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

English people.’

      ‘Might I have a look at this drawer? See if this passport’s there?’

      ‘You might not. Not without you’ve got a warrant. But I can set your mind at rest, it’s there all right, for I took up a pile of his laundry only this morning and put his handkerchiefs away in that very drawer, and his passport is there. So he hasn’t done a flit.’

      ‘Now, why should you think for a moment that we’d suspect him of leaving the country?’

      She got up from the table and went to the range to move the large kettle an inch or so to one side. Her bearing was rigid, an effect enhanced by the straight grey dress she wore unfashionably long. Inspector Pritchard guessed that her corsets were inflexible and firmly fastened, although he didn’t know why she bothered, bony types like her hardly needed to cage themselves in whalebone since they came ready stiffened.

      ‘If you don’t, why do you want to know if he’s got his passport with him?’

      ‘Do you have Mr Roberts’s current address?’

      ‘I do not.’

      ‘You won’t be forwarding any mail to him?’

      ‘I shan’t.’ Her mouth snapped shut on the words.

      Was that because she was keeping his post for him, or because he received no letters? ‘We have information leading us to believe that Mr Roberts is involved with the fascist movement.’

      ‘It’s no crime to be a fascist, not that I ever heard.’

      ‘A man’s politics are his own business, I agree with that, but when politics spill over into violence, then it becomes a police affair.’

      ‘Violence? Mr Roberts? Get along with you. I’d know if he’d been up to any violence, and he never has, and that’s the truth.’

      ‘I’m not accusing Mr Roberts of any violent act, but the movement he belongs to is happy to use any means, including violence, to achieve its ends.’

      ‘So you say. I don’t see your lot stepping in to stop the Reds getting up to mischief. And it’s people like you going on about Spain and Hitler that stir up trouble. A citizen of any country that’s keen to keep those Bolsheviks at bay deserves our support.’

      Inspector Pritchard got up. ‘You can’t even help us by telling me whereabouts he’s gone visiting? Would it be to the country or to another town?’

      ‘He’s gone to the south coast, I believe,’ she said, her refined accents now firmly back in place. ‘I’ll show you out.’

      His superior listened to the account of Inspector Pritchard’s visit. ‘It bears out what we’ve heard about Mrs Sacker’s sympathies. Do we have anything on her?’

      ‘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

       TWELVE

      ‘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