Mrs. Jolly from the sweet-shop, kindness itself. No, it couldn’t possibly be her! Why, every one loved her, and she was exactly like her name. She was kind and generous to everyone, and she nodded and smiled at Daisy as she caught her eye. Daisy was certain that before the trip was ended she would be handing sweets out to all the children!

Well, that was three out of the five passengers! That only left two possible ones. One was a thin, dark, sour-faced man, huddled up over a newspaper, with a pasty complexion, and a curious habit of twitching his nose like a rabbit every now and again.

This fascinated Bets, who kept watching him. The other possible person was a young girl about eighteen, carrying sketching things. She had a sweet, open face, and very pretty curly hair. Daisy felt absolutely certain that she knew nothing whatever about the letters.

‘It must be that sour-faced man with the twitching nose,’ said Daisy to herself. She had nothing much to do because it was no use tackling Mr. Goon and talking to him. It was plain that he could not be the writer of the letters. So she watched the others getting to work, and listened with much interest, though the rattling of the bus made her miss a little of the conversation.

‘Good morning, Miss Trimble,’ Daisy heard Larry say politely. ‘I haven’t seen you for some time. Are you going to the market too? We thought we’d like to go today.’

‘Oh, it’s a pretty sight,’ said Miss Trimble, setting her glasses firmly on her nose. They were always falling off, for they were pince-nez, with no side-pieces to hold them behind her ears. Bets loved to count how many times they fell off. What with watching the man with the twitching nose and Miss Trimble’s glasses, Bets quite forgot to talk to Mrs. Jolly, who was taking up most of the seat she and Bets was sitting on.

‘Have you often been to Sheepsale market?’ asked Larry.

‘No, not very often,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘How is your dear mother, Laurence?’

‘She’s quite well,’ said Larry. ‘Er - how is your mother, Miss Tremble? I remember seeing her once next door.’

‘Ah, my dear mother isn’t too well,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘And if you don’t mind, Laurence dear, my name is Trimble, not Tremble. I think I have told you that before.’

‘Sorry. I keep forgetting,’ said Larry. ‘Er - does your mother live at Sheepsale, Miss Trem - er Trimble? Do you often go and see her?’

‘She lives just outside Sheepsale,’ said Miss Trimble, pleased at Larry’s interest in her mother. ‘Dear Lady Candling lets me go every Monday to see her, you know - such a help. I do all the old lady’s shopping for the week then.’

‘Do you always catch this bus?’ asked Larry, wondering if by any conceivable chance Miss Trimble could be the wicked letter-writer.

‘If I can,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘The next one is not till after lunch you know.’

Larry turned and winked at Fatty. He didn’t think that Miss Trimble was the guilty person, but at any rate she must be put down as a suspect. But her next words made him change his mind completely.

‘It was such a nuisance,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘I lost the bus last week, and wasted half my day!’

Well! That put Miss Trimble right out of the question, because certainly the letter-writer had posted the letter to poor Gladys the Monday before - and if Miss Trimble had missed the bus, she couldn’t have been in Sheepsale at the right time for posting!

Larry decided that he couldn’t get any more out of Miss Trimble that would be any use and looked out of the window. Bets seemed to be getting on well with Mrs. Jolly now. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he could see that she was busy chattering.

Bets was getting on like a house on fire! Mrs. Jolly greeted her warmly and asked after her mother and father, and how the garden was, and had they still got that kitchen cat that was such a good hunter. And Bets answered all her questions, keeping an interested eye on Miss Trimble’s glasses, which had already fallen off twice, and on the sour-faced man’s twitching nose.

It was not until she saw how earnestly Fatty was trying to make the sour-faced man talk to him that she suddenly realized that she too ought to find out a few things from Mrs. Jolly. Whether, for instance, she always caught this bus!

‘Are you going to the market, Mrs. Jolly?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that I am!’ said Mrs. Jolly. ‘I always buy my butter and eggs from my sister there. You should go to her stall too, Miss Bets, and tell her you know me. She’ll give you over-weight in butter then and maybe a brown egg for yourself!’

‘She sounds awfully kind - just like you’ said Bets.

Mrs. Jolly was pleased and laughed her hearty laugh. ‘Oh, you’ve got a soft tongue, haven’t you?’ she said. Bets was surprised. She thought all tongues must surely be soft.

She looked at Mrs. Jolly, and decided not to ask her any more questions about going to Sheepsale every Monday because nobody, nobody with such kind eyes, such a lovely smile, such a nice apple-cheeked face could possibly write an unkind letter! Bets felt absolutely certain of it. Mrs. Jolly began to fumble in her bag.

‘Now where did I put those humbugs?’ she said. ‘Ah, here they are? Do you like humbugs, Miss Bets? Well, you help yourself, and we’ll pass them over to the others as well.’

Pip was sitting by the young girl. He found it easy to talk to her.

‘What are you going to paint?’ he asked.

‘I’m painting Sheepsale market,’ she answered. ‘I go every Monday. It’s such a jolly market - small and friendly and very picturesque, set on the top of the hill, with that lovely country all round. I love it.’

‘Do you always catch the same bus?’ asked Pip.

‘I have to,’ she said. ‘The market’s in the morning, you know. I know it by heart now - where the hens and ducks are, and the sheep, and the butter-stalls and the eggs and everything!’

‘I bet you don’t know where the post-office is!’ said Pip quickly.

The girl laughed and thought. ‘Well, no, I don’t!’ she said. ‘I’ve never had to go there and so I’ve never noticed. But if you want it, any one would tell you. There can’t be much of a post-office at Sheepsale, though. It’s only a small place. Just a market really.’

Pip felt pleased. If this girl didn’t know where the post-office was, she could never have posted a letter there. Good. That ruled her out. Pip felt very clever. Anyway, he was certain that such a nice girl wouldn’t write horrid letters.

He looked round at the others, feeling that his task was done. He felt sorry for Daisy, sitting next to the surly Mr. Goon. He wondered how Fatty was getting on.

He wasn’t getting on at all well! Poor Fatty - he had chosen a very difficult passenger to talk to.

A PUZZLING THING

The sour-faced man appeared to be very deep indeed in his paper, which seemed to Fatty to be all about horses and dogs.

Buster sniffed at the man’s ankles and didn’t seem to like the smell of them at all. He gave a disgusted snort and strained away towards where Mr. Goon sat, a few seats in front.

‘Er - I hope my dog doesn’t worry you, sir,’ said Fatty.

The man took no notice. ‘Must be deaf,’ thought Fatty and raised his voice considerably. ‘I hope my DOG doesn’t WORRY you, sir,’ he said. The man looked up and scowled.

‘Don’t shout at me. I’m not deaf,’ he said. Fatty didn’t like to ask again if Buster worried him. He cast about for something interesting to say.

‘Er - horses and dogs are very interesting, aren’t they?’ he said. The man took no notice. Fatty debated whether to raise his voice or not. He decided not.

‘I said, horses and dogs are very interesting, aren’t they?’ he repeated.

‘Depends,’ said the man, and went on reading. That wasn’t much help in a conversation, Fatty thought gloomily. The others were jolly lucky to have got such easy people to tackle. But still - of all the passengers in the bus, this man looked by far the most likely to be the letter-writer - sour-faced, scowling, cruel-mouthed! Fatty racked his brains and tried again.

‘Er - could you tell me the time?’ he said, rather feebly. There was no reply. This was getting boring! Fatty couldn’t help feeling annoyed too. There was no need to be so rude, he thought!

‘Could you tell me the time?’ he repeated.

‘I could, but I’m not going to, seeing that you’ve got a wrist-watch yourself,’ said the man. Fatty could have kicked himself.

‘You’re not being much of a detective this morning!’ he told himself. ‘Buck up, Frederick Algernon Trotteville, and look sharp about it!’

‘Oh - look at that aeroplane!’ said Fatty, seeing a plane swoop down rather low. ‘Do you know what it is, sir?’

‘Flying Fortress,’ said the man, without even looking up. As the aeroplane had only two engines and not four, this was quite wrong and Fatty knew it. He looked at his fellow passenger in despair. How could he ever get anything out of him?

‘I’m going to Sheepsale market,’ he said. ‘Are you, sir?’

There was no answer. Fatty wished Buster would bite the man’s ankles. ‘Do you know if this is Buckle Village we’re passing?’ asked Fatty, as they passed through a pretty little village. The man put down his paper and glared at Fatty angrily.

‘I’m a stranger here,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about Buckle or Sheepsale or its market! I’m just going there to be picked up by my brother, to go on somewhere else - and all I can say is that the further I get away from chatterboxes like you, the better I shall like it!’

As this was all said very loudly, most of the people in the bus heard it. Mr. Goon chuckled heartily.

‘Ah, I’ve had some of him too!’ he called. ‘Proper pest, I reckon he is.’

‘Go and sit somewhere else and take your smelly dog with you,’ said the sour-faced man, pleased to find that somebody else agreed with his opinion of poor Fatty.

So Fatty, red in the face, and certain that he would not be able to get anything more out of the annoyed man, got up and went right to the front of the bus, where nobody was sitting. Bets was sorry for him and she left Mrs. Jolly and joined him. Larry, Pip and Daisy came across too, and they talked together in low voices.

‘I can’t see that it can be any one here,’ said Fatty, when he had heard all that the others had to say. ‘It’s obviously not old Clear-Orf - and we can rule out Miss Tremble and Mrs. Jolly surely. And I agree with Pip that the artist girl isn’t very likely either, especially as she doesn’t even know where the post-office is. And my man said he was a stranger here, so it doesn’t look as if he could be the one. A stranger wouldn’t know any of the Peterswood people.’

‘Does he come on this bus every Monday?’ asked Pip, in a low voice.

‘I didn’t get as far as asking him that,’ said Fatty gloomily. ‘Either he wouldn’t answer, or he just snapped. He was hopeless. It doesn’t look really as if any of the people here could have posted those letters.’

‘Look - there’s somebody waiting at the next bus-stop!’ said Bets suddenly. ‘At least - it isn’t a bus-stop - it’s just somebody waving to the bus to stop it for himself. That must be the person we want, if there’s nobody else.’

‘Perhaps it is,’ said Fatty hopefully, and they all waited to see who came in.

But it was the vicar of Buckle! The children knew him quite well because he sometimes came to talk to them in their own church at Peterswood. He was a jolly, burly man and they liked him.

‘Can’t be him!’ said Fatty, disappointed. ‘Can’t possibly. Blow! We’re not a bit further on.’

‘Never mind - perhaps one of them will post a letter when they get out of the bus,’ said Pip. ‘We’ll hope for that. Maybe your sour-faced man will, Fatty. He looks the most likely of the lot. He may be telling lies when he says he is a stranger.’

The vicar talked to every one in the bus in his cheerful booming voice. The thin huddled man took no notice, and as the Vicar did not greet him, the children felt sure that he did not know him. So perhaps he was a stranger after all?

‘Soon be at Sheepsale now,’ said Fatty. ‘Golly, isn’t this a steep pull-up? They say it wanted eight horses to pull the coach up in the old days before motor-buses.’

The bus stopped under some big trees in Sheepsale. A babel of baaing, mooing, clucking and quacking came to every one’s ears. The market was in full swing!

‘Quick - hop out first!’ said Fatty to the others. ‘Stand by the post-office - and keep a close watch.’