the very latest alarm system with red and blue warning lights, sonic intruder devices and a whooping siren. Soapy Sam seemed to have melted through the walls of their house and stolen a four-hundred-year-old tennis-racket in a glass case, and a worm-eaten piano stool that Mozart was supposed to have sat on for two minutes at the age of five.
‘Isn’t that shocking?’ Viola Fortune said.
‘It’s outrageous,’ Peter agreed.
But when his mother had gone, he punched the air in excitement. Soapy Sam was on his way! Peter had no reason to believe that his own house, number 38, would be next. He had made up his mind because he wanted it to happen, and somehow that seemed enough. Nor could he possibly know when the next break-in would be. But he had made a guess and decided that Soapy Sam would be visiting in four or five days’ time.
Now, while Peter was making arrangements to be ill, he was also wondering how he was going to trap the thief. He day- dreamed his way through trap-doors, a net that fell from the ceiling, a gold ingot covered in super glue, electric cable wired to door handles, imitation guns, poisoned darts, lassoes, pulleys and ropes, hammers, springs, halogen lights and fierce dogs, smokescreens, laser beams, piano wire and a garden fork. But Peter was not a fool. He knew perfectly well that all these ideas could work, but he also knew that, for an eleven-year-old, making them work was almost impossible.
That Saturday morning he lay on his bed thinking. He found himself staring at the old mouse-hole in the skirting board near his bed. There were no mice in there these days, and the hole seemed to go on for ever under the wall, and down below the floorboards. Then he stared up at the shelf where he kept his most valuable possessions and suddenly he saw the solution. Whatever he did, it had to be simple. There was the mouse- hole, and up there was last year’s birthday present, appearing to look at him and say, ‘Use me! Use me!’
He sat at his table, took a sheet of paper and with a trembling hand wrote a short letter, perhaps the most important letter he had ever written. Then he sealed it in an envelope which he wrote on and took down stairs to the desk where all the household bills were kept. He tucked it away, just out of sight, but easily found. Written in block capitals on that envelope were the words ‘To be opened in the event of my sudden death’.
Viola Fortune prided herself on her deep understanding of her children. She knew their moods, their weaknesses, their worries and everything else about them far better than they knew them- selves. For example, she knew when Peter or Kate were tired, long before they actually felt tired. She knew when they were really in a bad mood, even if they thought they were in a good one. That Sunday evening, she quietly observed that Peter was rather slow in coming to the supper table when called, that he finished his plate, but with an effort that he could conceal from anyone but her, and that when he was offered seconds, his upper lip quivered in disguised disgust. And this was steak and crinkle-cut french fries under a half litre of ketchup.
‘Peter darling. You don’t look well,’ she said at last.
‘I feel great,’ he said, and sighed and ran his hand across his face.
‘I think you might need an early night,’ Viola said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Peter said, but his mother noted wisely that he didn’t say it with the usual force. When he was ordered into his pyjamas after supper, he put up only token resistance. When she peeped into his bedroom twenty minutes later, he was already asleep. He couldn’t fool me, she thought as she tiptoed away. He really isn’t well.
Peter lay awake until midnight making his plans. In the morning his mother could see for herself how pale and droopy he looked. She took his temperature. Nothing too serious, but it was clear he could not go to school, however much he pleaded. He was well enough to read and
‘Isn’t that shocking?’ Viola Fortune said.
‘It’s outrageous,’ Peter agreed.
But when his mother had gone, he punched the air in excitement. Soapy Sam was on his way! Peter had no reason to believe that his own house, number 38, would be next. He had made up his mind because he wanted it to happen, and somehow that seemed enough. Nor could he possibly know when the next break-in would be. But he had made a guess and decided that Soapy Sam would be visiting in four or five days’ time.
Now, while Peter was making arrangements to be ill, he was also wondering how he was going to trap the thief. He day- dreamed his way through trap-doors, a net that fell from the ceiling, a gold ingot covered in super glue, electric cable wired to door handles, imitation guns, poisoned darts, lassoes, pulleys and ropes, hammers, springs, halogen lights and fierce dogs, smokescreens, laser beams, piano wire and a garden fork. But Peter was not a fool. He knew perfectly well that all these ideas could work, but he also knew that, for an eleven-year-old, making them work was almost impossible.
That Saturday morning he lay on his bed thinking. He found himself staring at the old mouse-hole in the skirting board near his bed. There were no mice in there these days, and the hole seemed to go on for ever under the wall, and down below the floorboards. Then he stared up at the shelf where he kept his most valuable possessions and suddenly he saw the solution. Whatever he did, it had to be simple. There was the mouse- hole, and up there was last year’s birthday present, appearing to look at him and say, ‘Use me! Use me!’
He sat at his table, took a sheet of paper and with a trembling hand wrote a short letter, perhaps the most important letter he had ever written. Then he sealed it in an envelope which he wrote on and took down stairs to the desk where all the household bills were kept. He tucked it away, just out of sight, but easily found. Written in block capitals on that envelope were the words ‘To be opened in the event of my sudden death’.
Viola Fortune prided herself on her deep understanding of her children. She knew their moods, their weaknesses, their worries and everything else about them far better than they knew them- selves. For example, she knew when Peter or Kate were tired, long before they actually felt tired. She knew when they were really in a bad mood, even if they thought they were in a good one. That Sunday evening, she quietly observed that Peter was rather slow in coming to the supper table when called, that he finished his plate, but with an effort that he could conceal from anyone but her, and that when he was offered seconds, his upper lip quivered in disguised disgust. And this was steak and crinkle-cut french fries under a half litre of ketchup.
‘Peter darling. You don’t look well,’ she said at last.
‘I feel great,’ he said, and sighed and ran his hand across his face.
‘I think you might need an early night,’ Viola said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Peter said, but his mother noted wisely that he didn’t say it with the usual force. When he was ordered into his pyjamas after supper, he put up only token resistance. When she peeped into his bedroom twenty minutes later, he was already asleep. He couldn’t fool me, she thought as she tiptoed away. He really isn’t well.
Peter lay awake until midnight making his plans. In the morning his mother could see for herself how pale and droopy he looked. She took his temperature. Nothing too serious, but it was clear he could not go to school, however much he pleaded. He was well enough to read and
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