The Key to Finding Jack by Ewa Jozefkowicz (best classic books to read TXT) 📕

raise his eyes to look at the class. Instead, he cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There was a long silence during which he seemed to be thinking.

‘This one is called “The Cabin”,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s about… a dead man in a cabin. You’ll see.’

He read confidently, and did his characters in different voices, but it was obvious that his story hadn’t been well thought through. A body was discovered in a cabin in the middle of a snowy forest. A detective was called to the scene and found that there were no windows and the only door was locked from the inside. When he forced his way in, he saw a man with a stab wound in his neck and a bucket of bloody water beside him, but nothing else.

I could tell straight away what had happened. It was a variation of a riddle that Jack had told me years ago. The man had been stabbed with an icicle. I rolled my eyes at how obvious the answer was.

Duncan must have spotted me as he finished reading because I could see a pink glow in his freckled cheeks. His eyes narrowed slightly. I knew that look.

‘Thank you, Duncan. A promising start. There’s certainly some impressive characterisation. I think you could work on building the suspense. We have time for a couple more. Any other volunteers?’

I avoided Mrs Emmett’s gaze, but I should have known that this was the wrong tactic. Jack used to have her for English and he’d warned me that she always picked on the people who least wanted to be chosen.

‘Felicity? Do you want to come and share the opening of your story with us?’

I nodded, even though I hated reading my work aloud. I could feel Duncan’s gaze on my back as I walked to the front of the class, and I made a point of looking straight at him before I started reading. As always, he refused to catch my eye.

‘It’s because he likes you,’ Keira insisted. ‘I mean, really likes you. I’ve seen him looking at you when he thinks you won’t notice. Why else would he do that?’

But I didn’t agree with her. Duncan was just strange and it was probably his way of trying to make me feel uncomfortable.

I still remembered the moment we’d met on the first day of term last year.

‘So your name’s Flick?’ he’d asked, when we were walking down a corridor between lessons.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s peculiar, isn’t it?’ he asked and I couldn’t tell whether he was making fun of me or if he was really curious about it.

‘It’s short for Felicity,’ I explained, although I’m sure he knew that.

‘I’m Duncan. I’ve recently moved over from Florida,’ he said in his American accent, which only added to the impression that he was genuinely famous. ‘And where are you from?’

‘I’m local,’ I told him, ‘I grew up here and I went to Ellerton Primary.’ I instantly felt like the least interesting person in the world. That was the thing about Duncan – even if he said very little, he managed to get under your skin.

Today I tried to ignore him and cleared my throat awkwardly.

Lady Abigail Jackson hated Christmas shopping. Every year she thought about sending one of her maids instead. What she wouldn’t give to avoid the tedious crowds, the gridlock of horses in the streets and the freezing cold. But she always ended up going herself, much to her household’s dismay. It was partly because she had no idea what to buy and also because she didn’t trust anybody else to do the job well.

The children, of course, insisted on going with her. They wanted to see the huge Christmas tree outside St Paul’s Cathedral and to visit the new chocolate shop that had opened on Cheapside. Margot had worn her new red beret for the day and Henry flew out of the house with no coat, so his sister had to chase down the road after him.

There were even more people in the streets than she’d expected. It took them an age to cross Blackfriars Bridge, as the children kept stopping to admire the view of the Thames on this crisp December morning.

‘Mother, there’s a carol service at St Bride’s,’ said Margot, pulling her sleeve. ‘Can we go and see, just for a minute?’

Lady Abigail agreed. After all, Margot didn’t often get a chance to enjoy herself.

Ever since Lady Abigail’s husband had died four years earlier, she’d put her efforts into making sure her children were well set up for life, and that Margot in particular knew how to take care of herself. She had struggled after his death, but she’d learned how to manage the servants and the estate, how to do the accounts and take charge of her children’s education. In addition to Margot’s regular lessons with her private tutor, she received guidance on how to be ‘a proper young lady’.

When they reached the church, Lady Abigail grabbed Henry’s arm to stop him from making a run for it. Luckily the little rascal seemed overwhelmed by the crowds pouring down the narrow lanes to St Bride’s and was sticking close to her. But when she turned back to look at the choir, she realised that she couldn’t see her daughter.

‘Margot!’ she screamed. ‘Margot!’ The crowd around her shifted, alarmed by the volume of her voice. ‘Have you seen my daughter? She was wearing a red beret.’ The women around her shook their heads, the men parted to let her pass. The sound of the choristers stopped. She was aware of people joining the search. They shouted questions. ‘How old is she? What colour hair? How tall?’ She answered them quickly, her eyes scanning the church.

Then, above the heads of the crowd, she saw a red beret being passed to her. When her fingers closed upon it, she felt a sudden pricking sensation. Attached to a pin was a piece of card showing a tiny picture of a