Maxwell's Island by M.J. Trow Page B

had to ask it. ‘And the Count?’
    â€˜Ah, now that’s the thing.’
    â€˜The thing?’ Maxwell could hear his voice from a long way away. He and the great black and white beast had shared a lot. The lonely times and the good. He could see him now, a tiny scrap of black and white, foisted on him by a particularly persuasive pupil. The old chap wasn’t getting any younger, but he wasn’t ready to part with him yet. ‘What thing?’
    â€˜He’s in a cattery. It was done before Henry got there. Apparently he’s furious.’
    Maxwell smiled. Fancy old Henry caring about his cat. ‘That’s good of him.’
    â€˜No, Henry’s not furious, although I expect he was a bit annoyed. No, Metternich is furious. Totally livid and giving them hell at Happy Paws. They’ve had to give him his own cubicle.’
    â€˜I should think so too. I think he’s best there, though, don’t you? He took ages to accept Mrs Troubridge feeding him. He’ll take even more umbrage if he gets palmed off on the Other Side.’
    The Other Side had never really gelled with the Maxwells. Or indeed anyone in Columbine. Something in their demeanour seemed to suggest that their other home was Windsor Castle. All of Metternich’s little gifts had been left on the step in vain. Something suddenly occurred to Maxwell and he gripped his wife’s arm.
    â€˜It wasn’t Metternich, was it? You know, who pushed Mrs Troubridge downstairs?’
    She shook him off. The ghost of Henry Hall rose up, reminding her not to let Maxwell get involved. ‘Max! Firstly, she wasn’t pushed down the stairs. She obviously tripped. She’s old and doddery. Secondly, Metternich is a cat. They don’t push people downstairs. But if I understand you and you are worried that she tripped over him, no, she didn’t. He was outside on the step, remember? He couldn’t have got out if she was unconscious at the bottom of the stairs.’
    Maxwell blew out his cheeks. ‘Thank goodness for that. Not that it makes it any better for the poor old soul. But … you know. After the Incident. It would have been a bit difficult.’
    â€˜Indeed it would. Anyway, I’ve asked Henry to drop in some flowers for us.’ She read his mind. ‘To Mrs Troubridge, not Metternich. He asked if we had Araminta’s address. Do we?’
    â€˜I’m not sure that Mrs Troubridge has her address. She flits about a bit, does Araminta. But, surely, Millie’s address will be there somewhere? She only went home the other day.’ It had been ahappy day
chez
Maxwell. The dull booming noise coming through the wall as Millie chatted to Mrs Troubridge had become quite wearing.
    â€˜I told him that. They have been checking phone numbers from the log on the phone. Not too many, poor little thing. There’s a mobile, but it doesn’t answer. Henry’s checking it out.’
    Nolan wandered over and tugged at the hem of his mother’s coat. ‘Wassup, Mums?’
    â€˜Wassup?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Wassup? What kind of talk is that? Mrs Whatmough would be appalled.’
    â€˜I think they call it jive,’ Jacquie said calmly. ‘Don’t say that, Nole, there’s a good man. See how Dads has gone a funny colour? We don’t want that, do we?’ She leant down and swung him onto her hip. ‘We were just talking about Mrs Troubridge. She’s had a bit of an accident.’
    â€˜Is Metternich all right?’ Nolan’s tone was anxious.
    Like father, like son. ‘He’s fine,’ she reassured him and gave him a kiss. ‘He’s gone on his holidays.’
    Rather unexpectedly, Nolan burst into tears, burying his face in his mother’s neck. Through the sobs, they could just hear, ‘I don’t want the Count to go on holiday, like Plocker’s dog.’ He gave a huge sniff. ‘And his granny.’
    His parents