spoke to him. He fondled the cat’s ears, and stroked his fur. The cat pressed its face against Seeward’s chest. All this time, the rabbit (sensibly) backed off; but it didn’t have the requisite athletic skill to jump to the groundand run away. Seeward placed the rabbit facing the cat – about two feet away. And then, in the blinking of an eye, three things happened. The cat looked up at Seeward, who nodded. The cat made the slightest dart forward with his head, as if hissing. And the rabbit fell back, dead.
Seeward then approached the camera, and went behind it; there was a wobble as the camera was handed over to him; then a second figure – presumably the cameraman, relieved of his duties – walked to the table, to examine the body. He was a pale young lad in agricultural attire, nothing like the sort of person normally seen at Seeward’s house parties.
He looked astonished. He held the rabbit up by the leg. “It’s dead,” he mouthed, looking towards the camera. He pulled a face. Then three things happened very quickly again. The cat looked quickly in the direction of the camera, then made the same small hissing motion as before, and the farmer boy instantly dropped to the ground.
It was the end of the footage. I switched off the computer. There was a buzzing in my head, but otherwise it was quiet. I rubbed my temples and sighed.
It was only then that I realised Watson wasn’t barking any more.
“Watson?” I called. “Watson, where are you? Are you all right?”
There was no response. The house was silent. I stood up and went to the hallway. “Watson? Watson, where are you?” I went to the kitchen – and he wasn’t there. I tried the back door; it was locked. Where had he gone? Why wouldn’t he come when I called him?
“Watson!”
Not a sound. No pitter-pat of claws on the floorboards; no woof; nothing. I shiver of dread went through me. Oh no. Oh no, not Watson. He’s all I have.
“Watson, where are you?”
I stopped breathing and closed my eyes. In all my resolutions about finding Seeward’s book, keeping it from the Captain, and not trusting Roger further than I could throw him, I’d forgotten the most important thing of all: protect Watson. Protect Watson from everything: from evil cats using the hinges of heavy gates as a kind of nutcracking device; from evil cats who could cause instant death with a single application of overpowering malevolence. To lose my dog would be beyond endurance. What had he been barking at, just now? Why hadn’t I paid attention to him? What had he been barking at?
“Watson!” I called, from the hallway. “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you’re not hurt!”
I stood still and listened. I could barely keep myself from weeping. How Mary had loved him. How we had both loved that little dog. How I needed him now, more than ever.
“Watson?” I tried to say it calmly. And at last I got a response.
“Alec, in here.”
I jumped in the air.
“Alec, in the living room. Don’t turn the light on.”
It was a male voice, with a clipped, authoritative, unflappable tone. I stopped breathing. Who was it? Who was in my house? How had he got in? What had he done with Watson? He was telling me to go into the living room, but I wasn’t obeying. Not because I was brave or defiant, but because in this situation I just couldn’t move my legs.
I forced myself to take a deep breath. “Where’s Watson?” I demanded. “What have you done with him?”
“Listen, we have to get out of here, and I’ve got a plan. Pack enough chicken treats for a fortnight.”
What can I say? It was Watson. And believe it or not, he sounded exactly like Daniel Craig.
PART THREE
CORRESPONDENCE
Email from Alec Charlesworth to William Caton-Pines
Sent: Thursday, January 15, 4:25 PM
Subject: Roger
Attachments: Beside the sea (folder) and HOME (file)
Dear William Caton-Pines,
This is a very difficult email to write. The long and short of it is that I
Seeward then approached the camera, and went behind it; there was a wobble as the camera was handed over to him; then a second figure – presumably the cameraman, relieved of his duties – walked to the table, to examine the body. He was a pale young lad in agricultural attire, nothing like the sort of person normally seen at Seeward’s house parties.
He looked astonished. He held the rabbit up by the leg. “It’s dead,” he mouthed, looking towards the camera. He pulled a face. Then three things happened very quickly again. The cat looked quickly in the direction of the camera, then made the same small hissing motion as before, and the farmer boy instantly dropped to the ground.
It was the end of the footage. I switched off the computer. There was a buzzing in my head, but otherwise it was quiet. I rubbed my temples and sighed.
It was only then that I realised Watson wasn’t barking any more.
“Watson?” I called. “Watson, where are you? Are you all right?”
There was no response. The house was silent. I stood up and went to the hallway. “Watson? Watson, where are you?” I went to the kitchen – and he wasn’t there. I tried the back door; it was locked. Where had he gone? Why wouldn’t he come when I called him?
“Watson!”
Not a sound. No pitter-pat of claws on the floorboards; no woof; nothing. I shiver of dread went through me. Oh no. Oh no, not Watson. He’s all I have.
“Watson, where are you?”
I stopped breathing and closed my eyes. In all my resolutions about finding Seeward’s book, keeping it from the Captain, and not trusting Roger further than I could throw him, I’d forgotten the most important thing of all: protect Watson. Protect Watson from everything: from evil cats using the hinges of heavy gates as a kind of nutcracking device; from evil cats who could cause instant death with a single application of overpowering malevolence. To lose my dog would be beyond endurance. What had he been barking at, just now? Why hadn’t I paid attention to him? What had he been barking at?
“Watson!” I called, from the hallway. “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you’re not hurt!”
I stood still and listened. I could barely keep myself from weeping. How Mary had loved him. How we had both loved that little dog. How I needed him now, more than ever.
“Watson?” I tried to say it calmly. And at last I got a response.
“Alec, in here.”
I jumped in the air.
“Alec, in the living room. Don’t turn the light on.”
It was a male voice, with a clipped, authoritative, unflappable tone. I stopped breathing. Who was it? Who was in my house? How had he got in? What had he done with Watson? He was telling me to go into the living room, but I wasn’t obeying. Not because I was brave or defiant, but because in this situation I just couldn’t move my legs.
I forced myself to take a deep breath. “Where’s Watson?” I demanded. “What have you done with him?”
“Listen, we have to get out of here, and I’ve got a plan. Pack enough chicken treats for a fortnight.”
What can I say? It was Watson. And believe it or not, he sounded exactly like Daniel Craig.
PART THREE
CORRESPONDENCE
Email from Alec Charlesworth to William Caton-Pines
Sent: Thursday, January 15, 4:25 PM
Subject: Roger
Attachments: Beside the sea (folder) and HOME (file)
Dear William Caton-Pines,
This is a very difficult email to write. The long and short of it is that I
Similar Books
