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

She’d try Edwin at his studio number first, she might be lucky and she’d rather telephone him there than risk ringing Wyncrag. She picked up the receiver, dialled the operator, and asked for a long distance number. There was a long pause, clicking sounds, the operator told her to put in her coins, and she was through.

Her twin’s voice came down the line, blessedly familiar. ‘Alix?’

‘Oh, Edwin, yes, it’s me. Look, I wonder …’ Now she didn’t really know what to say. ‘Is it true, is the lake freezing?’

‘Coming along nicely. Give it a few more days of this frost and we’ll be skating on it. They all swear there’s no sign of the weather changing. Come up, do, or can’t you bear to drag yourself away from the bright lights of London?’

‘If only you knew. I was thinking of it, but Grandmama …’

‘She’ll be pleased.’

‘It’s been more than three years.’

‘No time at all, and besides, it is your home. Come up as soon as you can get away. Don’t bring the man in your life with you, however.’

‘There isn’t one.’

The silence at the other end spoke volumes. ‘Edwin? Are you still there?’

‘Let me know what train, so that you can be met, Lexy,’ he said.

His use of her nursery name from long ago made her blink. ‘I’d better telephone Grandmama.’

‘I’ll tell her. I’ll say I rang you and persuaded you to come north. And I’ll look out your skates for you, take them to the blacksmith if the blades need sharpening.’

The operator cut in, her voice indifferent. ‘Your three minutes are up, caller.’

TWO (#ulink_5b435276-726d-51b0-af7e-436c0730e531)

London, Whitehall

Saul Richardson looked down from the tall window. Beneath him, the traffic in Whitehall buzzed to and fro, the cars and taxis so many black beetles, the red livery of the double-decker buses a flash of brightness in the rainy gloom. A troop of Horseguards trotted past, hooves ringing on the Tarmac, the riders’ uniforms and the gleam of their breastplates adding another dash of colour to the scene. Black horses shook heads and manes, snatched at bridles, eager to get back to their stalls, out of the sleeting rain.

He turned and looked in the other direction, out over Parliament Square. Westminster Abbey and squat St Margaret’s, both blackened by soot, looked ancient, cold and unwelcoming. The great Gothic edifice of the Houses of Parliament did nothing to enliven the scene. A solitary constable in a cape stood on duty at the gates to the House of Commons. No flag fluttered above St Stephen’s Tower; the House had risen for the Christmas break, and MPs were away in constituencies, gadding abroad on fact-finding or government missions, or packing for holidays in warmer climes. Only MPs like Saul, a junior member of His Majesty’s Government, were still in town, serving king and country.

The door opened and a young man, smooth as to clothes, hair and expression, came into the room.

‘The morning newspapers, sir. I’ve marked one or two items for you to look at.’

‘Thank you, Charles,’ Saul said, still gazing out of the window.

Charles coughed, Saul looked around at him. ‘What is it?’

‘The lakes are freezing, so it says in The Times.’

‘The lakes? Which lakes? What are you talking about? Canada? The United States?’

‘Your lake, sir. I thought you would be interested.’

‘My lake?’

‘In Westmoreland.’

‘I’ll have a look at the papers in a minute.’

‘These letters are for you to attend to.’

‘Leave them on the desk.’

‘Will there be anything else?’

‘No, no … Why?’

‘Because if you don’t need me for a while, I’ll go to Downing Street and collect those papers from the Cabinet Office.’

‘Can’t they send a messenger? Oh, very well.’ Saul waited for the door to shut completely, and then bounded to his desk and took up the newspaper. Ignoring trouble in Turkey – dammit, there was always trouble in Turkey – alarming news in from the Far East and the tense situation in Spain, Charles, impudent young ass, had folded the newspaper back to an aerial photograph of snow-covered fells towering over that oh-so-familiar sheet of water, gleaming in icy splendour.

Saul read the caption and the piece that accompanied the photograph. Then he threw the paper down on the desk and went back to the window, his arms folded. He had the odd sensation of being two men, one clad in the black jacket and grey striped trousers of the official world, pale faced, not a sleek hair out of place; the other existing three hundred miles away, wearing tweeds, brown boots and skates on his feet, hair ruffled by the wind, cheeks glowing from the cold.

He reached out for the telephone on his desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Get me Mrs Richardson, please.’

A minute later, the telephone bell shrilled out. ‘Jane? I’m cancelling the Christmas visit to the constituency. We’ll go north. Ring Mama and tell her we’re coming. After the weekend, I think. We’ll drive. I leave all the arrangements to you.’

He replaced the receiver, strode across the room, unhooked his overcoat from the coatstand, put it on, wrapped his sombre scarf into the neck of the coat and, bowler hat in hand, left the room. He travelled swiftly through the outer office. ‘I’ll be back at about, oh, say four,’ he said in passing to the bun-faced woman lodged behind an enormous typewriter. ‘Tell Charles to deal with those papers, no, I can’t be contacted.’

Then he was out in the corridor and walking quickly towards the lifts. He didn’t want to leave London without seeing Mavis.

THREE (#ulink_454097a4-ad67-5259-92b5-2f84d03d6b39)

London, Knightsbridge

The phone rang and rang. Jane Richardson could see, as clearly as though she were there, the telephones sounding their shrill alerts: in the Great Hall, in Rokeby’s pantry, in Henry’s study, in Caroline’s dressing room.

Finally, the phone was picked up in mid-ring, and Jane heard a harsh, French-accented voice say, ‘Hello?’

‘Who is this?’ Jane said, her own voice tart now.

‘Lipp.’

‘Lipp. I might have known. Why are you answering the phone?’

‘There’s no one else to answer it. Is that Mrs Saul?’

How she hated to be called Mrs Saul. ‘Lipp, after all these years you surely know that when you answer the telephone, if you must do so, please respond with the number. Don’t just say, Hello. It’s most unhelpful. One could have been connected to anyone, and I don’t see why you have to answer the telephone. Where is Rokeby? You must know.’ Of course Lipp knew, she always knew where everyone was.

‘Rokeby’s helping Sir Henry with the generator.’

‘Oh, really, it’s too bad.’ Why a man of her father-in-law’s years and dignity, who moreover kept a full staff, felt he had to attend to the generator was beyond her understanding. ‘Go and tell Lady Richardson I would like to speak to her, please.’