Larry was examining the envelopes. They were all the same, square and white, and the paper used was cheap. ‘Look,’ said Larry, ‘they’ve all been sent froin Sheepsale - that little market-town we’ve sometimes been to. Does that mean it’s somebody who lives there?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Fatty. ‘No, I reckon it’s somebody who lives in Peterswood all right, because only a Peterswood person would know the people written to. What exactly does the post-mark say?’
‘It says, “Sheepsale, 11.45 a.m. April 3rd,” ’ said Daisy.
‘That was Monday,’ said Fatty. ‘What do the other post-marks say?’
‘They’re all different dates,’ said Daisy. ‘All of them except Gladys’s one are posted in March - but all from Sheepsale.’
Fatty made a note of the dates and then took a small pocket calendar out. He looked up the dates and whistled.
‘Here’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘They’re all a Monday! See - that one’s a Monday - and so is that - and that - and that. Whoever posted them must have written them on the Sunday, and posted them on Monday. Now - if the person lives in Peterswood, how can he get to Sheepsale to post them in time for the morning post on a Monday? There’s no railway to Sheepsale. Only a bus that doesn’t go very often.’
‘It’s market-day on Mondays at Sheepsale,’ said Pip, remembering. ‘There’s an early bus that goes then, to catch the market. Wait a bit - we can look it up. Where’s a bus time-table?’
As usual, Fatty had one in his pocket. He looked up the Sheepsale bus.
‘Yes - here we are,’ he said. ‘There’s a bus that goes to Sheepsale from Peterswood each Monday - at a quarter-past ten - reaching there at one minute past eleven. There you are - I bet our letter-writing friend leaves Peterswood with a nasty letter in his pocket, catches the bus, gets out at Sheepsale, posts the letter - and then gets on with whatever business he has to do there!’