Ronny jammed on the brakes. I jumped out before the motorcar came to a complete stop and ran across to an old boathouse, perched on the edge of the loch. Outside the boathouse I had spotted another glimpse of red. It was a second toy soldier. Ronny had come to join me. I held it up for her.

“Do you think he’s gone in there?” she asked. She started to open the rotting door with great caution. “He must be an adventurous little chap.”

“Maybe someone’s taken him in there,” I said, my voice literally shaking with terror by now.

“The door wasn’t properly shut,” she said, pulling it wide open now. “It’s awfully dark in here.” She glanced back at me. “Podge? Is that his name?” she asked, then called, “Podge, are you in here?” Then she turned back. “I think I might have a torch in the car.”

I stepped inside, dreading what I might be about to find. The only light came from the reflection on the water that lapped a long way below me. A walkway ran along three sides. Up here it was shrouded in gloom and smelled overpoweringly damp and mildewy. I started to poke around amid old sacks and rotting cartons, my heart thumping every time I touched something soft or wet. I was conscious of Ronny standing behind me.

“He doesn’t seem to be in here,” I said, looking up at her.

“No,” she replied. “He’s not.”

“You’ve found him?”

“Let’s just say I know where he is.”

“Where is he?”

“Safe. For the moment.”

“What do you mean?” I stared at her, trying to take this in. “Your father took him?”

“My father? My father is dead.”

“Major Padgett is dead?”

“He’s not my real father, but then you know that, don’t you? Hugo must have told you. Why else did you visit Castle Craig yesterday? You know all about my real parents.”

“Maisie McPhee is your real mother, I presume,” I said.

“Well done. My real mother. She’s gone insane. She doesn’t even know me, but I still go to see her. I feel I owe it to her.”

She looked at me and started to laugh. “You really are terribly naïve and trusting, aren’t you? I planted the soldiers along the way and you, my dear, took the bait so easily . . . and now I’ve reeled you in.”

That’s when I realized that what she was holding was not a torch at all. It was a pistol.

“You kidnapped him? It was you?”

“Yes,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Why? Why do that to a small boy who has done you no harm?”

“Security, my sweet. I might need a bargaining chip to get me safely out of the country. And you”—she paused as if examining me—“you were becoming a blasted nuisance. Hugo told you everything, didn’t he?”