In Secret Seven Mystery, the ninth instalment of Enid Blyton’s increasingly formulaic series, the Secret Seven once again find themselves investigating a case that, in the real world, would have been best left to the professionals. But of course, why leave things to competent adults when you can have seven children stumble their way through an investigation, somehow cracking a case that the entire police force can’t seem to handle?
This time, the mystery involves a girl named Elizabeth Sonning, who disappears from her boarding school after being falsely accused of stealing money. Naturally, the police are called in, but because Blyton can’t let the authorities outshine her young detectives, the Secret Seven quickly get involved. The police, we’re told, are doing what they can—staking out Elizabeth’s grandmother’s house, sending messages to Elizabeth’s brother Charles in France, and probably wishing the Secret Seven would stop sticking their noses in police business. But none of their formal efforts seem to bear fruit because, let’s face it, in Blyton’s world, police work is hopeless without a gaggle of children running around pointing out the obvious.
Elizabeth, proving she’s far cleverer than anyone in the Seven would give her credit for, cuts her hair short and pretends to be a boy named “Tom.” Because in the world of Secret Seven, no girl is ever expected to be resourceful enough to pull off such a disguise. Meanwhile, the police are busy staking out the wrong places and alerting Charles, who is dragged back from France for a family emergency that probably could have been solved by a single competent adult in the village.
Enter the Secret Seven—Peter, Janet, Jack, Barbara, George, Pam, and Colin—who, despite being less experienced than the police, feel absolutely certain they can do a better job of finding Elizabeth. They start poking around, sniffing out clues with all the subtlety of a dog in a butcher shop. Their ace detective work? They happen to notice a stable-boy named “Tom” at Warners, who doesn’t quite fit in. Of course, no one in the group immediately realises that “Tom” is Elizabeth in disguise because the Seven are too busy congratulating themselves on having spotted a mildly suspicious gas fire in their last adventure.
Peter—being the self-appointed Sherlock Holmes of this gang—finally begins to put two and two together after Charles arrives from France. Not because he’s a genius or anything, but because even he can’t ignore how much “Tom” resembles Charles. Yet, instead of suspecting something straight away, Peter dithers about in the usual fashion, letting Blyton stretch the story out for another few pages before the inevitable “aha!” moment finally arrives.
In a twist that’s less surprising and more groan-inducing, the Seven finally realise that Tom is Elizabeth, master of disguise. The fact that no one in the police force—or the Secret Seven, for that matter—figured this out sooner is a testament to just how little attention anyone in this story seems to pay. And when the truth does come out, it’s wrapped up with a neat little bow, as always. The real thief is revealed (not Elizabeth, of course), and she’s able to return home, her reputation restored, all thanks to a combination of police work and a bit of lucky child-detective meddling.
To add insult to injury, Peter and the boys, as usual, take all the credit for “solving” the case, while Janet and the other girls are relegated to roles more suited to minor bystanders than actual contributors. And, of course, Susie—who once again misses out on the action simply because she’s not part of the exclusive club. Perhaps the most glaring mystery in this series is why Blyton never gave Susie her own detective series; she’d surely outsmart Peter and his oblivious band in no time.
In the end, Secret Seven Mystery is a story where the police are baffled, the children solve everything (somehow), and the mystery is solved with all the subtlety and elegance of a sledgehammer to the head. As always, the Secret Seven emerge victorious—though by sheer luck rather than any real detective skill—and the case is wrapped up with a good old-fashioned Blyton ending: clean, neat, and utterly ridiculous.