Mystery #04 — The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters

‘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!’