The Frozen Lake: A gripping novel of family and wartime secrets

‘Only that her late husband’s name was Säckler, not Sacker, and that he was a naturalised Austrian.’

‘Ah. Do you think Roberts bears further investigation?’

‘I think we should still keep an eye on him.’

‘Difficult, if we don’t know where he’s gone. Do you believe he’s at the south coast?’

‘Not for a moment. Not unless they’ve had a heavy snowfall in Hastings that I haven’t heard about. I saw a tin of wax in her kitchen, and it’s the same kind my youngest son uses on his skating boots when he goes off on these winter sports trips of his. Now, sir, where can you skate without leaving the country? Barring ice rinks, which I don’t feel is where he’s spending his holiday.’

‘This winter, almost anywhere in the north where there are lakes.’

‘Exactly. It could be Scotland, it could be this side of the border. Only I did happen to see a postcard with a picture of Helvellyn sitting above Mrs Sacker’s fireplace. It might be from him, it might not. But he’s up north somewhere, I feel sure of it.’

‘He couldn’t have gone abroad, could he? He may have two passports.’

Inspector Pritchard shook his head. ‘No, I reckon he’s keeping his nose clean. I’d expect all his papers to be in perfect order, without any funny business. We’re dealing with a real professional here, no question about it.’

‘I’ll leave it in your hands, then. Keep me informed.’

Westmoreland (#ulink_98444a73-ef5e-577d-b81a-dbfc6311218b)

TWELVE (#ulink_ac131199-8a18-59a2-9010-2a96056dc14f)

‘Well!’ said Lady Richardson, as Perdita hurtled into the dining room. ‘Is there a fire?’

‘Sorry, Grandmama,’ Perdita said as she eyed the sideboard. ‘I’m hungry, and I didn’t want to be late.’

Lady Richardson looked at her over a silver teapot. ‘You are late. I don’t know why, since you can’t have taken long to dress. You’re in breeches, I see.’

‘I’m going to the stables as soon as I’ve had breakfast.’

‘They seem very generously cut.’

Perdita pulled at the waistband. It was held in by a canvas belt, a necessary addition as the breeches were clearly several inches too large for her. ‘They’re Aunt Trudie’s. I can’t get into any of my jodhs. They’re all too small. These are long enough, only a bit big around the middle.’

Alix came into the room, kissed both her grandparents and joined Perdita at the sideboard. ‘Good heavens, Perdy, what are you wearing? You look a perfect scarecrow.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ Perdita said, going bright red.

Alix could have bitten her tongue off, as she remembered suddenly what it was like to be fifteen, when any adverse remark seemed like a monstrous criticism.

‘I didn’t put that very well. The breeches look as if they belonged on a scarecrow. You don’t look like a scarecrow.’

The damage was done. Perdita kept her head down as she dug a big silver ladle into the dish of porridge.

‘They are Trudie’s,’ Grandmama said. ‘Apparently the girl no longer fits into her jodhpurs.’

Grandpapa looked up from The Times. ‘It seems to me that Perdita needs more than the new frock or two we were talking about. Where does Trudie get her riding clothes?’

‘She has them made. Harold Simpkins, I think,’ Alix said, when Grandmama made no reply.

‘Very well. Get him to come and measure Perdita for whatever she needs. Can’t have her careering about the country in breeches that are far too big for her. People will talk.’

That was an old saying of Grandpapa’s, amusing because he had never given a damn what anyone thought about him or his family. Grandmama, now, she did mind about people talking. Not that she cared a fig for their opinion, but because to draw attention to yourself in any way was ill-bred, a failure of manners.

‘Lots of people get breeches from Partridges,’ Perdita said, glancing up from her porridge. ‘I could, too. It’d be quicker.’

‘Ready-made?’ said Grandmama. ‘I hardly think so.’

‘They mightn’t fit so well,’ said Alix. ‘They need to be comfortable for riding.’

‘I know that. I just don’t want anybody to make a fuss about it, that’s all.’

‘We’ve already established that your wardrobe needs an overhaul,’ Grandpapa said. ‘Go somewhere smart and get whatever you want. Tell them to send the bills to me.’

‘Perdita, go shopping for herself? It’s out of the question.’

‘I’m not suggesting she goes on her own. Alix can go with her.’

Grandmama’s face was a mask, her mouth inflexible. ‘Alix has no idea what is suitable.’

Alix bit back a rejoinder and kept her voice indifferent. ‘If we’re talking about buying off the peg, I don’t suppose it will be a matter of what’s suitable, more a matter of what one can find that’s the right length, Perdita’s so tall now. Lucky girl,’ she added, wanting to make amends for the unfortunate scarecrow remark. ‘There are so many clothes that look better if you’re tall.’

‘Just so,’ said her grandfather. ‘I expect it’ll mean a fair bit of traipsing around from one shop to another. Manchester’s the place to go, you won’t find anything suitable nearer than that. You won’t want to go to Manchester, Caroline, not at this time of year.’

He had her there. Grandmama hated crowds, and a busy city thronged with Christmas shoppers was her idea of hell. Alix turned her back on the table, and stalked along the sideboard, lifting the covers on the usual delicious Wyncrag breakfast. What a fuss about a schoolgirl growing out of her clothes. She piled her plate with bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms. She hadn’t, she realized, felt hungry like this for a very long time.

‘Surely a rather large helping,’ commented her grandmother as Alix sat down at the table and shook out a napkin.

‘Tea or coffee, Miss Alix?’ asked the maid, standing beside her with a heavy silver pot in each hand.

‘Coffee please, Phoebe, and lots of cream, if Perdita’s left any.’

Perdita finished pouring cream on to her porridge and licked the drop from the lip with her finger before passing it to Alix. ‘I’ll have it back when you’ve finished with it.’

‘You’ve had quite enough cream, Perdita,’ her grandmother said at once. ‘It’s bad for your complexion.’

‘Not that I’ve got any complexion to speak of,’ said Perdita. ‘Didn’t our mother used to be terribly sleek and smart? Nanny told me once that she looked like a picture in Vogue.’

‘Helena was a most elegant woman,’ Grandpapa said from behind his paper. ‘She paid for good dressing, and Neville loved to see her looking her best. “Buy yourself something pretty,” he would say, and so she did. Clothes, and jewels, too. He bought her some very good pieces, and it was a pleasure to see her wearing them.’

‘Helena was a married woman,’ Grandmama said coldly. ‘And an American.’

Married, good; American, bad, Alix said to herself.

‘Please pass the marmalade, Alix, and Perdita, do you really want toast as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Perdita, spreading a slice with a thick layer of butter. ‘I’ve got to keep up my strength for being out in the snow. Otherwise I might expire from frostbite and exposure, and be found a pale and interesting corpse in the ice.’