‘If you don’t clear-orf,’ said Mr. Goon, between his teeth, ‘if you don’t clear-orf... I’ll... I’ll...’

But Fatty had cleared-orf. He sprinted back to Pip’s. The mystery of the letters was warming up again!

He was soon back in the playroom, relating everything to the others. How they roared when they heard about Mr. Goon coming in and hearing that Fatty had seen all the letters!

‘That must have given him a shock!’ said Pip. ‘He’ll wonder for hours how you’ve seen them. I bet he’ll go about looking for that telegraph-boy now - he knows he’s the one who handed him the letters he was supposed to have dropped.’

‘Well, he’ll be lucky if he finds the telegraph-boy, even if he goes up to the post-office to look for him!’ said Fatty. ‘But I say - now we know why none of the bus passengers posted the letter! It was delivered by hand instead! No wonder we didn’t see anyone popping the letter into Sheepsale post-box!’

‘It must be some one who didn’t catch the bus yesterday for some reason,’ said Daisy thoughtfully. ‘We really must find out if anyone who regularly catches that bus, didn’t take it yesterday. If we can find out the person who didn’t go as usual, we may have discovered who the letter-writer is!’

‘Yes - you’re right, Daisy,’ said Larry. ‘Shall one of us catch the 10.15 bus tomorrow, Fatty, and ask the conductor a few questions?’

‘Perhaps we’d better not,’ said Fatty. ‘He might think it a bit funny, or think us cheeky, or something. I’ve got a better idea than that.’

‘What?’ asked the others.

‘Well, what about going in to see Miss Tremble this morning?’ said Fatty. ‘We know she usually takes the Monday morning bus. We could get from her the names of all the people who always catch it at Peterswood. After all, it starts off by the church, and that’s where she gets in. She must know everyone who takes it on Mondays.’

‘Yes. Let’s go and see her now,’ said Bets. ‘Mrs. Moon is back with her kidneys, Fatty. She wasn’t long. Pip gave her the message, and she said, ‘Well, well, she wasn’t surprised to hear that Mrs. Lamb had got one of those letters, she was the dirtiest, laziest woman in the village!’

‘Well, I must say her cottage was jolly smelly,’ said Fatty. ‘Come on - let’s go in next door. We’ll ask Miss Trimble if she’s seen your cat, Pip.’

‘But Whiskers is here,’ said Pip in surprise, pointing to the big black cat.

‘Yes, idiot. But Miss Trimble’s not to know that,’ said Fatty. ‘We’ve got to have some excuse for going in. She’ll probably be picking flowers in the garden, or taking the dog for an airing. Let’s look over the wall first.’

Their luck was in. Miss Trimble was in the garden, talking to Miss Harmer, who looked after Lady Candling’s valuable Siamese cats for her.

‘Come on. We’ll go up the front drive and round to where she’s talking,’ said Fatty. ‘I’ll lead the conversation round to the bus.’

They set off, and soon found Miss Trimble. Miss Harmer was pleased to see them too. She showed them all the blue-eyed cats.

‘And you really must come and see the daffodils in the orchard,’ said Miss Trimble, setting her glasses firmly on her nose. Bets gazed at them, hoping they would fall off.

They all trooped after her. Fatty walked politely beside her, holding back any tree-branches that might catch at her hair. She thought what a very well-mannered boy he was.

‘I hope you found your mother well on Monday,’ said Fatty.

‘Not so very well,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘She’s got a bad heart, you know, poor old lady. She’s always so glad to see me on Mondays.’

‘And you must quite enjoy Mondays too,’ said Fatty. ‘Such a nice trip up to Sheepsale, isn’t it, and such a fine little market!’

Miss Trimble’s glasses fell off, and dangled on the end of their little gold chain. She put them on again, and smiled at Fatty.

‘Oh yes, I always enjoy my Mondays,’ she said.

‘I expect you know all the people who go in the bus!’ said Daisy, feeling that it was her turn to say something now.

‘Well, I do, unless there are strangers, and we don’t get many of those,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘Mrs. Jolly always goes, of course - such a nice person. And that artist-girl goes too - I don’t know her name - but she’s always so sweet and polite.’

‘Yes, we liked her too,’ said Fatty. ‘Did you see the man I sat by, Miss Trimble? Such a surly fellow.’

‘Yes. I’ve never seen him before,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘The vicar often gets on the bus at Buckle, and I usually have such a nice talk with him. Mr. Goon sometimes goes up on that bus too, to have a word with the policeman in charge of Sheepsale. But I’m always glad when he’s not there, somehow.’

‘I suppose one or two of the regular Monday bus-people weren’t there yesterday, were they?’ said Fatty innocently. ‘I thought the bus would be much more crowded than it was.’

‘Well, let me see now - yes, there are usually more people,’ said Miss Trimble, her glasses falling off again. The children held their breath. Now they would perhaps hear the name of the wicked letter-writer!

‘Anyone we know?’ asked Fatty.

‘Well, I don’t know if you know Miss Tittle, do you?’ said Miss Trimble. ‘She always goes up on a Monday, but she didn’t yesterday. She’s a dressmaker, you know, and goes up to Sheepsale House to sew all day Mondays.’

‘Really?’ said Fatty. ‘Is she a special friend of yours, Miss Trimble?’

‘Well, no,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘I can’t say she is. She’s like a lot of dressmakers, you know - full of gossip and scandal - a bit spiteful, and I don’t like that. It’s not Christian, I say. She pulls people to pieces too much for my liking. Knows a bit too much about everybody!’

The children immediately felt absolutely certain that Miss Tittle was the writer of those spiteful letters. She sounded exactly like them!

‘Aren’t the daffodils simply lovely?’ said Miss Trimble, as they came to the orchard.

‘Glorious!’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s sit down and enjoy them.’

They all sat down. Miss Trimble looked anxiously at the children and went rather red. ‘I don’t think I should have said that about Miss Tittle,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking. She sometimes comes here to sew for Lady Candling, you know, and I do find it very difficult not to be drawn into gossip with her - she asks me such questions! She’s coming here this week, I believe, to make up the new summer curtains - and I’m not looking forward to it. I can’t bear all this nasty spitefulness.’

‘No, I should think not,’ said Bets, taking her turn at making a remark. ‘You’re not a bit like that.’

Miss Trimble was so pleased with this remark of Bets that she smiled, wrinkled her nose, and her glasses fell off.

‘That’s three times,’ said Bets. Miss Trimble put back her glasses and did not look quite so pleased. She couldn’t bear Bets to count like that.

‘We’d better be going,’ said Fatty. Then a thought struck him. ‘I suppose there aren’t any other Monday regulars on that bus, Miss Tremble - Trimble, I mean!’

‘You seem very interested in that bus!’ said Miss Trimble. ‘Well, let me think. There’s always old Nosey, of course. I don’t know why he didn’t go yesterday. He always goes up to the market.’

‘Old Nosey? Whoever is he?’ asked Fatty.

‘Oh, he’s the old fellow who lives with his wife in the caravan at the end of Rectory Field,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘Maybe you’ve never seen him.’

‘Oh yes, I have! Now I remember!’ said Fatty. ‘He’s a little stooping fellow, with a hooked nose and a droopy little moustache, who goes about muttering to himself.

‘He’s called Nosey because he’s so curious about everyone,’ said Miss Trimble. ‘The things he wants to know! How old my mother is - and how old I am too - and what Lady Candling does with her old clothes - and how much the gardener gets in wages. I don’t wonder people call him Old Nosey.’