Missing Joseph by Elizabeth George Page A

surveying the courtyard much as she had done, his eyes blinking slowly as his tail continued to tap in silence. She knew from studying up on the subject in his kitten-days that cats are hypersensitive to changes in the environment, so she rested more easily in the knowledge that Punkin would tell her the very moment there was anything outside that she ought to fear.
    An old lime tree stood just beyond the window, and its branches creaked. Maggie listened hard. Twigs scratched in vibrato against the glass. Something rasped on the old tree’s furrowed bark. It was only the wind, Maggie told herself, but even as she thought this, Punkin gave the signal that something wasn’t right. He rose with an arching back.
    Maggie’s heart thumped jerkily. Punkin launched himself from the window-sill and landed on the rag rug. He was through the door in a streak of orange locomotion before Maggie had time to realise that someone must have climbed the tree.
    And then it was too late. She heard the soft thud of a body landing on the slate roof of the cottage. The quiet tread of footsteps followed. Then came the sound of gentle rapping on the glass.
    This last made no sense. As far as she knew, housebreakers didn’t announce themselves. Unless, of course, they were trying to see if anyone was at home. But even then, it seemed more sensible to think that they’d just knock on the door or ring the front bell and wait for an answer.
    She wanted to shout, You’ve got the wrong place, whoever you are, you want the Hall, don’t you? But instead she lowered her scrapbook to the floor next to the bed and slid along the wall into the deeper shadows. Her palms felt itchy. Her stomach rolled. She wanted more than anything to call out for her mummy, but that would be of less than no use. A moment later she was glad of the fact.
    â€œMaggie? Are you there?” she heard him call softly. “Open up, will you? I’m freezing my bum off.”
    Nick! Maggie dashed across the room. She could see him, crouched on the slope of roof just outside the dormer window, grinning at her, his silky black hair brushing against his cheeks like soft bird’s wings. She fumbled with the lock. Nick, Nick, she thought. But just as she was about to fling up the sash, she heard Mummy saying, “I don’t want you alone with Nick Ware again. Is that clear, Margaret Jane? No more of that. It’s over.” Her fingers failed her.
    â€œMaggie!” Nick whispered. “Let me in! It’s cold.”
    She’d given her word. Mummy had been driven close to tears during their row, and the sight of her eyes red-rimmed and full over Maggie’s behaviour and Maggie’s stinging words had wrung the promise from her without a thought of what it would really mean to give it.
    â€œI can’t,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNick, Mummy isn’t home. She’s gone into the village with Mr. Shepherd. I promised her—”
    He was grinning more widely. “Great. Excellent. Come on, Mag. Let me in.”
    She swallowed past a raw spot in her throat. “I can’t. I can’t see you alone. I promised.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause…Nick, you know.”
    His hand was against the window glass, and he dropped it to his side. “But I just wanted to show you…Oh what the hell.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing. Forget it. Never mind.”
    â€œNick, tell me.”
    He turned his head away. He wore his hair bobbed, overlong on the top the way the rest of the boys did, but it never looked trendy on him. It looked right, as if he’d been the style’s inventor.
    â€œNick.”
    â€œJust a letter,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”
    â€œA letter? From who?”
    â€œIt isn’t important.”
    â€œBut if you’ve come all this way—” Then she remembered. “Nick, you’ve not heard from Lester Piggott? Is that