Читать книгу The Mystery of the Strange Bundle - Enid blyton - Страница 3

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“Of all the miserable holidays these just about beat the lot!” said Pip to Bets. “Why you had to start us off on this awful ‘flu’ I can’t imagine!”

Bets looked hurt. “Well, I couldn’t help it,” she said. “Someone gave it to me before I gave it to you others. It was jolly bad luck that it happened at Christmas.”

Pip blew his nose violently. He was sitting up in bed, feeling decidedly better but very bad-tempered.

“You get it as soon as the Christmas hols begin—and you get it lighter than any one! Then you give it to Daisy, and she gives it to Larry, and they have it all through Christmas, poor things. And then I get it, and poor old Fatty. What a mess-up of the Christmas hols! Hardly any left of them now!”

Pip sounded very cross indeed. Bets got up. “All right. If you’re going to be such a crosspatch I won’t sit with you this morning. I’ll go and see Fatty. I think you’re very unkind, Pip, after all the games I’ve played with you and the books I’ve read you.”

She was just stalking out with her head in the air, looking very high and mighty, when Pip called to her.

“Hey, Bets—tell Fatty I’m feeling better, and ask him to get on the track of some mystery AT ONCE, because I feel it’s just the kind of tonic I need. And we’ve only got about ten days of the hols left.”

Bets grinned round at him. “All right. I’ll tell him. But Fatty can’t just spin a mystery out of thin air, Pip. I think we’ll have to go without one this hols.”

“Fatty can do anything,” said Pip, with the utmost conviction. “I’ve been lying here for days, and most of the time I’ve been remembering all the mysteries we’ve ever solved with old Fatty. I’ve never had time to do so much thinking before. Old Fatty’s a wonder.”

“I knew that without having to do a lot of thinking,” said Bets. “All his disguises—and the way he works out the clues—and the tricks he’s played on Mr. Goon.”

“Oh yes!” said Pip, a broad smile on his pale face. “I say—it makes me feel better even to think of all those fat-headed tricks of Fatty’s. For goodness’ sake tell Fatty to work up some mystery or other for us—it’ll do us all good. Give us some interest in life!”

“I’m going,” said Bets. “I’ll bring a mystery back for you if can!”

“Bring some peppermints too,” said Pip. “I’ve suddenly got a craving for them. No, bring a bagful of bull’s-eyes, the hottest you can buy. I could do with about fifty, Bets, to go with this detective book Fatty’s lent me.”

“You must be feeling better!” said Bets. She went out of the room and put on her outdoor things. She took some money out of her money-box. She meant to buy Fatty something too. Bets had been a very faithful visitor and friend to the rest of the Find-Outers while they had had the “flu” and had spent nearly all her Christmas money on them.

She hadn’t been able to help feeling guilty about giving everyone the “flu” and she had tried to make up for it by playing games with the invalids, reading to them, and taking them anything she thought they would like. Fatty had been very touched with the little girl’s kindness. He thought the world of Bets.

Bets looked out of the garden door. Should she take her bicycle or not? It was so much quicker on a bike. She decided against it. The roads were slippery that frosty January day.

She walked down to the village and spent a good deal of money on enormous bull’s-eye peppermints. Half for Pip and half for Fatty. If Pip had got to the convalescent stage of craving for sweets then presumably Fatty would soon reach it too!

She came out of the shop in time to see Mr. Goon, the village policeman, sail slowly down the road on his bicycle, his nose purple with the cold air of the morning.

He saw Bets and put on his brakes too quickly. His bicycle immediately skidded on the slippery surface and Mr. Goon found himself sitting down very suddenly in the middle of the road.

“Gah!” he said, glaring at Bets as if it was her fault.

“Oh, Mr. Goon—are you hurt?” cried Bets. “You sat down with such a bump!”

Mr. Goon had plenty to sit down on, so he wasn’t hurt, only considerably shaken. He got up and brushed down his trousers.

“These here slippery mornings’ll be the death of me,” he said, looking at Bets as if she were responsible for the slipperiness. “I just put my brakes on, see—and down I came! That’s all I get for wanting to be polite and to ask after your friends. I did hear they were all down with this here ‘flu’.”

“Yes—but they’re getting better,” said Bets.

Mr. Goon muttered something that sounded like “What a pity!” He straddled his bicycle again. “Well, I must say it’s been a real change for me not having that nosey-parker of a fat boy sticking his nose into my business all the time he’s home for the holidays,” said Mr. Goon. “It’s a funny thing how that boy sniffs out anything that’s going, and gets you all into it. A good thing he’s had to lie up in bed where he’s out of mischief. You’ll be back at school again in no time—and for once in a way you won’t have made nuisances of yourselves.”

“You’ll get the ‘flu’ yourself if you talk like that,” said Bets, stung into boldness. She was usually very scared of the policeman, especially if she met him when she was alone. “Anyway, there’s still time for something to crop up—and if it does, we’ll be on the job long before you are, Mr. Goon!”

And, feeling rather victorious after this unexpected meeting and exchange of talk, Bets marched off with her head in the air.

“If you’re seeing that fat boy, tell him it’s nice to know he’s been kept out of mischief for once in a way!” Mr. Goon shouted after her. “I’ve been having a nice peaceful time, I have, without you five round my feet all the time—to say nothing of that little pest of a dog!”

Bets pretended not to hear. Mr. Goon pedalled off, well satisfied. He guessed Bets would repeat everything and he knew Fatty would be mad with him—but before he could make himself a nuisance he’d be back at school again. Toad of a boy!

Bets went to Fatty’s house, let herself in at the garden door, and found Mrs. Trotteville, Fatty’s mother. Mrs. Trotteville was fond of the little girl and smiled at her.

“Well, Bets—come to see Frederick again? You really are a faithful friend. I think he must be feeling distinctly better today. I’ve heard the most peculiar noises coming from his room whenever I go up on the landing!”

“Oh—you don’t think he’s been sick again, do you?” said Bets, in alarm. “What sort of noises?”

“Oh, voices and sounds,” said Mrs. Trotteville. “As if he’s rehearsing for a play or something. You know what Frederick is—always up to something.”

Bets nodded. She thought probably Fatty was practising various voices for his different disguises. An old man’s voice—a quavering old woman’s—a deep, manly voice. Fatty could imitate them all to perfection!

“I’ll take you up to his room,” said Mrs. Trotteville. “He’s expecting you.”

They went upstairs. Mrs. Trotteville gave a sharp knock at Fatty’s door.

“Who is it?” said Fatty’s voice. “I’ve got a visitor, Mother!”

Mrs. Trotteville looked astonished. As far as she knew no other visitor had arrived that morning. It must have been some one the cook had ushered upstairs. She turned the handle and she and Bets went into the room.

Fatty appeared to be sunk deeply into his pillows, half asleep. Bets could see his dark, rumpled hair but that was about all. Her heart sank. Yesterday Fatty had been sitting up, looking quite sprightly. He couldn’t be feeling so well if he felt more like lying down!

She looked at his visitor. It was a plump, bespectacled woman, with an ugly, pudding-shaped black hat pulled over her forehead. A bright green scarf was wound round her neck, hiding part of her chin. Who on earth was she?

“Who on earth was this strange visitor?”

Mrs. Trotteville was at a loss too. Who was this strange visitor? She advanced towards her uncertainly.

“Oh—Mrs. Trotteville!” said the visitor, in a mincing kind of voice. “You don’t remember me, do you? We met at Bollingham two years ago. Such a nice place, wasn’t it?”

“Er no—I don’t think I do remember you,” said Mrs. Trotteville, astonished. “How did you know Frederick was ill—and who brought you up to his room? Really, er—it’s kind of you—but ...”

“Oh, your nice cook brought me up,” chattered the visitor, mopping her face with a large white handkerchief drenched with some strong scent. “She said you were busy so she just brought me up herself. Frederick was so pleased to see me. And who is this nice little girl?”

Bets was puzzled. She didn’t understand this curious visitor. And why didn’t Fatty sit up? Why hadn’t he spoken to Bets? She looked at the mound his body made under the clothes. He must be asleep!

She poked him hard. “Fatty! Wake up! You were awake a minute ago, because you spoke to us when we knocked at the door. Sit up and speak to me!”

Fatty took no notice. He just lay there like a log. Mrs. Trotteville began to feel alarmed. She, too, went to the bed and touched Fatty.

“Frederick—are you all right? Sit up, do!”

Bets glanced at the visitor, who had now got up and was looking out of the window, her back to them. Her shoulders were shaking slightly. What WAS the matter? It was very peculiar and mysterious and Bets didn’t like it at all.

Mrs. Trotteville turned back the covers of the bed. There was no Fatty there! A dark wig had been put over a pudding-basin, and bolsters had been laid in the bed. Mrs. Trotteville gave a little scream.

“Fatty! Where’s Fatty!”

But Bets knew where he was, of course!