The Lake House (5 page)

A panel of decorative glass had been set above the door, four figures in long robes, each depicted against a background representing a different season. It wasn't a religious picture, as far as Sadie could tell, but the effect was similar. There was an earnestness to the design—a reverence, she supposed—that made her think of the stained-glass windows in churches. Sadie manoeuvred a large dirty planter closer to the door and climbed gingerly onto the rim.

Through a largish piece of clear glass, she glimpsed an entrance hall with an oval table at its centre. A vase stood on the tabletop, a bulb-shaped china jug with flowers painted on its side and—she squinted—a faint gold pattern snaking up the handle. A few thin branches of something brittle, willow perhaps, were arranged haphazardly within and there were dry leaves scattered beneath. A chandelier—crystal, glass, something fancy—was suspended from a plaster rose on the ceiling and a wide flight of stairs with worn red carpet curled upwards and away at the back of the hall. There was a round mirror on the wall to the left, hanging by a closed door.

Sadie jumped off the planter. A knotted garden ran along the front of the house beside the portico and she clambered through it, prickles catching her T-shirt as she picked a path through the brambles. There was a strong but not unpleasant smell—moist earth, decomposing leaf matter, new flowers beginning to catch the day's sun—and great fat bumblebees were busy already collecting pollen from a profusion of small pink and white blooms. Blackberries: Sadie surprised herself by dredging up the knowledge. They were blackberry flowers, and in a few months' time the bushes would be heavy with fruit.

When she reached the window, Sadie noticed that something had been etched into the wooden frame, some letters, an A, maybe an E, crudely carved and dark green with mould. She traced her fingers along the deep grooves, wondering idly who had made them. A curled piece of iron jutted out from amid the thick overgrowth beneath the sill and Sadie pulled the branches aside to discover the rusted remnants of a garden seat. She glanced over her shoulder at the jungle she'd just traversed. Difficult to imagine that a person had once been able to sit here comfortably, looking out over what must then have been a well-kept garden.

That strange, almost ominous, feeling was there again but Sadie shook it off. She dealt in facts, not feelings, and after recent events it was as well to remind herself of that. She steepled her hands against a glass pane and pressed her face to them, peering through the window.

The room was dim, but as her eyes adjusted certain objects began to stand out from the gloom: a grand piano in the corner by the door, a sofa in the centre with a pair of armchairs turned to face it, a fireplace in the far wall. Sadie experienced the familiar, agreeable sensation of opening the lid on someone else's life. She considered such moments a perk of her job, even if she often saw ugly things; she'd always been fascinated by the way other people lived. And although this wasn't a crime scene and she wasn't a detective on duty, Sadie automatically started making mental notes.

The walls were papered in a faded floral design, greyish-mauve, and covered with shelves that sagged beneath the weight of a thousand books. A large painted portrait stood sentinel above the fireplace, a woman with a fine nose and a secretive smile. A pair of French doors bordered by thick damask curtains were set in the adjacent wall. Presumably the doors had led once to a side garden, and sun had spilled through the glass on mornings like this to cast warm, bright squares on the carpet floor. But not anymore. A tenacious weave of ivy made sure of that, clinging to the glass and letting in only the merest specks of light. Beside the doors stood a narrow wooden table on which a photograph was displayed in a fancy frame. It was too dark to see the subject, and even if the light had been better an old-fashioned teacup and saucer blocked Sadie's view.

She sucked in her lips, considering. In some ways—the open piano lid, the sofa cushions askew, the teacup on the table—the room gave the impression that whoever had been there last had only just left and would be back any minute; yet at the same time there was an eerie, somehow permanent, stillness about the world on the other side of the glass. The room seemed frozen, its contents suspended, as if even the air, that most relentless of all elements, had been shut outside, as if it would be difficult to breathe inside. There was something else, too. Something that suggested the room had been that way for a long time. Sadie had thought at first it was her straining eyes, before she realised that the room's dull glaze was actually caused by a thick layer of dust.

She could see it clearly now on the desk beneath the window, where a shaft of light revealed a coating over every object: the inkwell, the lampshade and the collection of open books spread haphazardly between them. A sheet of paper on top of the pile caught Sadie's eye, the sketch of a child's face, a beautiful face with large serious eyes and soft lips and hair that fell either side of small ears so that he (or she, it was hard to tell) looked more like a garden pixie than a real child. Sadie didn't know enough about drawing to be able to tell exactly what the artist had done, which traits he or she had exaggerated or concealed, to make the picture seem more like an illustration from a children's book than a regular portrait. The drawing was smudged in places, she noticed, the black ink smeared, the strong lines blurred, and something had been written in the bottom corner, a signature and a date:
June 23rd, 1933
.

Loud noise and a barrelling movement behind her made Sadie start, bumping her forehead on the glass. Two black, panting dogs burst through the brambles to sniff at her feet. “You want your breakfast,” she said as a cold wet nose prodded her palm. Sadie's own stomach took up the suggestion, letting out a low grumble. “Come on then,” she said, stepping back from the window. “Let's get you home.”

Sadie took one last look at the house before following the dogs back through the overgrown yew hedge. The climbing sun had slipped behind a cloud and the windows no longer glinted at the lake. The building had taken on a sullen cast, like a spoiled child who enjoyed being the centre of attention and now wasn't happy being ignored. Even the birds were more brazen than before, crisscrossing the hazy clearing with calls that sounded eerily like laughter, and the insect choir was growing louder with the day's expanding heat.

The lake's flat surface glistened in a secretive, slatey way and Sadie suddenly felt every bit the intruder she was. It was hard to say what made her so certain, but as she turned to leave, ducked through the hole in the yew and started chasing the dogs home, she knew in that twist of the gut way a police detective had better hope she developed, that something terrible had happened in that house.

F
our

Cornwall, October 1932

The girls were laughing, and of course they all whooped with glee when it nearly took the top off Mother's head! Alice brought her hands together in excitement as Clementine thudded after the little glider.

“Just don't throw that thing too near the baby,” warned Mother, patting the top of her hair to make sure every pin was still in place.

If Clemmie heard the warning she gave no sign. She was running like her life depended on it, hands in the air, skirt flying, ready to catch the plane if it even looked like crash landing.

A clatter of curious ducks had waddled up from the lake to observe the commotion and they scattered now in a flurry of feathers and indignant quacks as the glider, with Clemmie close behind it, came skidding to a halt among their party.

Daddy smiled over the book of poetry he'd been reading. “Beautiful landing!” he called from his seat by the old planter. “Just beautiful.”

The glider had been his idea. He'd seen an advertisement in a magazine and sent away to America especially. It was supposed to be a secret but Alice had known about it for months—she always knew who was giving what to whom well ahead of time; she'd seen him point to the advertisement one evening back in spring and say, “Look at this. Perfect for Clemmie's birthday, don't you think?”

Mother had been less keen, asking him whether he really thought a wooden glider was the most appropriate gift for a twelve-year-old girl, but Daddy had only smiled and said that Clementine wasn't an ordinary twelve-year-old girl. He'd been right about that: Clemmie was decidedly different—“The son we never had,” Daddy had been fond of saying before Theo came along. He'd been right about the glider, too; Clemmie had torn off the wrapping at the table after lunch, her eyes widening as the gift was revealed, and then she'd actually squealed with delight. She'd leapt from her seat, dragging the tablecloth behind her in her rush to reach the door.

“Clemmie, no,” Mother had implored, reaching out to catch a tumbling vase. “We're not finished yet.” And then, glancing beseechingly at the others, “Oh, let's not go outside. I thought perhaps charades in the library . . .”

But it was rather difficult to celebrate a birthday party when the guest of honour had fled the scene, and thus, to Mother's obvious chagrin, there'd been nothing for it but to abandon the carefully arranged table and move the afternoon's festivities to the garden.

And so here they were, the whole family, Mr Llewellyn, Grandmother and Nanny Rose, too, spread out over the lawn of Loeanneth, as the long shadows of afternoon began to spill across the deep green grass. The day was glorious, autumn but not yet cold. The clematis was still blooming on the wall of the house, little birds twittering as they whipped across the clearing, and even baby Theo had been brought out in his Moses basket.

A farmer was burning heather in one of the neighbouring fields and the smell was wonderful. It always made Alice happy, that smell, something to do with the change of seasons, and standing there watching Clemmie tend the wooden glider, the sun warm on her neck, the ground cool beneath her bare feet, she experienced a delicious moment of profound wellbeing.

Alice dug into her pocket and pulled out her notebook, hurrying to make a note of the sensation and the day and the people in it, chewing on the end of her pen as her gaze tripped over the sunlit house, the willow trees, the shimmering lake and the yellow roses climbing on the iron gate. It was like the garden from a storybook—it
was
the garden from a storybook—and Alice loved it. She was never going to leave Loeanneth. Never. She could picture herself growing old here. A happy old woman, with long white hair and cats—yes, certainly a few cats to keep her company. (And Clemmie would visit, but probably not Deborah, who would be far happier in London, with a grand house and a wealthy husband and a team of housemaids to arrange her clothes . . . )

It was one of those days, Alice thought, as she scribbled happily, when everyone seemed to feel the same way. Daddy had taken a break from his study, Mr Llewellyn had removed his formal jacket and was getting about in his shirt and waistcoat, Grandmother deShiel looked almost cheerful as she dozed beneath the willow. Mother was the notable exception, but then she never liked having her careful plans flouted, so a certain amount of curt displeasure was only to be expected.

Even Deborah, who wasn't usually one for toys, considering herself far too grown-up and ladylike, had found Clemmie's enthusiasm contagious. The fact had made her understandably cross, so she'd insisted on sitting alone on the garden seat beneath the library window and speaking, when she deigned, at a brusque clip, as if she really did have far better things to do and they were just lucky she'd decided to bless them with her presence. “See if you can make it turn a circle,” she called now, holding up the box in which the glider had arrived. “It says here that if you get the rubber bands just right you can make it turn a loop.”

“Tea is ready,” said Mother, her tone of censure sharpening as the afternoon's progress spiralled further away from that which she'd envisaged. “The pot's fresh but it will only get colder.”

They'd had a large lunch and nobody much felt like tea, but Mr Llewellyn was a faithful friend, fronting up as requested and accepting the cup and saucer Mother thrust upon him.

Deborah, by contrast, ignored the entreaty entirely. “Hurry up, Clemmie,” she said. “Give it another toss.”

Clemmie, busy fastening the glider inside the satin sash of her dress, didn't answer. She tucked the hem of her skirt into her knickers and craned her neck to take in the top of the sycamore tree.

“Clemmie!” Deborah called, imperious now.

“Give me a boost?” came their youngest sister's reply.

Mother, though busy foisting cake on Mr Llewellyn, was always alert for signs of impending trouble, and didn't drop a crumb as she said, “No, Clemmie! Absolutely not!” She glanced towards Daddy, seeking agreement, but he was back behind his book, happily ensconced in the world of Keats.

“Let her go,” soothed Mr Llewellyn. “Everything's all right.”

Deborah could resist the call of the afternoon no longer, tossing the box onto the seat beside her and hurrying down to the base of the tree. Nanny Rose was cajoled into linking arms to form a step, and Clemmie hoisted herself up. After a moment of scrabbling and a few false starts, she disappeared into the lower boughs.

“Be careful, Clementine,” Mother admonished, gravitating towards the site of the action. “Do be careful.” She hovered beneath the tree, sighing with exasperation as she tried to follow Clemmie's progress through the thick foliage.

At last, there came a triumphant whoop, and an arm appeared, waving from the top of the tree. Alice squinted into the afternoon sun, grinning as her younger sister positioned herself in the highest fork and inched the glider free from where she'd strapped it. Clemmie wound the elastic bands tight, lifted her arm, making sure to keep the whole thing at the optimum launch angle, and then, then, there came—release!

The glider flew like a bird, soaring across the pale blue sky, dipping slightly and then straightening, until the air speed slowed and the pressure on the tail lessened, and the rear part angled up.

“Watch!” shouted Clemmie. “Watch it now!”

Sure enough, the glider started to turn a great loop, right out over the lake, a sight so spectacular that even Mr Harris and the new gardener stopped what they were doing down at the jetty and gazed up towards the sky. Spontaneous applause broke out as the glider completed its stunt and continued its cruise, clearing the water and landing with a gentle slide on the flat grassed area by the fountain on the other side of the lake.

The whole world seemed to have stalled as the little plane described its circle, so it was with some surprise that Alice realised the baby was crying. Poor little mite! With all the excitement, he was being quite ignored in his basket. Alice, accustomed to thinking herself an observer, glanced around, waiting for someone to step in, before realising she was the only person free to help. She was on the verge of starting for Theo's basket when she saw Daddy was going to beat her to it.

There were some fathers, or so Alice was led to believe, who would've thought it outside their remit to comfort a little baby, but Daddy wasn't like that. He was the best father in the world, kind and gentle and really, really clever. He loved nature and science, and was even writing a book about the earth. He'd been working on his tome for over a decade and (although she wouldn't have admitted the fact out loud) it was the only thing Alice would've changed about him if she could. She was glad he was clever, and proud of him of course, but he spent far too much time in the company of that book. She'd much rather they had him all for themselves.

“Alice!”

Deborah was calling, and whatever she wanted to say must've been important because she'd forgotten to sound disdainful. “Alice, hurry up! Mr Llewellyn is going to take us in the boat!”

The boat! Ripping! Such a rare treat—it had been Mother's as a girl and was thus considered an antique and Not For Use. Alice beamed and her heart danced and the afternoon sunlight was suddenly brighter than it had been before. This really was turning into the best day ever!

Without another thought she pocketed her journal and started running for the lake, almost barrelling into Mother, who, in typical stuffy fashion, was striding purposefully towards the house, only too eager to forsake an adventure in the boat in favour of a cup of lukewarm tea.