The Lake House (18 page)

Except . . . Sadie looked more closely.

She took the original map out of her folder and laid the two side by side to compare.

There
was
a variation in this floorplan after all. A little room or cavity, right near the nursery, that wasn't marked on the more recent map.

But what was it? A cupboard? Did they have built-in cupboards in the sixteenth century? Sadie suspected not. And even if they did, why include this one in the floorplan and not others?

Sadie tapped her lips thoughtfully. She looked from Bertie's tree, to the dogs settled now at the base of the rock wall, and finally out to sea. Her gaze settled on the dark blip of a ship balanced on the horizon.

And then, the vague flicker of a light bulb.

Sadie riffled through her papers until she found the notes she'd made from “Chapter eight: The deShiels of Havelyn.”

There it was: the house was built during the reign of Henry VIII by a long-ago seafaring deShiel who'd purloined gold from Spain. There was another name for people like that.

Connections were flaring in Sadie's mind like ancient warning beacons, each causing the next to catch alight: a possible deShiel pirate . . . Louise's talk of smugglers . . . of tunnels dug into the Cornish coastline . . . the tunnel in
Eleanor's Magic Doorway
with its real-world counterpart . . . the pillar and ring Sadie had seen with her own eyes . . .

“Something for you,” said Bertie, back from collecting the post and holding out a small envelope.

She took it wordlessly, so distracted by the theory forming in her mind that she hardly registered the name printed neatly on the top left-hand corner.

“It's from the police officer,” Bertie urged. “Clive Robinson from Polperro. Aren't you going to . . . ?” He faltered. “What is it, what did I miss? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

Sadie might not have seen a ghost, but she had a feeling she'd just glimpsed a shadow. “This room,” she said, as Bertie came to peer over her shoulder. “This tiny alcove—I think I might have found the escape route.”

T
welve

London, 2003

This particular corner of South Kensington was thick with ghosts, which was why the Edevane sisters had chosen it in the first place. They took tea at the V&A every year on the anniversary of Eleanor's death, but they met at the Natural History Museum first. Their father had donated his entire collection to the museum in his will, and it seemed to Alice there was more of his spirit in this building than lingered anywhere else.

It made sense to remember their parents formally on the same day. Theirs had been the sort of love story romance writers trumpeted and real people envied, two beautiful young strangers who'd met by chance, loved at first sight, before being separated, tested and strengthened by the First World War. Alice and her sisters had accepted the relationship unquestioningly as children, growing to adulthood in the embrace of Eleanor and Anthony's devotion. But it was the sort of love that rendered all other people outsiders. Except for a small, stable circle of friends, they socialised rarely and reluctantly, and in retrospect it was their very isolation that added an extra layer of magic and wonder to the annual Midsummer party. When Eleanor had died suddenly like that, unexpectedly, and so soon after her husband, people had shaken their heads at the tragedy before assuring the sisters that, “Of course, they belonged together, the two of them.” Those same smarmy people had gone on behind the sisters' backs, in whispers laced with implication: “It's like she couldn't
bear
to be parted from him.”

Alice got to the museum first, just as she always did. It was part of their habit; a tacit agreement allowing Alice to feel punctual and Deborah bustling. She settled herself on a bench in the Central Hall and reached into her bag, stroking the smooth, worn leather of her notebook before taking it out and laying it on her lap. This was not unusual; ordinarily Alice enjoyed nothing more than watching people and she'd learned over time that what was considered nosy under usual circumstances passed for distracted, even charming, when done with pen and paper in hand. Today, though, she had no intention of taking notes. She was far too preoccupied with her own plight to bother with strangers.

She opened the notebook and eyeballed the letter she'd filed inside. She didn't reread it, there was no need. It was the second she'd received, similar in content to the first. The detective had pressed again for an interview but been deliberately vague as to her current knowledge of the Edevane case (as she called it). A wise move and precisely what Alice would have written for Diggory Brent had he developed a fierce interest in an unsolved crime while holidaying in Cornwall. Any detective worth her salt knew that providing only the barest scaffolding left the biggest hole into which an unsuspecting witness might fall. Unfortunately for Sadie Sparrow, Alice wasn't unsuspecting and had no intention of being tricked into revealing anything she didn't want to. Deborah, on the other hand . . .

Alice closed the book and used it to fan her cheeks. She'd been lying in bed the night before, wondering how best to handle the situation, weighing up the odds this Sparrow person would discover anything important, reassuring herself that it had all taken place so long ago that there could be nothing left to find, when it struck her that Deborah might also have received a letter. An invisible blade of panic had sliced cold through her at the realisation.

She'd considered the possibility from all angles before deciding that Deborah, innocent of all wrongdoing, would have got in touch immediately had she been contacted. With Tom's political legacy to safeguard, she'd have been horrified to think of some eager young stranger raking through the family's coals and keen to enlist Alice's help. It wasn't until this morning, as the taxi wended its way through St John's Wood, that it occurred to Alice that Deborah might be waiting to discuss the matter in person. That with Eleanor's anniversary meeting so conveniently near, she might simply have tucked the letter in her handbag and was preparing herself even now to broach the subject.

Alice exhaled bracingly and looked again towards the entrance. There was no sign of Deborah yet, but a hapless man in black jeans was creating something of a fuss by the doors. Alice had noticed him when she arrived. He'd been holding the hand of a small girl in a bright pink singlet and denim dungarees. The girl had been pointing and jumping, the man—her father, Alice supposed—trying to temper her enthusiasm while he reached to retrieve something (a water bottle, perhaps? Children these days always seemed in need of rehydration) from the small backpack he was carrying.

The man was in quite a state now, hands flapping at a security guard, and the little girl was no longer with him. The searing panic of a parent who'd lost a child; Alice could spot it from a mile away. Her gaze drifted beyond the enormous Diplodocus skeleton to the grand stone stairwell at the end of the cavernous room. The little girl had been pointing that way when Alice saw her, she'd had a ball clasped in her other hand, the sort that fired when shaken, as if made from electricity, and there'd been an unmistakable glint of determination in her eyes. Sure enough, the child was standing now at the top of the stairs, cheek resting on the cool, flat stone of the balustrade, lining the ball up in front of her face, readying to let it roll.

Elementary, my dear Watson. Alice tried to enjoy the familiar comfort of being correct. She'd always had a good memory—more than that, an ability to draw conclusions based on available evidence. It was a skill she credited her father with honing. He'd played games with them when they were young, possessing an insatiable appetite for the sort of play other adults found tiresome. He'd taken them with him on his nature rambles, letting them carry this tool or that, the coveted butterfly net if they were lucky, stopping every so often to crouch at their eye level and point out a scene. “Paint a picture in your mind,” he would say, “but don't just see the tree. Notice the lichen on its trunk, the holes made by the woodpecker, the thinner leaves where the sun doesn't reach.” Later, sometimes days later, when it was least expected, he'd say, “Alice! The tree in the wood, ten things.” And then he'd close his eyes and count on his fingers as she conjured the scene for him, memory by memory.

Even now, echoes of the thrill of being the one to make him smile stirred her. He'd been a terrific smiler, one of those people whose whole face was captive to his mood; so different from Eleanor, whose fine breeding had made her straitlaced and wary. One of the great mysteries of Alice's childhood was how Eleanor of the fairy tales, that adventurous sprite of a girl, could possibly have grown into such a stern, predictable adult. The hovering presence of Mother was an enduring childhood memory, watching and waiting for one of them to step out of line so she could seize the opportunity, send them away and have Anthony for herself. It had taken Alice years to understand that her mother was envious of them, of the close relationship they shared with their father, of how much he loved them.

“Yes, but it's rather more complex than that,” Deborah had said when they'd spoken of it. Alice had pushed her as to how, and after choosing her words carefully, Deborah had said, “I think she was envious of him, too, in a way. Do you remember during the war, when we were little, how different she was, how fun and playful? How it used to feel as if she were one of us, rather than a proper grown-up like Grandmother or Nanny Bruen?” Alice had nodded uncertainly as Deborah's words stirred faraway memories of hide-and-seek and enchanted stories. “But then Daddy came home and we adored him, and she sort of lost us. Everything changed.
She
changed after that, became a different, stricter person. She couldn't—” Deborah had stopped abruptly then, as if thinking better of whatever it was she'd been about to say. “Well,” she'd continued with a wave of the hand. “There wasn't room for both of them to be the favourite, was there?”

A familiar figure by the door caught Alice's eye. Deborah, her arm linked through James's for support. As they reached the hall, Deborah laughed at something her young driver said. She patted his hand fondly and bade him farewell. Alice exhaled. Her sister didn't look like someone who'd received a grenade in the post.

Deborah remained where she was for a moment after James left, the general fluster of other people's meetings and greetings swirling around her. She was practised, as were all politician's wives, at maintaining a pleasant visage, but Alice had always been able to see beneath the mask, a slight tightening about the mouth, the habit brought with her from childhood of pressing her fingertips together in agitation. Neither was in evidence this morning. Alice felt her tension recede, but didn't glance away. One rarely took the time to look closely at those one knew well. Deborah was still tall and poised, even as she approached ninety, still elegant, wearing the same satin dresses she'd worn throughout the 1930s, cinched at the waist and with dainty pearl buttons climbing from belt to lace collar. She was like one of Daddy's butterflies, caught at the peak of her beauty and frozen in time, eternally feminine. Quite the opposite of Alice in her trousers and mannish brogues.

Alice stood and waved, catching her sister's attention. Deborah was walking with a cane today so Alice knew her leg was troubling her. She knew, too, that when she enquired after her health, Deborah would smile and claim she'd never felt better. It was unthinkable that any of the Edevane girls might admit to weakness, pain or regret. Emotional fortitude was part of Eleanor's legacy, along with prompt letter-writing and a contempt for sloppy grammar.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Deborah, arriving at the bench. “My morning's been quite mad. I haven't kept you long?”

“Not at all, I had my notebook with me.”

“Have you been in to see the collection?”

Alice said that she had not, and they went in mutual silence to deposit Deborah's summer coat at the cloakroom. An outside observer might have described their greeting as cool, but there was nothing of Deborah's current emotional condition to be read there. They never kissed hello when they met, neither did they hug. Alice deplored the modern trend for crying and sharing, and she and Deborah were united in their disdain for giddy emotional displays.

“Well, you two must be sisters,” the young cloakroom attendant sang with a broad smile.

“Yes,” Deborah said, before Alice could respond from habit, too wryly, “Must we?”

It was true they looked more alike in old age than they had at any other time in their lives, but then all old people looked alike to the young. The fading of hair, eyes, skin and lips, the loss of individual details as a person's real face retreated behind the mask of lines. They weren't alike really. Deborah was still beautiful—that is, she still wore the remnants of beauty—just as she'd always been. The summer she became engaged to Tom, the last summer at Loeanneth, there'd been an article in
The Times
naming her the prettiest young lady of the season. Alice and Clemmie had been merciless in their teasing, but only for sport. The article told them nothing they hadn't already known.
In every group of sisters there was one who outshone the others.
Alice had written that line in a book, her eighth,
Death Shall Call
. She'd given the observation to Diggory Brent, who had an uncanny knack for seeing the world very much as Alice did. He was a man, though, and therefore able to think such thoughts without seeming bitter or unkind.

No, Alice decided, as Deborah laughed gaily at something the attendant had said, her sister hadn't received a letter from Sadie Sparrow. Alice's relief was tempered by her awareness that it was only a matter of time. That unless she found a way to satisfy the detective's curiosity, Deborah would almost certainly be brought in. Happily, Alice knew a thing or two about redirection. She just needed to be calm and methodical, more so than she had been to this point. Alice wasn't sure what she'd been thinking when she'd told Peter the first letter had come to the wrong address, that she knew nothing about the missing child. She hadn't been thinking, she'd been panicking. She intended to do less of that.

“You're well? You look it,” Deborah said appraisingly as she turned from the cloakroom counter.

“Very well. You?”

“Never better.” Deborah nodded in the direction of the hall, the merest hint of distaste twisting her lips. She had never liked Daddy's insects and their silver pins, however much she'd fought to take her turn assisting him when they were girls. “Well then,” she said, leaning gingerly on her cane. “Let's get it over with, shall we, so we can go and have tea.”

* * *

Alice and Deborah said very little as they did the rounds, other than to note that the butterflies were all in place. The museum curator had taken the creatures from Anthony's display cases, redistributing them to augment the existing collection, but Alice had no difficulty picking out those she'd helped to gather. Each one told a story; she could almost hear her father's gentle words as she took in the familiar wings, the shapes and colours.

Deborah didn't complain, but it was evident her leg was troubling her, so Alice called an early end to the pilgrimage and they went across the road to the V&A. The cafe was bustling but they found a corner by the unlit fireplace in the smaller room. Alice suggested her sister mind the table while she fetched their tea, and by the time she returned, tray in hand, Deborah had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and was peering over them at her mobile phone. “Damn thing,” she said, stabbing at the keypad with a crimson fingernail. “I never seem to hear it ring and do you think I can get the messages to play?”

Alice offered a small sympathetic shrug and poured the milk.

She sat back, watching the steam rise from her cup. It had occurred to her that before she spoke to the detective it would be wise to ascertain just how much her sister knew. The question was, how to begin.