The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters

FATTY HAS A BUSY MORNING

The next day both Mr. Goon and Fatty were very busy. Fatty was trying to get specimens of Nosey’s writing and Miss Tittle’s, and Mr. Goon was trying to trace the two red-headed boys.

Fatty pondered whether to disguise himself or not, and then decided that he would put on the red wig, red eyebrows, and freckles, and a round messenger-boy’s hat. It was essential that people should think he was a delivery boy of some sort, in order for him to get specimens of their writing - or so Fatty worked it out.

He set off on his bicycle to the Rectory Field, where Old Nosey, the gypsy, lived in a dirty caravan with his wife. In his basket he carried a parcel, in which he had packed two of his father’s old pipes, and a tin of tobacco he had bought. Larry met him as he cycled furiously down the village street, keeping a sharp look-out for Goon.

‘Fatty!’ said Larry, and then clapped his hand over his mouth, hoping that no passer-by had heard.

‘Fathead!’ said Fatty, stopping by Larry. ‘Don’t yell my name out when I’m in disguise! Yell out Bert, or Alf, or Sid - anything you like, but not Fatty.’

‘Sorry! I did it without thinking,’ said Larry. ‘I don’t think any one heard. What are you going to do, Fatty - er, I mean Sid!’

‘I’m going to deliver a parcel to Old Nosey, said Fatty. ‘From an Unknown Friend! And he’s got to sign a receipt for it. See?’

‘Golly, you’re clever,’ said Larry, filled with admiration. ‘Of course - you can easily get him to sign his name - and address too, I suppose - by delivering a parcel to him and asking for a receipt! I’d never have thought of that. Never.’

‘I’ve put a couple of old pipes and some tobacco in,’ said Fatty, with a grin. ‘Nice surprise for Old Nosey! I’m delivering a parcel to Miss Tittle too - and one to Mrs. Moon later. I’ve a feeling that if we’ve got specimens of all three in the way of hand-writing, we shall soon be able to spot the real letter-writer! I’m going to ask them to give me a receipt in capital letters, of course.

‘Good for you,’ said Larry. ‘I’ll tell Pip and Bets to look out for you later - delivering something to Mrs. Moon!’

Fatty rode off, whistling. He soon came to Rectory Field. He saw the caravan standing at the end, its little tin chimney smoking. Mrs. Nosey was outside, cooking something over a fire, and Nosey was sitting beside it, sucking at an empty pipe. Fatty rode over the field-path and jumped off his bicycle when he came to Nosey.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Parcel for you! Special delivery!’

He handed the parcel to the surprised Old Nosey. The gypsy took it and turned it round and round, trying to feel what was inside. ‘Anythink to pay?’ asked Mrs. Nosey.

‘No. But I must have a receipt, please,’ said Fatty, briskly, and whipped out a notebook, in which was printed in capital letters:

RECEIVED, ONE PARCEL,

by ..............

‘Will you sign your name and address there, please, in capital letters?’ he asked, showing Nosey where he meant.

‘I’m not signing nothing,’ said Nosey, not looking at Fatty.

‘Well, if you want the parcel, you’ll have to sign for it,’ said Fatty. ‘Always get a receipt, you know. It’s the only thing I’ve got, to show I’ve delivered the parcel. See?’

‘I’ll sign it,’ said Mrs. Nosey, and held out her hand for the pencil.

‘No,’ said Fatty. ‘The parcel is for your husband. I’m afraid he must sign it, Madam.’

‘You let me,’ said Mrs. Nosey. ‘Go on - you give it to me to sign. It don’t matter which of us does it.’

Fatty was almost in despair. Also he thought it a very suspicious sign that Nosey didn’t seem to want to sign his name and address in capital letters. It rather looked as if he was afraid of doing so.

‘I shall have to take the parcel back if your husband doesn’t give me a proper receipt for it,’ he said, in as stern a voice as he could manage. ‘Got to be business-like over these things, you know. Pity - it smells like tobacco.’

‘Yes, it do,’ said Old Nosey, and sniffed the parcel eagerly. ‘Go on, wife, you sign for it.’

‘I tell you,’ began Fatty. But Nosey’s wife pulled at his elbow. She spoke to him in a hoarse whisper.

‘Don’t you go bothering ’im. ’E can’t write nor read!’

‘Oh,’ Said Fatty blankly, and let Mrs. Nosey sign a receipt without further objection. He could hardly read what she wrote, for she put half the letters backwards, and could not even spell Peterswood.

Fatty cycled off, thinking. So Old Nosey couldn’t write. Well, he was ruled out too, then. That really only left Miss Tittle - because Mrs. Moon had had one of the letters and could be crossed off the List of Suspects.

He went home and fetched a cardboard box into which he had packed a piece of stuff he had bought from the draper’s that morning. He was just in time to catch Miss Tittle setting out to go for the day to Lady Candling’s again.

‘Parcel for you,’ said Fatty briskly. ‘Special delivery. Will you please sign for it - here - in capital letters for clearness - name and address, please.’

Miss Tittle was rather surprised to receive a parcel by special delivery, when she was not expecting one, but she supposed it was something urgent sent to be altered by one of her customers. So she signed for it in extremely neat capital letters, small and beautiful like her stitches.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You only just caught me! Good morning.’

‘That was easy!’ thought Fatty, as he rode away. ‘Now - I wonder if it’s really necessary to get Mrs. Moon’s writing? Better, I suppose, as she’s been one of the Suspects. Well, here goes!’

He rode up the drive of Pip’s house. Pip and the others were lying in wait for him, and they called out in low voices as he went past.

‘Ho there, Sid!’

‘Hallo, Bert!’

‘Wotcher, Alf!’

Fatty grinned and went to the back door. He had a small and neat parcel this time, beautifully wrapped up and tied with string and sealed. It really looked a very exciting parcel.

Mrs. Moon came to the kitchen door. ‘Parcel for you,’ said Fatty, presenting it to her. ‘Special delivery. Sign for it here, please, in capital letters for clearness, name and address.’

‘Me hands are all over flour,’ said Mrs. Moon. ‘You just sign it for me, young man. Now who can that parcel be from, I wonder!’

‘’Fraid you’ll have to sign it yourself,’ said Fatty. Mrs. Moon made an exasperated noise and snatched the pencil from Fatty’s hand. She went and sat down at the table and most laboriously pencilled her name and address. But she mixed up small letters and capital letters in a curious way. The receipt said:

RECEIVED, ONE PARCEL,

by .............................

WInnIe MOOn,

ReDhoUSe

peTeRSWOOD

‘Thank you,’ said Fatty, looking at it closely. ‘But you’ve mixed up small letters and capital ones, Mrs. Moon! Why did you do that?’

‘I’m no writer!’ said Mrs. Moon, annoyed. ‘You take that receipt and be off. Schooling in my days wasn’t what it is now, when even a five-year- old knows his letters.’

Fatty went off. If Mrs. Moon didn’t very well know the difference between small and capital letters, he didn’t see how she could have printed all those spiteful anonymous letters. Anyway, he didn’t really suspect her. He thought about things as he rode down the drive and back through the village. Nosey couldn’t write. Rule him out. Mrs. Moon couldn’t have done it either. Rule her out. That only left Miss Tittle - and the difference between her small and beautiful printing and the untidy, laboured scrawl of the nasty letters was amazing.

‘I can’t think it can be her writing, in those letters,’ thought Fatty. ‘Well, really, this case is getting more and more puzzling. We keep getting very good ideas and clues - and then one by one they all fizzle out. Not one of our Suspects really seems possible now - though I suppose Miss Tittle is the likeliest.’

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t look where he was going, and he almost ran over a dog. It yelped so loudly with fright that Fatty, much concerned, got off his bicycle to comfort it.

‘What you doing to make that dog yelp like that!’ said a harsh voice suddenly, and Fatty looked up, startled, to see Mr. Goon standing over him.

‘Nothing, sir,’ stammered Fatty, pretending to be scared of the policeman. A curious look came into Mr. Goon’s eyes - so curious that Fatty began to feel really scared.

Mr. Goon was gazing at Fatty’s red wig. He looked at Fatty’s messenger-boy hat. He looked very hard indeed. Another red-headed boy! Why, the village seemed full of them!

‘You come-alonga me!’ he said suddenly, and clutched hold of Fatty’s arm. ‘I want to ask you a few questions, see? You just come-alonga me!’

‘I’ve done nothing,’ said Fatty, pretending to be a frightened messenger-boy. ‘You let me go, sir. I ain’t done nothing.’

‘Then you don’t need to be scared,’ said Mr. Goon. He took firm hold of Fatty’s arm and led him down the street to his own small house. He pushed him inside, and took him upstairs to a small box-room, littered with rubbish of all kinds.

‘I’ve been looking for red-headed boys all morning!’ said Mr. Goon grimly. ‘And I haven’t found the ones I want. But maybe you’ll do instead! Now you just sit here, and wait for me to come up and question you. I’m tired of red-headed boys, I am - butting in and out - picking up letters and delivering letters and parcels - and disappearing into thin air. Ho yes, I’m getting a bit tired of these here red-headed boys!’

He went out, shut the door and locked it. He clumped downstairs, and Fatty heard him using the telephone though he couldn’t hear what he said.

Fatty looked round quickly. It was no use trying to get out of the window, for it looked on to the High Street and heaps of people would see him trying to escape that way and give the alarm.

No - he must escape out of the locked door, as he had done once before when an enemy had locked him in. Ah, Fatty knew how to get out of a locked room! He felt in his pocket and found a folded newspaper there. It was really amazing what Fatty kept in his pockets! He opened the newspaper, smoothed it out quite flat, and pushed it quietly under the crack at the bottom of the door.

Then he took a small roll of wire from his pocket, and straightened one end of it. He inserted the end carefully into the lock. On the other side, of course, was the key that Mr. Goon had turned to lock the door.

Fatty jiggled about with the piece of wire, pushing and moving the key a little. Suddenly, with a soft thud, it fell to the floor outside the door, on to the sheet of newspaper that Fatty had pushed underneath to the other side. He grinned.

He had left a corner of the newspaper on his side, and this he now pulled at very gently. The whole of the newspaper sheet came under the door - bringing the key with it! Such a clever trick - and so simple, thought Fatty.

It took him just a moment to put the key into the lock his side, turn it and open the door. He tool the key, stepped out softly, locked the door behind him and left the key in.

Then he stood at the top of the little stairway and listened. Mr. Goon was evidently in the middle of a long routine telephone call, which he made every morning about this time.

There was a small bathroom nearby. Fatty went into it and carefully washed all the freckles off his face. He removed his eyebrows and wig and stuffed them into his pocket. He took off his rather loud tie and put another one on, also out of his pocket.

Now he looked completely different. He grinned at himself in the glass. ‘Disappearance of another red-headed boy,’ he said, and crept downstairs as quietly as he could. Mr. Goon was still in his parlour, telephoning. Fatty slipped into the small empty kitchen. Mrs. Cockles was not there today.

He went out of the back door, down the garden and into the lane at the end. He had to leave his bike behind - but never mind, he’d think of some way of getting it back! Off he went, whistling, thinking of the delight of the Find-Outers when he told them of his adventurous morning!