Free Mystery of the Spiteful Letters by Enid Blyton Page B

and decided not to ask her any more questions about going to Sheepsale every Monday because nobody, nobody with such kind eyes, such a lovely smile, such a nice apple-cheeked face could possibly write an unkind letter! Bets felt absolutely certain of it. Mrs. Jolly began to fumble in her bag.
    ‘Now where did I put those humbugs?’ she said. ‘Ah, here they are? Do you like humbugs, Miss Bets? Well, you help yourself, and we’ll pass them over to the others as well.’
    Pip was sitting by the young girl. He found it easy to talk to her.
    ‘What are you going to paint?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m painting Sheepsale market,’ she answered. ‘I go every Monday. It’s such a jolly market - small and friendly and very picturesque, set on the top of the hill, with that lovely country all round. I love it.’
    ‘Do you always catch the same bus?’ asked Pip.
    ‘I have to,’ she said. ‘The market’s in the morning, you know. I know it by heart now - where the hens and ducks are, and the sheep, and the butter-stalls and the eggs and everything!’
    ‘I bet you don’t know where the post-office is!’ said Pip quickly.
    The girl laughed and thought. ‘Well, no, I don’t!’ she said. ‘I’ve never had to go there and so I’ve never noticed. But if you want it, any one would tell you. There can’t be much of a post-office at Sheepsale, though. It’s only a small place. Just a market really.’
    Pip felt pleased. If this girl didn’t know where the post-office was, she could never have posted a letter there. Good. That ruled her out. Pip felt very clever. Anyway, he was certain that such a nice girl wouldn’t write horrid letters.
    He looked round at the others, feeling that his task was done. He felt sorry for Daisy, sitting next to the surly Mr. Goon. He wondered how Fatty was getting on.
    He wasn’t getting on at all well! Poor Fatty - he had chosen a very difficult passenger to talk to.

CHAPTER XI
    A PUZZLING THING
     
    The sour-faced man appeared to be very deep indeed in his paper, which seemed to Fatty to be all about horses and dogs.
    Buster sniffed at the man’s ankles and didn’t seem to like the smell of them at all. He gave a disgusted snort and strained away towards where Mr. Goon sat, a few seats in front.
    ‘Er - I hope my dog doesn’t worry you, sir,’ said Fatty.
    The man took no notice. ‘Must be deaf,’ thought Fatty and raised his voice considerably. ‘I hope my DOG doesn’t WORRY you, sir,’ he said. The man looked up and scowled.
    ‘Don’t shout at me. I’m not deaf,’ he said. Fatty didn’t like to ask again if Buster worried him. He cast about for something interesting to say.
    ‘Er - horses and dogs are very interesting, aren’t they?’ he said. The man took no notice. Fatty debated whether to raise his voice or not. He decided not.
    ‘I said, horses and dogs are very interesting, aren’t they?’ he repeated.
    ‘Depends,’ said the man, and went on reading. That wasn’t much help in a conversation, Fatty thought gloomily. The others were jolly lucky to have got such easy people to tackle. But still - of all the passengers in the bus, this man looked by far the most likely to be the letter-writer - sour-faced, scowling, cruel-mouthed! Fatty racked his brains and tried again.
    ‘Er - could you tell me the time?’ he said, rather feebly. There was no reply. This was getting boring! Fatty couldn’t help feeling annoyed too. There was no need to be so rude, he thought!
    ‘Could you tell me the time?’ he repeated.
    ‘I could, but I’m not going to, seeing that you’ve got a wrist-watch yourself,’ said the man. Fatty could have kicked himself.
    ‘You’re not being much of a detective this morning!’ he told himself. ‘Buck up, Frederick Algernon Trotteville, and look sharp about it!’
    ‘Oh - look at that aeroplane!’ said Fatty, seeing a plane swoop down rather low. ‘Do you know what it is, sir?’
    ‘Flying Fortress,’ said the man, without even looking up. As the aeroplane had only two engines and not four, this was quite wrong