by Anna Dale
There was a loud bump and a discordant series of clangs and tings, which sounded as if somebody had dropped a cutlery set on the floor. Moments later, a flash of sheet lightning lit up the shop, and Arthur and Susan ducked behind their bookcase, but not before they had glimpsed Mr Claggitt emerging from the stairwell, with his arms full of silverware and his boots caked in yellow gunge.
‘Had a bit of an accident,’ they heard Mr Claggitt say. ‘I’m no stranger to those, of course. Fallen down a fair few crevasses in my time, but I’ve never come a cropper on a staircase.’
Arthur and Susan froze when they heard Mr Claggitt’s words and saw the vibrant colour of his boots. They both guessed immediately that the second to last stair had turned to custard, which meant that, in the next few minutes, the magic would go haywire.
Torn between wanting to see the magic misbehave and getting out of the shop to a place where their safety could be assured, Arthur and Susan waited to see what would happen.
‘How much for this?’ The woman in the headscarf had had the cheek to remove a picture from the wall, which belonged to Mr Hardbattle. As she thrust the painting of Lake Tahoe at Mrs Voysey-Brown, a flock of ducks circled the lake and flew straight out of the painting. They flew in a ‘V’ formation all around the shop, emitting loud quacks with every flap of their wings.
‘Where’d they come from?’ One of the beefy men shielded his head with a silver tea tray as the flock of ducks careered past. ‘Ruddy ’ell! They’ll wake the neighbours! Hilary, don’t you usually carry a shotgun in your boot?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the woman in the headscarf said. ‘I’ve got my twelve-bore in my Land Rover, but I couldn’t possibly shoot these ducks! It’s not duck-shooting season till September!’
The man put down the tea tray and called out to his mates. ‘Come on, fellas! We should go! In five minutes, the rozzers are gonna be crawling all over this joint!’ Buttoning his jacket over a carriage clock and a marble bust, the man set off at a jog towards the door.
At the mention of the police, everyone seemed to agree that they had spent enough and that they had no room left in their vehicles or in their briefcases for anything else. Purses were put away and wallets were snapped shut. Unnerved by the ducks, which they seemed to regard as some sort of booby trap, all of the dealers gathered together their purchases and fled.
‘We ought to scram too,’ said Arthur to Susan. He knew from Mr Hardbattle’s instructions that it was not wise to stick around when the magic was about to lose control, and besides, they had seen everything that they needed to see. As they turned to leave the shop, Susan trod on Scallywag’s paw.
The dog’s yelp of pain was shrill, and in seconds Susan and Arthur had been discovered and surrounded.
‘Well, well, well . . . what have we here?’ said Mr Claggitt, holding a candle aloft so that its golden light fell on their horror-stricken faces.
‘I could’ve sworn I put that pooch in the shed,’ muttered Jimmy, ‘and how the hell did Susie get out of her room?’
Mrs Voysey-Brown eyed Jimmy coldly. She looked the most displeased to have found out that they had been spied upon. ‘Susan can’t have been in her room when you locked it, you fool!’ she snapped.
As well as feeling mortified that they had been caught, Arthur and Susan were also disturbed by the change that they could detect in the air. The magic’s energy was building, and it was unlikely to be long before the magic let rip.
Standing close together, they weighed up their chances of dodging past the three grown-ups and reaching the door to the street.
‘We should at least try,’ whispered Susan.
Arthur nodded. ‘Yeah. Ready? After the count of three . . .’
A noise like a popping cork caused Arthur and Susan to glance at each other, and their uneasiness turned to fear when a few seconds later, the floor of the bookshop began to vibrate. After a similar interval, the bookcases started to tilt and books drummed on to the floor, sending up clouds of choking dust. If Mrs Voysey-Brown had been auditioning for a horror film, the scream that she gave would have earned her the part. Everyone else doubled up, coughing, but when the air had cleared a little, Susan and Arthur seized their chance to escape.
They darted past the three grown-ups, intending to race as fast as they could through the shop until they reached the way out. If their route had been straight and their path unobstructed, they might have achieved their aim, but the shop was like a labyrinth and Arthur and Susan had to keep changing direction to weave in and out of the alcoves. Their goal was not made easier by having to swerve to avoid falling books or being forced to scramble over mounds of them.
Without Susan’s torch, they would have been very lucky to stumble on the exit, but even with its beam they found that they kept hitting dead ends. Every time that they had to turn round and go back, they grew more panicky, conscious all the while that their pursuers were right on their tail.
The turning point came when the books joined in the chase. Finding themselves at the mercy of Mrs Voysey-Brown (who could run like a gazelle when she felt like it), Arthur and Susan thought that their number was up. However, their view changed when a heap of books nearby sprang to life and formed a staircase that the children eagerly scurried up. (The lower part collapsed when Mrs Voysey-Brown tried to do the same.)
As the chase progressed, Arthur and Susan were saved over and over again by the books. As well as more staircases, the magic conjured up bridges, slides, and on one occasion, a travelator.
All this exertion meant, however, that the magic tired itself out. Before half an hour was up, the floorboards stopped vibrating and the books lay still. Silently, the ducks glided back into their painting, landing on Lake Tahoe with a waggle of their tails.
Youth was on their side, but Arthur and Susan did not turn out to be the fittest in the shop. Drawing on his impressive reserves of stamina, it was Mr Claggitt who emerged from the wreckage, triumphant, with a child in each hand and Scallywag hanging off his trouser leg. Years of clinging on to rock faces with his fingertips had made Mr Claggitt’s grip incredibly strong and, although they tried their hardest, neither Arthur nor Susan were able to free themselves.
A candle was found and relit, and a couple of chairs were recovered from underneath a pile of books. Mrs Voysey-Brown and Jimmy sat down on the chairs, while the others perched side by side on an overturned bookcase. Everyone looked exhausted and the worse for wear.
‘We know you’re behind all the burglaries in the papers!’ burst out Arthur, aiming a kick at Mr Claggitt’s shins.
Mrs Voysey-Brown smiled. ‘Is that so?’
‘It’s wrong to steal,’ said Susan. ‘I think it might be against the law.’
‘So, what you gonna do, pipsqueaks?’ Jimmy said, smirking at them. ‘Hand us over to the cops?’
‘Maybe we will!’ said Arthur boldly, sticking out his chin.
Clenching the collar of Arthur’s pyjama top, Mr Claggitt gave him a shake.
‘No, you won’t, sonny boy,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you why. You and little Susie here are in this up to your necks –’
Before Mr Claggitt could expand on why Susan and Arthur would be unwise to involve the police, there was a noise on the stairs and Miss Quint appeared at their foot in her dressing gown and slippers. She looked cross and also a little bit smug.
‘I’ve a hunch it was you!’ she said, pointing a finger at Jimmy. ‘You’re the sort of prankster who would lock us in our rooms. Thought it was hilarious, I’ll bet! Well, as you can see . . . I’m not easily beaten. You’ll have to try harder than that to get the better of Beatrice Quint!’
Having decided that Jimmy was the culprit who had locked her in, Miss Quint proceeded to tell them how she had engineered her escape. Not possessing the sort of shoulders that could knock down a door, she had settled on attempting to pick the lo
ck. After hours of trying, she had finally found the winning combination of a nail file and a kirby grip.
When she had finished blathering on about how resourceful she had been, it dawned on Miss Quint that Arthur should have been at home in bed, and that the shop looked as if a herd of wildebeest had rampaged through it.
‘The magic’s gone crazy again,’ said Arthur, seeing the look of surprise on her face.
Slowly, Miss Quint began to accept that she had probably made a mistake. Too proud to ask the others to explain what had happened, she tried to hide her embarrassment by burbling at top speed. ‘I was about to insist that you let Mr Hardbattle out of the bathroom, but I heard him snoring as I came past the door. It would be kinder to let him sleep, I think, all things considered. So that’s why you locked us in our rooms! You wanted to keep us safe while the magic caused a rumpus. Well, why didn’t you say?’
‘Actually –’ began Arthur, but Miss Quint would not listen. She fancied that she had solved the conundrum of why five people were gathered downstairs in the wee small hours.
‘It’s sweet of you to tidy up the mess,’ she interrupted, keen to make amends for her blunder earlier when she had accused Jimmy of playing a practical joke. ‘It’s kind . . . very kind, but Arthur and Susan should be in bed. The clear-up can wait until tomorrow, don’t you agree?’
Arthur could not believe his ears. He wondered if it was sleepiness rather than stupidity which had caused Miss Quint to misinterpret what was going on.
‘But, Miss Quint –’ began Arthur.
‘There’s something we ought to tell you!’ said Susan.
Miss Quint wrinkled her nose with displeasure and intimated that they should be quiet.
‘Whatever you children have to say, I’m sure it can wait until morning,’ she said. ‘Arthur, did you arrive on your bike? Well, what are you waiting for? Off you scoot!’
.
Chapter Twenty-One
After the Storm
By morning, the sky had been wiped clean, the rain clouds had moved on and the thunderstorm’s bequest to the new day was a cool, fresh breeze. Puddles shone, grass gleamed and birdsong pierced the air.
Outdoors, all was right with the world, but inside the bookshop, it was a different story. There were books and furniture strewn everywhere, and Susan was having an awful job trying to make Miss Quint see reason.
Both had risen early. Miss Quint had wanted to get up at first light so that the bookshop could be restored to a half decent state by the time that it was due to open, and Susan, who had barely slept a wink, had wanted to tell Miss Quint as soon as she was able that Jimmy, Mr Claggitt and Mrs Voysey-Brown were a band of thieves.
As soon as she had heard the joggling of a doorknob and the creak of the broom cupboard door opening wide, Susan had jumped out of bed, pulled on some shorts and followed Miss Quint downstairs.
Miss Quint had already begun to clear up when Susan made an appearance, and refused to take a break from sweeping the floor to focus on what Susan had to say. While Miss Quint’s indifference was discouraging, Susan did not let it deter her from launching into her account of what had happened during the night. She explained about her trek across town, Vijay’s map, her ride on a bike, the secret knock and the sale of stolen antiques.
When Susan had finished, Miss Quint straightened up and examined the head of her broom. ‘This could do with having stiffer bristles,’ she observed.
‘You do believe me, don’t you, Miss Quint?’ asked Susan, wondering if Miss Quint had listened to a word she had said.
Having had her eyes fixed firmly on the floor during Susan’s lengthy narration of events, Miss Quint looked up and gazed directly at her. ‘It sounds far-fetched,’ she said. ‘Might you have dreamed it?’
Susan was indignant. ‘Of course not!’ she said.
‘You expect me to believe that the people lodging here – my guests – are a band of scheming crooks?’ asked Miss Quint. ‘Jimmy’s just a normal lad who likes to play the fool and you can’t think a respected mountaineer like Mr Claggitt would be involved in anything underhand! As for Mrs Voysey-Brown . . . have you ever heard of a film star leading a life of crime?’
‘But it’s true!’ insisted Susan.
‘True, she says!’ muttered Miss Quint, shaking her head in disbelief. She turned her broom the right way up, propped it against a bookcase and knelt down on the floor to gather up some books.
Susan did not offer to help straight away because Miss Quint had riled her, but standing by and watching while someone else worked made Susan feel increasingly embarrassed, and after a couple of minutes, she offered to lend a hand.
It was only when they happened upon some antiques amongst the debris that Miss Quint began to believe that Susan might be telling the truth. They collected together a brass doorknocker, a picture of fruit in a bowl, a silver tea tray and an ornamental lion. Miss Quint locked them all in the cupboard under the stairs, and apologised to Susan for doubting her.
‘It’s quite incredible, but it does make sense,’ Miss Quint conceded, weighing up all the evidence in her mind. Crime had never been a major problem in Plumford. It was only after she had wished for the book characters to be real that the incidents of burglary and shoplifting had soared, and on the day that antiques had been filched from stately homes, Jimmy, Mr Claggitt and Mrs Voysey-Brown had admitted to driving into the country in Mr Hardbattle’s van.
Miss Quint praised Susan’s pluck and ingenuity, and then subjected her to a telling-off. Climbing down a tree in the dark Miss Quint described as ‘reckless’, and roaming the streets of Plumford on her own she summed up as ‘foolhardy’. Finally, she secured Susan’s word that she would never go off by herself at such a late hour again.
They wrestled with a bookcase and managed to stand it upright.
‘What should we tell Mr Hardbattle?’ asked Susan as she started to fill the empty shelves.
‘I’ll tell him that it was me who locked him in,’ said Miss Quint, ‘and that I did it for his own safety because the magic was set to go wild.’
Susan picked up another stack of books from the floor. ‘Shouldn’t we mention that he’s got some burglars living under his roof?’
‘No, we certainly shouldn’t!’ said Miss Quint. She noticed that Susan looked troubled about keeping this information from Mr Hardbattle, and thought of a way to mollify her. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Miss Quint, squeezing Susan’s arm and speaking in a gentle voice. ‘While Mr Hardbattle’s opening up, you and I will whizz upstairs and speak to those three scoundrels. We’ll make them see that what they’ve done is wrong and tell them to give back all the things they’ve stolen. There won’t be any need to bother Mr Hardbattle once this mess has been sorted out. He’s got enough on his plate, poor man, what with arranging the rehoming of the magic.’
The plan met with Susan’s approval, and they carried on with their wearisome task, but had to suspend their tidying temporarily when, at seven thirty sharp, the phone began to ring.
Miss Quint snatched up the receiver. It was Arthur. Having had a restless night like Susan, he had woken up at six a.m. and waited until a civilised hour before telephoning the shop.
‘So, Suze has told you everything?’ said Arthur.
‘She has,’ replied Miss Quint. ‘Though I’ll admit I was sceptical at first. It beggars belief that our guests are involved in the burglary business!’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Arthur curtly, ‘but they are.’
Creaks were heard through the ceiling, and Miss Quint panicked and almost dropped the phone. Worrying that Mr Hardbattle had woken up, and might come downstairs and overhear their conversation, she insisted that they should end their call immediately. Arthur agreed to meet Miss Quint and Susan later on that morning at an eatery in town where they would be able to talk freely.
At ten o’clock, Arthur, Susan and Miss Quint convened at The Blue Wisteria Tea Rooms. They sought out a table in the darkest, most secluded nook.
‘The question is, what are we going to do?’ said Arthur, perusing the menu while he waited for an answer.
No one spoke, but Miss Quint made a high sound in her throat. She seized a paper napkin and dabbed away the tears, which were welling in her eyes.
‘Oh, Miss Quint!’ said Susan, overcome with sympathy.
Arthur looked up from the menu and was surprised to see Miss Quint in such a wretched state. He was just about to ask what had caused her to get so upset when he saw a waitress approaching with a notepad in her hand. He thrust the menu at Miss Quint and she hid her tear-streaked face behind it.
Arthur ordered for the three of them, and when the waitress was out of earshot he whipped the menu out of Miss Quint’s hands.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you,’ Miss Quint said, her voice cracking slightly, ‘that when someone’s been accused of stealing, they’d try to deny it or be ashamed of what they’d done! Not our bunch of miscreants! They confessed to the thieving just like that!’ Miss Quint snapped her fingers, then her bottom lip trembled and more tears flowed. ‘And were they repentant?’ she said. ‘Not a bit of it! They boasted about how clever they’d been and wouldn’t hear of bringing an end to their crime spree, let alone returning what they’d already taken.’
Arthur took a deep breath. ‘Then we’ll have to go to the police.’
‘We can’t!’ said Susan. ‘We’re part of the gang! We’ve handled stolen goods! And we haven’t just handled them, we’ve eaten them!’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Arthur.
‘The ices!’ said Susan, gripping the edge of the table earnestly. ‘We each had one on that day we went to Plentiful Sands!’
Arthur was appalled. ‘You mean those ice creams were stolen?’
‘And the plastic ball and the deckchair and the sun hats and the bucket and spade,’ Miss Quint revealed. ‘Jimmy pilfered all of them from people on the beach.’