‘Did you tell Mr. Goon that?’ asked Fatty.
‘Oh yes,’ said Gladys. ‘And he went to see Molly straightaway. He says he’ll soon get to the bottom of it, and find out the mischief-maker. But it seems to me that the mischief is done now. I’ll never be able to face people in Peterswood again. I’ll always be afraid they know about me.’
‘Gladys, where is that letter?’ said Fatty. ‘Will you show it to me? It might be a most important clue.’
Gladys rummaged in her bag. Then she looked up. ‘No good me looking for it!’ she said. ‘I’ve given it to Mr. Goon, of course! He came to fetch it this morning. He’s got Molly’s letter too. He reckons he’ll be able to tell quite a lot from the writing and all!’
‘Blow!’ said Fatty, in deep disappointment. ‘There’s our one and only clue gone!’
THE FIRST REAL CLUE
The children sat and talked to Gladys for a little while longer. They were so disappointed about the letter being given to Mr. Goon that she felt quite sorry for them.
‘I’ll get it back from him, and Molly’s letter too,’ she promised. ‘And I’ll show you them both. I’ll be going down to see Molly this evening, when it’s dark and no one will see me - and I’ll pop into Mr. Goon’s, say I want to borrow the letters, and I’ll lend them to you for a little while.’
‘Oh thanks!’ said Fatty, cheering up. ‘That’ll be splendid. Well, now we’d better be going. We’ve got our lunch with us and it’s getting a bit late-ish. You haven’t put that dinner on yet, Gladys, either!’
‘Oh lawks, nor I have!’ said Gladys, and began to look very flustered. ‘I’ve been that upset I can’t think of a thing!’
‘You’ll be passing my door on your way to Molly’s tonight,’ said Fatty. ‘Could you pop the letters in at my letter-box, and call for them on your way back?’
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ said Gladys. ‘Thank you for all your kindness. You’ve made me feel better already.’
The children went off. ‘A nice girl, but not very bright,’ said Fatty, as they cycled away. ‘What a mean trick to play on her - trying to make her lose her job and get all upset like that! I wonder who in the world it is? I bet it’s someone who knows the Home Gladys went to, and has heard about her there. My goodness, I’m hungry!’
‘We’ve had quite an exciting morning,’ said Larry. ‘It’s a pity we couldn’t see that letter though.’
‘Never mind - we’ll see it this evening - if old Clear-Orf will let Gladys have it!’ said Fatty. ‘Which I very much doubt. He’ll suspect she’s going to show it to us!’
‘We’ll all come round to you after tea,’ said Larry. ‘And we’ll wait for the letters to come. I think you’d better wait about by the front gate, Fatty - just in case somebody else takes them out of the letter-box instead of you.’
So, when it was dark, Fatty skulked about by the front gate, scaring his mother considerably when she came home from an outing.
‘Good gracious, Fatty! Must you hide in the shadows there?’ she said. ‘You gave me an awful fright. Go in at once.’
‘Sorry, Mother,’ said Fatty, and went meekly in at the front door with his mother - and straight out of the garden door, back to the front gate at once! Just in time too, for a shadowy figure leaned over the gate and said breathlessly: ‘Is that Master Frederick? Here’s the letters. Mr. Goon was out, so I went in and waited. He didn’t come, so I took them, and here they are.’
Gladys pushed a packet into Fatty’s hands and hurried off. Fatty gave a low whistle. Gladys hadn’t waited for permission to take the letters! She had reckoned they were hers and Molly’s and had just taken them. What would Mr. Goon say to that? He wouldn’t be at all pleased with Gladys - especially when he knew she had handed them to him, Fatty! Fatty knew perfectly well that Mr. Goon would get it all out of poor Gladys.
He slipped indoors and told the others what had happened. ‘I think I’d better try and put the letters back without old Clear-Orf knowing they’ve gone,’ he said. ‘If I don’t, Gladys will get into trouble. But first of all, we’ll examine them!’
‘I suppose it’s all right to?’ said Larry doubtfully.
‘Well - I don’t see that it matters, seeing that Gladys has given us her permission,’ said Fatty. He looked at the little package.
‘Golly!’ he said. ‘There are more than two letters here! Look - here’s a post-card - an anonymous one to Mr. Lucas, Gardener, Acacia Lodge, Peterswood - and do you know what it says?’
‘What?’ cried everyone.
‘Why, it says: “WHO LOST HIS JOB THROUGH SELLING HIS MASTER’S FRUIT?” ’ said Fatty, in disgust. ‘Gracious! Fancy sending a card with that on - to poor old Lucas too, who must be over seventy!’
‘So other people have had these beastly things as well as Gladys and Molly!’ said Larry. ‘Let’s squint at the writing, Fatty.’
‘It’s all the same,’ said Fatty. ‘All done in capital letters, look - and all to people in Peterswood. There are five of them - four letters and a card. How disgusting!’
Larry was examining the envelopes. They were all the same, square and white, and the paper used was cheap. ‘Look,’ said Larry, ‘they’ve all been sent froin Sheepsale - that little market-town we’ve sometimes been to. Does that mean it’s somebody who lives there?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Fatty. ‘No, I reckon it’s somebody who lives in Peterswood all right, because only a Peterswood person would know the people written to. What exactly does the post-mark say?’
‘It says, “Sheepsale, 11.45 a.m. April 3rd,” ’ said Daisy.
‘That was Monday,’ said Fatty. ‘What do the other post-marks say?’
‘They’re all different dates,’ said Daisy. ‘All of them except Gladys’s one are posted in March - but all from Sheepsale.’
Fatty made a note of the dates and then took a small pocket calendar out. He looked up the dates and whistled.
‘Here’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘They’re all a Monday! See - that one’s a Monday - and so is that - and that - and that. Whoever posted them must have written them on the Sunday, and posted them on Monday. Now - if the person lives in Peterswood, how can he get to Sheepsale to post them in time for the morning post on a Monday? There’s no railway to Sheepsale. Only a bus that doesn’t go very often.’
‘It’s market-day on Mondays at Sheepsale,’ said Pip, remembering. ‘There’s an early bus that goes then, to catch the market. Wait a bit - we can look it up. Where’s a bus time-table?’
As usual, Fatty had one in his pocket. He looked up the Sheepsale bus.
‘Yes - here we are,’ he said. ‘There’s a bus that goes to Sheepsale from Peterswood each Monday - at a quarter-past ten - reaching there at one minute past eleven. There you are - I bet our letter-writing friend leaves Peterswood with a nasty letter in his pocket, catches the bus, gets out at Sheepsale, posts the letter - and then gets on with whatever business he has to do there!’
It all sounded extremely likely, but somehow Larry thought it was too likely. ‘Couldn’t the person go on a bike?’ he said.
‘Well - he could - but think of that awful hill up to Sheepsale,’ said Fatty. ‘Nobody in their senses would bike there when a bus goes.’
‘No - I suppose not,’ said Larry. ‘Well - I don’t see that all this gets us much farther, Fatty. All we’ve found out is that more people than Gladys and Molly have had these letters - and that they all come from Sheepsale and are posted at or before 11.45 - and that possibly the letter-writer may catch the 10.15 bus from Peterswood.’
‘All we’ve found out!’ said Fatty. ‘Gosh, I think we’ve discovered an enormous lot. Don’t you realize that we’re really on the track now - the track of this beastly letter-writer. Why, if we want to, we can go and see him - or her - on Monday morning!’