A Job for Susan (The Susan books) Read online

“Eight o’clock!” said Midge. “The middle of the night! Hallelujah!”

  Susan tried to inveigle Bill into another charring job for Louella Foster at the bookshop, but Bill stood firm; and by the time that they had finished their tour of all their friends in the village and gone home for lunch, he was almost reconciled to his new job. As none of the Carmichaels was exactly bursting with energy when it came to household chores and other hard physical toil, Susan felt that she had really achieved something in getting him to fall in with her scheme at all.

  She and Tessa stayed to lunch with the Carmichaels and then reluctantly dragged themselves out in the cold again, to go home. They dragged Midge with them.

  “Don’t you want to see our dear little house?” Susan demanded.

  “Well, yes, I do,” said Midge, “but tomorrow’s another day.”

  “You never like doing today what you can put off till tomorrow,” said Susan severely. “Besides, we’ll be busy tomorrow, helping Bill—”

  If Bill was dependent on help from her, Midge thought, he was in for a lean time, but it wasn’t a bit of use telling Susan that. Susan would only start lecturing her in her most tiresome do-good way, so she silently got into a great many jerseys and coats and her fur boots and wound a long woollen scarf round her neck and pulled a rather jolly bright-red Balaclava helmet of Bill’s over her ears and trudged off with Susan and Tessa.

  And after all, Susan’s mother hadn’t got back from town and Susan hadn’t a key, so they couldn’t get into the dear little house.

  Susan stopped ringing the bell and said in her optimistic way, “Och, there’s sure to be a window open, we’ll scout around the back and see—”

  But there didn’t seem to be a window left helpfully open. They walked round the house, trampling through plants and bushes in all their winter desolation. Dining-room windows... tight shut; downstairs cloakroom... tight shut; kitchen, scullery... all tight shut; back door… securely locked.

  “Goodness,” said Susan, “you’d think that my mother was afraid of burglars or something—”

  They rounded the corner towards Bluebeard’s Chamber and the long windows of the studio... and crouched against the window of Bluebeard’s Chamber, face pressed against the glass, peering into the room was a huge, dark and sinister figure.

  Susan dragged Midge and Tessa back to the rather dubious shelter of the back door.

  “There was someone there!” said Tessa in an amazed whisper.

  “ ’Sh! Don’t talk so loud!” hissed Susan, just about twice as loudly.

  “It was a man!” whispered Tessa. “Either a man or some sort of black demon. Horrible. Crouching like that—”

  “He was only looking through the window,” said Midge mildly.

  “Well!” said Susan. “Such cheek!”

  “A man?” Tessa was doubtful. “He looked much more like a demon to me—”

  “What d’you imagine a demon looks like, Tessa love?” whispered Midge, interested.

  “Well… like that... dark and horrible and… and ... crouching!”

  Susan had recovered a little. “Och, wheesht, Tessa, you and your demons—Midge, what was he doing there, who was it?”

  “I couldn’t see his face,” whispered Midge. “He had his hands up, shielding the glass from reflections, you know—”

  “Yes, well, I’m going for the police,” whispered Susan firmly. “I’m going to telephone Joe Taylor. All Maggie’s valuables are in that room! Jewels—”

  Midge looked at her. “Well, maybe not jewels, but —you know—valuables—”

  “How can you telephone? You can’t get into the house,” said Midge.

  “Oh, blow!... Midge, you run home and telephone”—she glanced at Midge, so well wrapped up that she was almost circular, and decided that Midge’s best pace would hardly keep up with a very old tortoise with a wooden leg—“No, well, I’ll run and telephone. Midge, you watch by the gate, you might recognize him, Watch him like a hawk! Don’t let him get away!”

  Susan darted off.

  III. ENCOUNTER WITH AN OGRE

  ANYTHING less like a hawk than Tessa it would be difficult to imagine. She watched Susan’s departure with dismay; and nearly panicked when she saw Midge also ambling slowly off. She ambled, rather more quickly, after her and clutched her arm.

  Midge released herself gently and pointed round the corner of the house. “That’s your way, remember? You’re to watch him like a hawk, I have to go to the gate. To cut off his retreat. Or something.” It was really Susan’s retreat that she wanted to cut off, before that mad coot could do something even sillier than usual. Fortunately Joe Taylor, who was a sergeant now, was a great friend of the Carmichaels and Susan and he wouldn’t let her do anything too dotty... She grinned cheerfully at Tessa and disappeared round the side of the house.

  Tessa was horrified. She wouldn’t have minded running for the police, in fact she would have enjoyed it. She wouldn’t have minded standing guard at the gate, at least not much, there were sure to be people passing in Tollgate Road to whom she could go for help if this terrifying intruder should appear... But here she was, alone in this strange garden, with this ghastly demon not twenty feet away from her... And she was supposed to watch him like a hawk and not let him get away...

  She edged unwillingly up to the corner and peered round with extreme caution.

  The man… demon… anyway, he was now up on the low window-sill, if you please, spreadeagled against the window... And now he seemed like a gigantic bat… or a monstrous crow or... But he had a bowler hat on, so he must be a man after all, Tessa supposed, a dangerous man, a burglar. Trembling, she glanced about her for a weapon... And there was one all ready to hand, for leaning against the wall was a rather handsome umbrella with a malacca handle.

  Tessa edged along the wall, inch by inch, and grabbed it. But the man must have caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, or seen her reflection in the glass. He stepped down and turned towards her, looking round and stretching out his hand for his umbrella. But long before he spotted it, Tessa hit him over the head with it. The man tottered to his knees and his bowler hat rolled away over the grass.

  Midge said afterwards that he must have collapsed with shock or old age or something, it certainly couldn’t be the force of the blow. Anyone who had ever seen Tessa with a hockey-stick knew that she couldn’t stun a fly. Anyway, there he was, down on his knees, clutching his head, his bowler hat rolling merrily away.

  Joe Taylor nearly tripped over it as he bounded round the corner, with Susan hot in pursuit. Susan put her foot on it. Midge gave it a little kick for luck as she trotted round the corner after Susan.

  “Now then, now then,” cried Joe, who was always trying to sound like a proper policeman, “what’s all this ’ere?” He ran towards the black figure which was still on its knees—and stopped as abruptly as if he had come up against a brick wall. “Sir Arthur!” he exclaimed.

  Susan stopped too, wishing that she had never started. Sir Arthur Symes was the terror of the neighbourhood.

  Midge unobtrusively kicked the bowler again, a little harder this time, striking a blow for the widows and orphans. Tessa, still clutching the umbrella, looked on in terror at what she had done.

  Sir Arthur was obviously in a flaming temper, muttering furiously, “Disgraceful... quiet stroll round the garden... set upon... dangerous young thugs... gang… set upon... HELP ME UP, TAYLOR, YOU FOOL!”

  Joe jumped guiltily and hurried forward to help Sir Arthur to his feet. Sir Arthur rose unsteadily, hanging on to Joe and still raging. “Thugs... dangerous gang... set upon me, Taylor. I’m bringing a charge, assault and battery... You can take them into custody right away, Taylor—”

  Joe said uncomfortably, “I don’t see how as I can rightly do that, Sir Arthur, sir, seeing as they thought you were a burglar—”

  Sir Arthur almost yelled with rage. “A burglar! How dare you, Taylor! I shall speak to your superior officer about this! Taking a quiet stroll
round a friend’s garden—”

  Susan suddenly found her tongue. “Why were you peering through the windows?” she asked.

  Sir Arthur turned his great beaky face towards her, his little eyes screwed up like a furious pig’s. “You!” he said. “I know you! I’ve had trouble with you before! How dare you set on me—”

  “Actually—” Tessa began, but in so small a whisper that nobody heard her, far less paid any attention to her.

  “You were trespassing,” said Susan.

  “TRESPASSING!” yelled Sir Arthur. “Trespassing! Taking a quiet stroll round a friend’s garden! You may not know it, but this house belongs to a friend of mine, this house belongs to Miss Maggie Zimmerli—”

  “Not now it doesn’t,” said Susan. “It belongs to us.” Sir Arthur glared at her. He opened his mouth once or twice, but no sound came out.

  Susan pressed home her advantage. “Why were you peering in at our windows?” she demanded. “We thought that you were a burglar—”

  “Or a demon,” whispered Tessa, but really in so faint a voice that the dreadful Sir Arthur couldn’t possibly have heard her.

  He had heard Susan, however. “Do you know who I am?” he demanded in an awful voice.

  “Och yes, I know fine who you are,” said Susan recklessly, her Scottish blood rising. “You’re Sir Arthur Symes, the Bad—well, anyway, you’re Sir Arthur Symes, but it doesn’t matter who you are, you have no business in our garden, peering in through our windows.”

  Sir Arthur didn’t attempt to deny it; but he changed his tactics and turned on Tessa, evidently recognizing a weaker vessel. “And you!” he said. “You hit me! With my own umbrella! I shall summons you for assault—”

  Tessa backed away from him like a terrified mouse. She stumbled over the ill-fated bowler and sat down heavily on it. She rolled off it hastily, as if it had been a ball of fire, and knelt there on the grass, on her hands and knees, gazing at it in fascinated horror.

  Susan put herself between Tessa, who was apparently mesmerized, and the terrifying Sir Arthur. “Och away,” she said stoutly, “you’re allowed to hit people if they’re burglars—” She hoped that this was true.

  It might have been true, but it wasn’t a very soothing remark to make. Sir Arthur was nearly hopping with rage. He thrust his great beak towards her. “Burglars!” he spat. “lf you say that to me again, I’ll... I’ll… I shall not stay here to be insulted!” he barked. “Taylor! My hat!”

  Joe jumped to attention, but Midge picked up the bowler and banded it politely to Sir Arthur without a word. Words actually were quite superfluous. It was squashed flatter than a pancake.

  Sir Arthur snatched it out of her hand very rudely. He snatched the umbrella that Joe was handing to him. He shook his umbrella at the girls. “You shall hear more of this!” he said in a dreadful voice and marched off.

  They were thankful to see him go, but Tessa was still trembling. “Now look what I’ve done, I’ve made an Enemy for Life!” she exclaimed in dramatic capitals.

  “You’re in good company,” drawled Midge. “Everybody’s his enemy.”

  Joe had taken off his helmet and was agitatedly mopping his face. “Here I was hoping for a nice burglar to help me promotion to the C.I.D.,” he said, “and after all it was only that wicked old party!”

  “It’s too bad, Joe, really it is,” said Midge warmly. “There isn’t nearly enough crime in Wichwood, that’s what. Actually, there’s no chance for crime with you so quick off the mark. How did you get here so quickly?”

  “Cycling along Tollgate Road I was,” said Joe, “minding me own business, when out rushes Susan. ‘’elp! ’elp!’ she cries. ‘There’s a burglar in our garden!’ I was off that bike in a flash, I was, and here it was nothing but Sir Arthur, up to one of his larks—”

  “You won’t get into trouble over it, Joe, will you?” Susan inquired anxiously.

  “I reckon not,” said Joe philosophically. “He won’t have the cheek to complain to the Inspector, for he was where he didn’t ought to be, right enough, peering into people’s windows and all. But I reckon it won’t do me no good either. It doesn’t do to be in his bad books, wicked old man that he is—”

  “Och, Joe, it wasn’t your fault, we’ll tell the Inspector what happened! Don’t worry, we’ll help you!” cried Susan. “I’d like to-to-to fix that old monster!”

  “Pity you can’t put him in jail,” muttered Tessa.

  Joe laughed. “Best place for him,” he said, going off quite cheerfully to collect his bicycle.

  Susan’s mother arrived just then, full of apologies for locking them out, but with another luscious cake from Fuller’s as a peace offering; and after piles of toasted buns and cake round the fire in the little study with the curtains drawn against the cold winter evening and the bitter wind, Mrs. Lyle went off to the kitchen to do things about dinner. Tessa, who was just catching up with things about two hours late as usual, said, “But who is that dreadful old man? I’ve never been so frightened in my life—”

  “You were right to be frightened,” said Midge in a sinister voice. “He’s an ogre and he eats little girls like you—”

  Tessa jumped and Susan said, “Och away with your nonsense, Midge, it’s no laughing matter—”

  “Me laugh?” said Midge. “He scares me out of my wits—”

  Tessa said patiently, “Yes, but who is he?”

  “Well, he’s Sir Arthur Symes,” said Susan, “the Wicked Baronet, called the Bad Bart for short. We all hate him. He’s a sort of famous collector and I don’t mind telling you that he doesn’t care how he collects. He tried to steal a valuable old book from us last Christmas.”

  Tessa was horrified. Stealing, next, the wicked old man! “If I’d known that he was such a dreadful old ogre,” she said, “I’d never have dared to hit him over the head with a brolly. What does he collect?” she asked as an afterthought.

  “Och, I don’t know,” said Susan. “Anything. Everything. He’s like a magpie. Pictures. Rare old books. Letters—”

  “Letters?”

  “Oh, you know, Tessa, not letters like we write, but letters from famous people like—like—well, like Sir Winston Churchill, say, f’r instance—”

  “Oh?” said Tessa, missing the point as usual. “I’d like to see a letter from Sir Winston— Does he sort of exhibit them, this magpie?”

  “He certainly doesn’t,” said Midge, “just sits in that great house of his, Howletts Mead, it’s called, hoarding all his treasures and gloating over them. Maybe he shows them to his friends, if he has any friends—”

  “Of course he doesn’t show them, how could he,” said Susan, “half of them are stolen or got by cheating some poor old widow woman... I wonder why he was hanging about Maggie’s house, peering in at the windows... What d’you think he was looking for?”

  Midge and Tessa shook their heads. They simply couldn’t imagine.

  “It was the window of the locked room, you know,” Susan went on, “the window of Bluebeard’s Chamber— Do you think that there’s something frightfully valuable in there?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Midge flatly.

  Come to think of it,” Susan said, paying no attention to Midge, “it was rather a queer thing for Maggie to do, lock up the room like that—”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Midge, “it wasn’t queer at all, she must have heard somewhere what a nosy old busybody you are—”

  Susan was absolutely flabbergasted. “Me?” she said. “Nosy? Busybody? You know perfectly well that I gave all that up long ago!... What could be in that room?”

  Midge laughed.

  “I suppose,” Susan said slowly, “that there could be letters from Maggie’s great-grandfather? Is he famous enough?”

  “Well, hardly,” said Midge. “None of us had ever heard of him—”

  “I don’t think that’s anything to go by,” said Tessa. “There must be thousands of famous people that I’ve never heard of—”

&nbsp
; “Even you have heard of people like Sir Winston Churchill or Lawrence of Arabia or Jane Austen, Tessa my love,” said Midge. “It’s these sort of people whose letters are valuable.”

  “Well, there must be something there that the Bad Bart is interested in,” said Susan. “I wouldn’t mind knowing what it is—”

  This was a slight understatement, Midge couldn’t help feeling.

  “How can we find out?” said Susan.

  Tessa had a horrible vision of the whole Christmas holidays being spent satisfying Susan’s curiosity about Bluebeard’s Chamber and getting badly tangled up with that dreadful Sir Magpie in the process.

  “Could we break into the room, d’you think?” Susan was saying.

  “Break the door down with an axe, d’you mean?” said Midge.

  “Perhaps not an axe,” said Susan.

  “Well, I’m no good at picking locks, are you, Tessa?’ asked Midge.

  Tessa gave a small and pathetic yelp. Picking locks, next! Before she knew where she was, she would be firmly launched on a life of crime.

  “Honestly, Midge!” said Susan indignantly. “Picking locks! What d’you take me for?”

  “You might be surprised if I told you,” said Midge.

  “Of course I don’t mean breaking down doors or picking locks,” said Susan, “I only meant say, maybe, f’r instance, getting in by the window—that wouldn’t be breaking in, you can’t break into your own house—”

  “It would be bad enough if you broke the window,” said Midge. “Have some sense—”

  “We could just go round and have a little wee keek...” Susan suggested cajolingly.

  No, they couldn’t, said Midge firmly. What kind of a little wee keek would they get in the pitch dark? Susan’s mother came in just then, with the suggestion that the girls might start making themselves useful, setting the table for supper and so on... And then Susan’s father came home from his office. Much to Tessa’s relief it was a nice, cosy, peaceful evening after all, with no more worrying talk about Bluebeard’s Chamber. Thank goodness, she thought, Susan has forgotten all about it...