Mystery of the Strange Messages (10 page)

"Here's the bottle," said the old woman. "And
here's the shilling for the medicine. Ask for the same prescription as before,
please."

"Er—what name shall I say?" asked Fatty.

"Smith," said the old lady. "Mr. John Smith. The
chemist will know."

"Right," said Fatty, startled to hear that there
was
a
Mr. Smith in this ivy-covered place. He glanced at Bets, and saw that she was
astonished too. "Come on, Buster,

old thing. We'll be back in about ten minutes, Mrs. Smith."

"You're kind, real kind," she said, and gave them a
smile that made her old face quite beautiful.

Fatty and Bets ran back up the drive with Buster at their heels.
Fatty's thoughts were in a whirl. Was this another wrong Smith—or could it
be—could it
possibly
be the right one?

"What an awfully long time you were," said Larry.
"What happened?"

Fatty told the others briefly, as they wheeled their bicycles into
the road. "Two caretakers there—been in charge of the house for fifteen
years. And the name is
smith!
What do you think of that?"

"Come on—we're going to the chemist," said Bets.
"What on earth for?" demanded Pip. "Tell you as we go,"
said Fatty, which was really rather a dangerous thing to do, as the other four
were so keen to hear Fatty's tale that they rode in a close bunch as near to
him as possible, their pedals almost touching! However, they arrived at the chemist's
safely, and Fatty went in with the bottle, planning to get a little more
information about the Smiths if he could.

"For Mr. Smith?" said the chemist, who knew Fatty.
"How's the old fellow? He's been ailing for the past year. He really ought
to get out of that damp old place, and go and live by the sea—but they're as
poor as church mice."

"Mrs. Smith seemed very nice," said Fatty. "I don't
know her husband."

"He's a queer fellow," said the chemist, writing out a
label. "Sort of scared. Hardly ever goes out, and when his wife was ill,
and he had to come in to get medicine for her, he hardly opened his mouth. I
guess they don't want that old place to be sold—they'd have to look for
somewhere else to go to, and that's not easy these days, when you're old and
poor."

"Who used to own Fairlin Hall?" asked Fatty.

"I've no idea," said the chemist. "It's been empty
for years—long before
I
came here. Falling to pieces, I should think.
It's a dismal place. Well, there you are. One shilling, please, and give my kind
regards to the old lady. She's a pet, and simply worships the old man."

"Thanks," said Fatty, and went out with Bets.
"We'll go straight back to Fairlin Hall," he said to the others, who
were waiting outside. "I'll see if I can get any more information out of
Mrs. Smith. Then we'll go the House Agent. We simply
must
find out if that house was ever called The Ivies—if it
was, we're really on the track of the mystery!"

They all went back to Fairlin Hall, and Fatty and Bets once more
went round to the back door, this time with Buster free, dancing round them.
The kitchen door was shut, and they knocked.

"If that's the medicine, would you leave it on the
doorstep?" called the old woman's voice. "I'm just seeing to my
husband. He's had a nasty coughing attack. Thank you very very much."

Fatty put the bottle down on the step, rather disappointed at not
being able to get any more information. He took a quick look round. The yard
was very clean and tidy. Spotless, well-mended curtains hung at the windows—the
only clean windows in the house! The doorstep was well-scrubbed. A washed
milk-bottle stood there, waiting for the milkman.

"Well—Mr. Smith
may
be a man with a false name and a
queer past of some sort," said Fatty, as they went back to the others.
"But there's nothing wrong with the old lady. Even the chemist said she
was a pet. I liked her, didn't you, Bets?"

"Yes, I did," said Bets. "Oh dear—I do hope nothing
horrid will happen to Mr. Smith, it would make his wife so unhappy. The man who
wrote those notes didn't seem to like him at all, did he? I wonder what he
meant by telling Mr. Goon to say
secrets
to him."

"Can't imagine," said Fatty. "Well now—off we go to

the House Agent's. Hallo—what's all the noise going on outside the
front gates?"

Fatty soon found out! Mr. Goon had come cycling by and had
suddenly seen Larry, Daisy. Pip—and Ern! He also saw Fatty's bicycle and Bets',
leaning against the wall, and felt very curious indeed. He had dismounted
heavily from his own bicycle, after making sure that Buster was nowhere around,
and demanded to know what they were all doing there.

"Just having a bit of a rest," said Pip. "Going up
Cockers Hill at top speed was tiring, Mr. Goon. I expect you found it so,
too."

"I don't want any cheek," said Mr. Goon, glaring at Pip.
"Where's that fat boy gone? What's he here for? Ho—another ivy-covered
house! Snooping round again, I suppose. Well, you won't find much there—it's
empty, see? Ern—you come here."

Just at that moment Fatty and Bets and Buster came out of the
gate, and Buster ran barking in delight towards his old enemy. Goon leapt on
his bicycle at once, and rode off quickly, shouting to Ern.

"You come back with me, young Ern. I've got a job for you,
delivering messages. You come at once, Ern."

"Better go, Ern," said Fatty. "Who knows—he may
give you some more wages at dinner-time, if you do some work for him this
morning!"

"What a hope!" said Ern, in disgust. "All right. Fatty.
I'll go, if you say so. I'll be down at your place as soon as I can to hear
your news. So long!"

And away he went after his uncle, looking so doleful that the
others couldn't help laughing. "Now to the House Agent's," said
Fatty, mounting his bicycle too. "I feel we're getting somewhere
now!"

Mr. Grimble talks.

The House Agent's office was in the middle of the High Street, and
its window was set out with all kinds of very dull particulars of houses for
sale.

"I hope you won't be too long. Fatty," said Pip.
"It's a bit boring for the rest of us, waiting about while you and Bets do
the work."

"Sorry!" said Fatty. "Yes, you're right—I've been
making you wait about half the morning.
Look,
go into the dairy, and
order what you like. It's gone eleven o'clock, I should think. I'll pay. I've
still got heaps left from my Christmas money. Bets, you go too, and order me
two macaroons and an ice-cream."

"Oh
Fatty—
didn't you have any breakfast!" said
Bets. But Fatty had already disappeared into the House Agent's office. A young
man was there, very busy at a big desk. In a corner, at a much smaller desk,
sat a clerk, an older man, round-shouldered and shabby.

"Well—what can I do for
you!"
said the young man.

"Have you any particulars about Fairlin Hall?" asked
Fatty, politely. The young man stared at him.

"That old place! You're not thinking of buying it, by any
chance, are you?" he said, and laughed.

"Well, no," said Fatty. "I'm—er—interested in its
history, to tell you the truth."

"Well, I'm sorry—but I haven't time to give you a history
lesson," said the young man rudely. "The place has been empty as long
as I can remember—since before I was born. We're hoping to sell it as a school
of some sort, but it's in such bad condition, nobody will buy. It's got no
history as far as
I
know!"

The telephone bell rang at that moment, and the young man picked
up the receiver. "Mr. Paul here," he

said. "Oh
yes,
Mrs. Donning. Yes, yes. yes. Of course,
of course. No trouble at all. Do give me all the particulars."

It was quite plain to Fatty that he wasn't going to get any help
from the bumptious Mr. Paul, who was evidently one of the partners in the
business of Paul and Ticking. He turned and made for the door.

But as he passed the old clerk in the corner, he heard a few quiet
words. "I can tell you something about the house if you like, sir."

Fatty turned and saw that the old man was trying to make up for
Mr. Paul's rudeness. He went over to his desk.

"Do you know anything about the place?" he said,
eagerly. "You know it, don't you—covered with ivy from top to
bottom."

"Oh yes. I sold it to its present owners twenty-one years
ago." said the clerk. "It was a lovely place then. I and my wife used
to know the old lady who lived there. Ah, Fairlin Hall was well-kept then—it
had four gardeners, and you should have seen the rose-garden I I was talking
about it to old Grimble only the other day. He was head gardener there, and
knew every corner of it."

Fatty pricked up his ears at once. Surely an old gardener would
know far more about Fairlin Hall than anyone else He might be pleased to talk
about the old place, too.

"Perhaps you could give me Grimble's address," he said.
"Does he still work?"

"Oh no—he's retired. Just potters about his own garden,"
said the old clerk. "I'll scribble down his address for you."

"Er—was Fairlin Hall ever called anything else?" asked
Fatty, hopefully.

"I believe it was—but I can't remember," said the old
man. "But perhaps I can look it up for you."

"Potter!" said Mr. Paul, putting down the telephone
receiver, "it's very difficult for me to telephone, with you jabbering in
the corner."

"Sorry. Mr. Paul," said poor old Potter, and hastily
pushed a piece of paper over to Fatty, who shot out of the office before the
rude Mr. Paul could admonish him too. Ugh! Fancy that old clerk having to put
up with young Mr. Paul's rudeness all the time! Fatty glanced down at the piece
of paper he had been given.

"Donald Grimble," he read. "Primrose Cot, Burling
Meadows. Gardener."

He ran across the road to the dairy, where all the others were now
sitting round a table, eating macaroons. Buster greeted him loudly as usual,
barking as if he hadn't seen Fatty for at least a month.

"You haven't been long. Fatty," said Bets. "I've
only taken two bites at my macaroon. Have one—they're lovely and fresh. All
gooey."

"Did you find out anything?" asked Larry.

Fatty told them about the rude Mr. Paul and the nice old man in
the corner who seemed so scared of him. Then he showed them the piece of paper.
"Donald Grimble used to be head gardener at Fairlin Hall," he said,
"and apparently knew every corner of the place. He's retired now—but I bet
he can tell us plenty about it. If
only
we
could find out if it has ever been called 'The Ivies'! I can't help thinking
that old Mr. Smith, whose medicine we got this morning,
must
be the
Smith referred to in those anonymous notes."

"We've got time to go and see Grimble this morning."
said Bets. "But what excuse can we make? He'll wonder why we're so
interested in the old place. He might think we were making fun of him, or
something."

"I know! Let's buy a pot with some queer plant in at the
florist's," said Daisy, "and go and ask him to tell us what it is!
Then we can get talking."

"Daisy, that's a very bright idea," said Fatty,
approvingly, and Daisy went red with pleasure. "That will mean we can all
go, instead of most of you waiting about outside. I'll have another macaroon,
please."

"I suppose you're counting. Fatty?" said Pip, handing

him the plate, "You've had three already, and they're
expensive, you know. Even
your
Christmas money won't last long if you
empty plates of macaroons at this rate.'

"Have an ice-cream. Pip," said Fatty, "and stop
counting how many macaroons I eat. Bets, aren't
you
going to have an
ice-cream? You'd better feed yourself up, because I'm going to make
you
take
the pot-plant in to old Mr. Grimble!"

"Oh no!" said Bets. "Why can't one of the
others?"

"Because you have a very nice smile, Bets, enough to melt the
crabbed old heart of even a fierce head gardener!" said Fatty.

Bets laughed. "You might be Irish, Fatty, with all your
blarney!" she said. "All right. I'll do it for you. Shall Daisy and I
go and buy the plant now, while you others are finishing? We can't eat another
thing."

"Yes. Here's the money," said Fatty, but Daisy pushed it
away. "Oddly enough,
I
have some Christmas money left too!"
she said. "Come on. Bets—let's leave these guzzlers, and go to the flower
shop."

They were back again with a small plant just as the three boys and
Buster came out of the dairy, looking rather well-fed.

"Please, Mr. Grimble," said Bets, looking up at Fatty
with a smile, "could you tell me what this plant is?"

Fatty laughed. "Fine, Bets! But be sure to get
us
into
the picture somehow, so that we can come and listen—and so that I can ask
questions!"

They went off to Burling Meadows on their bicycles. Primrose Cot
was a small cottage standing by itself in a beautiful little garden. Not a weed
showed in the smooth grass lawn. Nor was there a weed in any of the beds,
either. The hedges were trim and neat. Early snowdrops showed their little
white bonnets under a tree, and yellow aconites wore their pretty green frills
just beside them.