Читать книгу The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters - Enid blyton - Страница 7

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Fatty rode off on his bicycle, Buster in the basket. He came to Mr. Goon’s house, and went to knock at the door. It was opened by Mrs. Cockles, who cleaned for Mr. Goon, and for the Hiltons as well. She knew Fatty and liked him.

“Is Mr. Goon in?” asked Fatty. “Oh good. I’ll come in and see him then. I’ve got some property to return to him.”

He sat down in the small, hot parlour. Mrs. Cockles went to fetch the policeman. He was mending a puncture in his bicycle, out in his backyard. He put his coat on and came to see who wanted him.

His eyes nearly fell out of his head when he saw Fatty.

“Lawks!” he said. “I thought you was in foreign parts!”

“Oh—I solved that little mystery out there,” said Fatty. “Didn’t take me long! Just a matter of an emerald necklace or so. Pity you didn’t come out with me to Tippylooloo, Mr. Goon. You’d have enjoyed eating rice with chopsticks.”

Mr. Goon was sure he would have enjoyed no such thing. “Pity you didn’t stay away longer,” he grumbled. “Where you are, there’s trouble. I know that by now. What you want this morning?”

“Well—er—Mr. Goon, you remember that little matter you went to see Mr. and Mrs. Hilton about yesterday?” said Fatty, pretending to know a great deal more than he actually did. Mr. Goon looked surprised.

“Now look-ere,” he said. “Who’s been telling you about that? You wasn’t to know anything, any of you, see?”

“You can’t keep things like that secret,” said Fatty.

“Things like what?” asked Mr. Goon, pretending he didn’t know what Fatty was talking about.

“Well—things like you-know-what,” said Fatty, going all mysterious. “I know you’re going to set to work on that little matter, Mr. Goon, and I wish you luck. I hope, for poor Gladys’s sake, you’ll soon get to the bottom of the matter.”

This was quite a shot in the dark, but it seemed to surprise Mr. Goon very much. He blinked at Fatty out of his bulging frog-eyes.

“Who told you about that there letter?” he suddenly said.

“Oho,” thought Fatty, “so it’s something to do with a letter!” He spoke aloud.

“Ah, I have ways and means of finding out these things, Mr. Goon. We’d like to help you if we can.”

Mr. Goon suddenly lost his temper, and his face went brick-red. “I don’t want none of your help!” he shouted. “I’ve had enough of it! Help? Interference is what I calls it! Can’t I manage a case on my own without all you children butting in? You keep out of it! Mrs. Hilton, she promised me she wouldn’t say nothing to any of you, no, nor show you that letter either. She didn’t want you poking your noses in no more than I did. Anyway, this is a case for the police not for little busy-bodies like you! Clear-orf now, and don’t let me see you messing about any more.”

“I thought perhaps you would like your glove, Mr. Goon,” said Fatty politely, and he held out the policeman’s big glove. “You left it behind you yesterday.”

Mr. Goon snatched at it angrily. Buster growled. “You and that dog of yours!” muttered Mr. Goon. “Tired to death of both of you I am. Clear-orf!”

Fatty cleared off. He was pleased with the result of his interview with Mr. Goon, but very puzzled. Mr. Goon had given a few things away—about that letter, for instance. But what letter? What could have been in a letter to cause this mystery? Was it something to do with Gladys? Was it her letter?

Puzzling out all these things Fatty cycled back to the others. He soon told them what he had learnt.

“I think possibly Mrs. Moon may know something,” he said. “Bets, couldn’t you ask her? If you just sort of prattled to her, she might tell you something.”

“I don’t prattle,” said Bets indignantly. “And I don’t expect she’d tell me anything at all. I’m sure she’s in this business of keeping everything secret from us. She wouldn’t even tell us yesterday that Gladys had gone.”

“Well, anyway, see what you can do,” said Fatty. “She’s fond of knitting, isn’t she? Well, haven’t you got a bit of tangled up knitting you could take down to her and ask her to undo for you—pick up the stitches or whatever you call it? Then you could sort of prat ... er—talk to her about Gladys and Goon and so on.”

“I’ll try,” said Bets. “I’ll go downstairs to her this afternoon when she’s sitting down resting. She doesn’t like me messing about in the morning.”

So that afternoon Bets went down to the kitchen with some very muddled knitting indeed. She had been planning earnestly what to say to Mrs. Moon, but she felt very nervous. Mrs. Moon could be very snappy if she wanted to.

There was no one in the kitchen. Bets sat down in the rocking-chair there. She always liked that old chair. She rocked herself to and fro.

From the backyard came two voices. One was Mrs. Moon’s and the other was Mrs. Cockles’s. Bets hardly listened—but then she suddenly sat up.

“Well, what I say is, if a girl gets a nasty letter telling her things she wants to forget, and no name at the bottom of the letter, it’s enough to give any one a horrid shock!” came Mrs. Moon’s voice. “And a nasty, yes right-down nasty thing it is to do! Writing letters and putting no name on the bottom.”

“Yes, that’s a coward’s trick all right,” said Mrs. Cockles’s cheerful voice. “You mark my words, Mrs. Moon, there’ll be more of those nonnimus letters, or whatever they calls them—those sort of letter-writers don’t just stop at the one person. No, they’ve got too much spite to use up on one person, they’ll write more and more. Why, you might get one next!”

“Poor Gladys was right-down upset,” said Mrs. Moon. “Cried and cried, she did. I made her show me the letter. All in capital letters it was, not proper writing. And I said to her, I said, ‘Now look here, my girl, you go straight off to your mistress and tell her about this. She’ll do her best for you, she will.’ And I pushed her off to Mrs. Hilton.”

“Did she give her her notice?” asked Mrs. Cockles.

“No,” said Mrs. Moon. “She showed Mr. Hilton the letter, and he rang up Mr. Goon. That silly, fussing fellow! What do they want to bring him in for!”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” said Mrs. Cockles’s cheerful voice. “Just hand me that broom, will you? Thanks. He’s all right if he’s treated rough. I don’t stand no nonsense from him, I don’t. I’ve cleaned for him now for years, and he’s never had a harsh word for me. But my, how he hates those children!”

“Ah, that’s another thing,” said Mrs. Moon. “When Mr. Hilton told him about this here letter, he was that pleased to think those kids knew nothing about it—and he made Master and Mistress promise they’d not let those five interfere. And they promised. I was there, holding up poor Gladys, and I heard every word. ‘Mrs. Hilton,’ he said, ‘Mrs. Hilton, madam, this is not a case for children to hinterfere in and I must request you, in the name of the law, to keep this haffair to yourselves.”

“Lawks!” said Mrs. Cockles. “He can talk grand when he likes, can’t he? I reckon, Mrs. Moon, maybe there’s been more of these letters than we know. Well, well—so poor Gladys went home, all upset-like. And who’s going to come in her place, I wonder? Or will she be coming back?”

“Well, it’s my belief she’d better keep away from this village now,” said Mrs. Moon. “Tongues will wag, you know. I’ve got a niece who can come next week, so it won’t matter much if she keeps away.”

“What about a cup of tea?” said Mrs. Cockles. “I’m that thirsty with all this cleaning. These rugs look a fair treat now, Mrs. Moon.”

Bets fled as soon as she heard footsteps coming in at the scullery door. Her knitting almost tripped her up as she went. She ran up the stairs and into the playroom, panting. Pip was there, reading and waiting for her.

“Pip! I’ve found out everything, simply everything!” cried Bets. “And there is a mystery to solve—a kind we haven’t had before.”

Sounds of laughter floated up from the drive. It was the others coming. “Wait a bit,” said Pip, excited. “Wait till the others come up. Then you can tell the whole lot. Golly, you must have done well, Bets!”

The others saw at once from Bets’ face that she had news for them. “Good old Bets!” said Fatty. “Go on Betsy. Spill the beans!”

Bets told them everything. “Somebody wrote a nonnimus letter to Gladys,” she said. “What is a nonnimus letter, Fatty?”

Fatty grinned. “You mean an anonymous letter, Bets,” he said. “A letter sent without the name of the sender at the bottom—usually a beastly cowardly sort of letter, saying things that the writer wouldn’t dare to say to any one’s face. So poor Gladys got an anonymous letter, did she?”

“Yes,” said Bets. “I don’t know what it said though. It upset her. Mrs. Moon got out of her what it was and made her go and see Mother and Daddy about it. And they rang up Mr. Goon.”

“And he came popping along, his eyes bulging with delight because he’d got a mystery to solve that we didn’t know about!” said Fatty. “So there’s an anonymous letter-writer somewhere here, is there? A nasty, cowardly writer—well, here’s our mystery, Find-Outers! WHO is the writer of the ‘nonnimus’ letters?”

“We shall never be able to find that out,” said Daisy. “How on earth could we?”

“We must make plans,” said Fatty. “We must search for clues!” Bets’ face lighted up at once. She loved hunting for clues. “We must make a list of suspects—people who could do it and would. We must ...”

“We haven’t got to work with Goon, have we?” said Pip. “We don’t need to let him know we know, do we?”

“Well—he already thinks we know most of this,” said Fatty. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t tell him we know as much as he does, and not tell him how we’ve found out, and make him think we know a lot more than we do. That’ll make him sit up a bit!”

So, the next time that the Five Find-Outers met the policeman, they stopped to speak to him.

“How are you getting on with this difficult case?” asked Fatty gravely. “It—er—it abounds with such strange clues, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Goon hadn’t discovered a single clue, and he was astonished and annoyed to hear that there were apparently things the children knew and he didn’t. He stared at them.

“You tell me what clues you’ve found,” he said at last. “We’ll swap clues. It beats me how you know about this affair. You wasn’t to know a thing, not a thing.”

“We know much more than you think,” said Fatty solemnly. “A very difficult and—er—enthralling case.”

“You tell me your clues,” said Mr. Goon again. “We’d better swap clues, like I said. Better help one another than hinder, I always say.”

“Now, where did I put those clues?” said Fatty, diving into his capacious pockets. He brought out a live white rat and stared at it. “Was this a clue or not?” he asked the others. “I can’t remember.”

It was impossible not to giggle. Bets went off into a delighted explosion. Mr. Goon glared.

“You clear-orf,” he said majestically. “Making a joke of everything! Call yourself a detective! Gah!”

“What a lovely word!” said Bets, as they all walked off, giggling. “Gah! Gah, Pip! Gah, Fatty.”