Free The Trowie Mound Murders by Marsali Taylor Page B

when I opened the top of the rucksack it showed no signs of wanting to escape. The cream belly was comfortably rounded, the milky eyes opened and shut again. I tried stroking its head with one finger, and was touched to hear the rumbling of a purr. Maybe it wasn’t totally feral; maybe someone had dumped an unwanted litter out on the hill, saying: ‘Oh, cats can take care of themselves,’. People can be unbelievably cruel.
    Well, if it was happy in the rucksack, that was fine. I rolled the top down and wedged the bag in my bunk, with the bowl of milk beside it, then clambered over the washboard and stowed the dinghy. I was just hauling up the mainsail when I heard the drone of a helicopter in the distance. It was the Coastguard chopper, Oscar Charlie. I waved as its red and white chevrons came overhead. If Peter and Sandra were anywhere on the hill, they’d be found.
    Then I weighed anchor and sailed out of the bay. Khalida made much better speed under sail than under engine, and the noise might frighten my little passenger. The sea was flat, so the kitten wouldn’t be too jolted. I wondered if cats got sea-sick; hoped not.
    As I rounded the corner into the Atlantic, I glanced back at the old house. There was a flash from the window, sun reflecting on glass, as if someone had hastily lowered a pair of binoculars. I watched, but it didn’t come again.Somebody had indeed been watching me as I’d gone up, and come down again, a surreptitious somebody who hadn’t come out to say hello.
    It wasn’t a comfortable thought.
    Anders was waiting at the marina for me, back leaning comfortably against one of the bollards. His blue cap lay on the ground beside him, and the sun gleamed in his pale gold hair and glinted off his neat, Elizabethan-seaman beard. Rat was curled around his neck.
    Cat and Rat didn’t sound a good combination. I hoped it wasn’t going to cause too much trouble.
    As we came in the marina entrance under jib, Anders rose, picked up his cap, and strolled around to take my mooring warps. ‘Are you showing off, or is there diesel bug in the fuel again?’
    â€˜Showing off,’ I said, ‘but for a good reason.’
    â€˜Still no sign?’
    â€˜None,’ I said. ‘But –’
    â€˜I saw the chopper go over.’
    â€˜Hang on,’ I said, as he made to swing himself down into the cabin. ‘We’ve got an extra passenger.’
    He turned, fair brows raised, and I explained about the kitten. ‘I couldn’t leave it there,’ I said. ‘The poor thing was starving. It can’t be more than a few weeks old. But what’s Rat going to say?’
    We went down into the cabin. Rat hopped nimbly out of Anders’ shirt-neck, leapt to his usual spot perched on top of the fiddle that held our books on their shelf and began washing his whiskers. Suddenly he looked rather sinister. I had a horrid feeling that I’d once read an account of pet rats killing a baby. My tiny kitten wouldn’t last ten seconds.
    Anders looked gloomily at the little curl of grey fur. I curved a hand down over it, felt the tiny muscles startle and tense, then relax again. The little head came up, the milky eyes opened. I sat down on the couch beside it and picked it out of the rucksack. The rumbling purr came again, impressively loud.
    Rat balanced along the fiddle to see what was going on, whiskers forward and twitching, body elongated. The kitten raised its head to watch, purring louder, then, with a scramble and a scrabble, leapt up to the fiddle too and balanced there, stubby tail waggling wildly. Rat froze, whiskers twitching; I put out a hand to grab the kitten out of danger.
    â€˜No, it’s fine,’ Anders said. ‘Rat will not hurt him. He has met cats before.’
    â€˜But what if the kitten tries to pounce on him?’ It was already waggling its little tail ready to jump.
    â€˜It’s playing. Rat knows