Page 162 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘What is it?’ called Jean.

‘I reckon the dog’s gone missing again.’

She grabbed her coat and hurried outside.

‘Nate!’ she called. ‘What’s happened?’

Nate spun around, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘Stop It . . . he’s gone.’

Sammy’s stomach dropped. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘He slipped his lead when Magnus was walking him. Nobody’s seen him for over an hour.’ Nate glanced towards the lane as if expecting the dog to appear. ‘Magnus has half the village out looking already.’

All Sammy could think of was Stop It racing through the orchards, frightened and confused. ‘We’ll find him.’ Nate gave a short nod, but the strain around his eyes didn’t ease. ‘I’ll help search.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Of course I do.’

Their eyes met. She saw the worry there now, stripped bare.

‘I’ll check the lake,’ she said. ‘He always liked walking down there . . .’ her voice caught, ‘when we fed the ducks.’

‘Good idea.’ He took a step after her. ‘Have you got your phone?’

She patted a pocket.

‘Ring me if you see anything. Anything at all.’

‘I will.’

Then she was running.

Sammy jogged down the track, the evening quiet punctuated by shouts of ‘Stop It!’ and ‘Come on, boy!’

At the fork she spotted Magnus. She barely recognised him. His jacket and tie were missing, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The top button of his shirt hung open. Sweat beaded along his forehead.

When he saw her, relief shot across his face. ‘Miss Jenkins.’

‘I’m going to check the lake.’

‘Very good.’ He said, then added in a rush of words. ‘If you see him, telephone me immediately. Anything at all.’

‘I will. Have you . . . have you told Mrs Hastings?’

The colour drained from his face. ‘Not yet.’ He looked away, and if she hadn’t known better, Sammy would have sworn his chin wobbled. ‘If I cannot find him, I shall have to.’

Something tightened in Sammy’s chest. Magnus looked genuinely frightened. ‘We’ll find him,’ she said.

His gaze returned to hers. ‘Thank you for helping.’ The words sounded awkward, as though gratitude was not something he practised often.

Sammy ran down the path to the lake.

The water stretched away into darkness. No sign of a white dog.

What if he’d reached the road this time? What if he was wandering lost around the village, or lying injured?

She swept her phone torch slowly around the banks. ‘Come on, bully boy.’