The next morning I slept late and awoke to glorious sun streaming in through my open window. I breakfasted well and was on my way to visit Granddad when I heard a voice calling across the parkland: “Hector. Come out this minute, wherever you are. This is no longer funny.”

And Podge’s nanny came into view, looking around anxiously.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“That naughty boy, he’s hiding from me,” she said. “I let him out of his pram because he does so love to run across the grass and now I can’t find him.” She sounded close to tears.

“Don’t worry, he can’t have gone far,” I said, but my insides clenched themselves into a tight knot. I kept telling myself this was a simple case of a naughty three-year-old, but my mind was whispering other, darker possibilities.

“Get Graham to round up the gardeners and gillies to help you look,” I said, indicating one of our groundsmen, who was working in the kitchen garden. “Tell him I said so.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And I’ll start looking too. Where exactly did you lose him?”

“Not far from here. He was playing with his ball on that lawn, running around quite happily. I went to sit on the bench and when I turned back, he was gone. Of course I thought he was just playing a silly trick on Nanny, then I called him and he didn’t answer. Oh, what can have happened to him, my lady?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find him. You didn’t hear the sound of a motor, did you?”

“What do you mean, my lady?”

No sense in alarming her unduly. “Not important. Go and get Graham now. Go on.” I pushed her in the direction of the kitchen garden and I started to hurry toward the spot she had indicated. If he really had run off, or was hiding, he couldn’t have gone too far. He only had little legs. And if his nanny hadn’t heard or noticed a motorcar then it wasn’t likely that someone had driven away with him.

I searched through the shrubbery, calling his name, telling him that Auntie Georgie wanted to play with him, then that his papa wanted to see him—Papa being the most important person in his life. Nothing stirred among the bushes. Perhaps I am overreacting, I told myself. Perhaps he went back to the house to fetch a toy. Perhaps he’s safely in his nursery at this very moment. But I couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread.

I had just reached the driveway when I heard someone calling my name and saw my grandfather waving. “What’s the big hurry, ducks?” he said. “Are you training to run a race?”

“No, Granddad. It’s little Podge, my nephew. He’s missing and I’m worried that—” I let the rest of the sentence drift off into silence.