The Lake House

by Kate Morton

  She gathered her things, slipping the books and file inside her backpack, and called to the dogs. They came reluctantly, but soon fell into step as Sadie made her way through the back garden, away from the house. Her explorations earlier in the week had revealed a stream at the rear of the estate that could be followed all the way to the village.

  In a matter of days, God willing, she’d have some concrete material. One of the most useful things she’d gleaned from Pickering’s book was the name of the investigating officers, the youngest of whom, it turned out, was still alive and living in the area. According to Pickering, it had been Clive Robinson’s first case after joining up with the local police force. He’d been seventeen at the time and assistant to the local police inspector, DI Hargreaves.

  It hadn’t been difficult to track down Clive Robinson’s address, not for Sadie, who still had friends in Traffic. A friend, at any rate. An amiable-enough fellow with whom she’d shared a drunken fumble after a police night out a few years back. Neither of them had mentioned it since, but he was always happy to expedite her requests for information. She’d jotted down the address and driven into nearby Polperro on Wednesday afternoon. There’d been no answer when she knocked, however the next-door neighbour had been most forthcoming. Clive was on holiday in Cyprus with his daughter and son-in-law, but would be back the following day. The neighbour knew this, she volunteered, because she was busy being neighbourly, collecting mail and keeping Clive’s pot plants alive until he returned. Sadie had written out a note requesting a meeting and then slipped it through the letterbox. She’d thanked the woman and commented that the plants appeared to be thriving. Sadie held a special affection for neighbours like Doris, so willing to share.

  The dogs raced ahead, crossing the stream at its narrowest bend, but Sadie paused. There was something in the shallows and she fetched it up from the mud, turning it over in her fingers. A smooth oval stone, flat as a coin, the perfect skimmer. Bertie had taught her how to find them, back when she first went to live with her grandparents in London and they’d gone for walks, the three of them, around the bathing pond in Victoria Park. She tossed it underarm, pleased when it bounced obligingly across the water’s surface.

  She searched between the reeds and had just found another lovely skimmer when a flash of light and movement on the other side of the stream caught her eye. Sadie knew what it was at once. She tightened her lips and blinked long and hard. Sure enough, when she looked again the backlit child with her hands raised for help was gone. Sadie launched the stone, watching grimly as it chased its mate across the water. When finally it sank without a trace, she crossed the rocks to the other side of the stream and didn’t let herself look back.

  Ten

  Cornwall, 1914

  “You need to find a really flat one,” Anthony said, digging in the shallow water at the edge of the stream. “Just like this beauty here.” He held the small oval-shaped stone between his fingertips, admiring it as he turned it this way and that. Sunlight glinted behind him as he placed it in little Deborah’s waiting hand.

  She gazed at it in wonder, her downy hair falling forwards to graze the top of her wide blue eyes. She blinked and then heaved a great happy sigh, so emphatically pleased with the situation that she couldn’t help but stamp her little feet in a burst of explosive glee. Somewhat foreseeably, the stone slipped from her palm and fell with a splash back into the water.

  Deborah’s mouth formed an “O’ of surprise and after a brief inspection of her empty hand a plump finger shot out indignantly to point at the place where it had disappeared.

  Anthony laughed and brushed her soft hair back and forth. “Never mind, poppet. There are plenty more where that one came from.”

  From where she sat on the fallen log beneath the willow, Eleanor smiled. This, here, was everything. This late summer’s day, the smell of the distant sea, the people she loved most in the world all in the same place. On days like today it felt as if the sun had cast its spell and it would never be winter again, and she could almost convince herself she’d imagined the whole awful thing . . . But then she would telescope out of the perfect moment and the panic would return, a rabid gnawing in her stomach, because each day was going faster than the one before it and no matter how determinedly she tried to slow time down, it was slipping through her fingers like water, like those little flat river stones through Deborah’s fingers.

  She must have sighed or frowned or otherwise expressed her inner turmoil because Howard, sitting beside her, leaned to bump her shoulder lightly with his own. “It won’t go on for long,” he said. “He’ll be back before you know it.”

  “By Christmas, they say.”

  “Not even four months.”

  “Barely three.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it and Eleanor felt a chill of presentiment. She told herself she was being silly, and focused instead on the dragonfly hovering in the sunlit reeds. Dragonflies didn’t imagine they could sense the future; they just flew about, enjoying the sun on their wings. “Have you heard from your Catherine?” she said brightly.

  “Only to tell me she’d become engaged to some red-haired cousin from the north.”

  “No!”

  “I’d thought going into uniform might impress her, but alas . . .”

  “More fool her. She doesn’t deserve you.”

  “No . . . only I’d rather hoped I might deserve her.”

  He said it lightly, but Eleanor knew beneath his humour he was smarting. He’d fallen deeply for Catherine; according to Anthony he’d been on the brink of proposing marriage.

  “There are plenty more fish in the sea,” she said, wincing because it sounded so glib.

  “Yes. Only Catherine was a very lovely fish. Maybe if I come back from the war with a small but impressive injury . . .”

  “A limp, perhaps?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of an eye patch. Just enough to lend me a certain roguish charm.”

  “You’re far too nice to be a rogue.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. War will toughen me up, surely?”

  “Not too much, I hope.”

  Over by the stream, little Deborah laughed with delight as Anthony dunked her toes in the cooler, deeper stretch of water. The sun had slipped a little in the sky and the pair of them were bathed in light. The baby chuckle was infectious and Eleanor and Howard smiled at one another.

  “He’s a lucky man,” Howard said, his tone unusually serious. “I’ve never envied Anthony before—though God knows I’ve had more than enough reason—but I do envy him that. Being a father.”

  “Your turn next.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Who could resist me?” He puffed out his chest and then frowned. “Other than sweet Catherine, of course.”

  Little Deborah toddled over to where they were sitting, the short journey made treacherous by her small stature and newness to walking. She held out her hand, presenting a little stone with all the solemnity of a royal bestowal.

  “It’s beautiful, darling.” Eleanor took the pebble in her fingers. It was warm and smooth and she rubbed her thumb over its surface.

  “Da,” said Deborah importantly. “Da-da.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Yes, Da-da.”

  “Come on little D,” said Howard, swinging her up onto his shoulders. “Let’s go and see what those greedy ducks are doing on the lake.”

  Eleanor watched them go, her daughter squealing with laughter, enjoying the ride as Uncle Howard bobbed and weaved his way through the trees.

  He was such a good, kind man, yet for as long as she’d known him there’d been something profoundly solitary about Howard. Even his sense of humour, his habit of making people laugh, seemed somehow only to isolate him further. “That’s because he is alone,” Anthony had said when
Eleanor mentioned it. “Except for us. He has been all his life. No brothers or sisters, his mother long dead and a father who couldn’t be bothered.” Eleanor had a feeling that was why she liked him so much; because they were the same, the two of them, only she’d been fortunate enough to find her soul mate on a busy London street, while Howard was still searching.

  “I’ll make a champion skimmer of her yet,” said Anthony, coming towards her from the stream.

  Eleanor shook away sad thoughts and smiled. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and she thought for the thousandth time what wonderful arms he had, what splendid hands. No more or less than what she’d been born with, and yet his were capable of fixing broken people. At least they would be when he completed his clinical training, once this dreadful war was over. “I expect you will,” she said. “Only I’m concerned you waited so long to start her instruction. She’s almost eleven months old.”

  “She’s a fast learner.”

  “And clearly gifted.”

  “She takes after her mother in that respect.” Anthony leaned down to kiss her, cupping her chin in his hands, and Eleanor drank in the smell of him, his presence and warmth, tried to fix this moment in her memory.

  He sat beside her on the log and sighed with deep satisfaction. How she wished she could be like him: certain, confident, at peace. Instead she worried constantly. How would she manage when he left? How would she make it right for little D? Already their daughter adored her father especially, seeking him out each morning, her face widening in a smile of sheer delight when she saw that, yes, joy of joys, he was still here. Eleanor couldn’t bear to imagine the first time that little face sought her father in vain, remaining poised on the anticipation of delight. Worse—the first day she forgot to seek him altogether.

  “I have something for you.”

  Eleanor blinked. Her fears were like flies at a picnic: as fast as she swatted them away, there were more to replace them. “You do?”

  He rummaged in the basket they’d brought down from the house and handed her a small flat package.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it and see.”

  “It’s a book,” she said.

  “It’s not. And you really shouldn’t guess like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “One day you’ll be right and you’ll spoil the surprise.”

  “I’m never right.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Though there’s a first time for everything.”

  “I’m going to open this now.”

  “I wish you would.”

  She tore off the paper and drew breath. Inside was the most beautiful ream of writing paper she’d ever seen. Eleanor ran her fingertips over the soft cotton sheets, following the elegant green vine of ivy leaves that twined its way around the borders.

  “It’s so you can write to me,” he said.

  “I know what it’s for.”

  “I don’t want to miss anything while I’m gone.”

  The word “gone’ brought home the reality of what was about to happen. She’d been trying so hard to contain her worries. He was so strong and sure and she wanted to be equal to him, didn’t want to disappoint him, but at times her fear threatened to consume her.

  “You don’t like it?” he said.

  “I love it.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “Oh, Anthony.” Her words came in a rush. “I know it’s not very brave of me, and we’re all supposed to be very brave at times like these, but—”

  He pressed a finger lightly to her lips.

  “I don’t think I can bear—”

  “I know. But you can and you will. You’re as strong as anyone I’ve ever met.”

  He kissed her, and she sank into his embrace. Anthony thought she was strong. Maybe she could be? Maybe for the sake of Deborah she could manage to overcome her own emotions? She pushed aside her fears and allowed herself to disappear into the perfect satisfaction and fulfilment of this moment. The stream burbled on its way towards the sea, just as it always had, and she rested her head on his warm chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. “Come home to me.”

  “Nothing will stop me.”

  “Promise you won’t let it?”

  “I promise.”

  Eleven

  Cornwall 2003

  Sadie went home by way of the library. The dogs knew the drill by now, kicking about a bit before settling at the corner of the building near the stainless-steel water bowl Alastair had started leaving for them.

  It was dim inside, but after some scouting Sadie spotted the librarian crouched behind a stack of books in the large-print section.

  He smiled when he saw her. “I’ve got something for you.”

  He fetched an A4-sized envelope from beneath the desk.

  “Is it what I think it is?”

  “Polperro Post,” he said. “The day after the disappearance.”

  Sadie let out a small, satisfied breath.

  “That’s not all.” He handed her a thick stack of bound pages with her name attached to the front with a rubberband. “Fictional Escap(e)ades: Mothers, Monsters and Metaphysics in Children’s Fiction, a doctoral dissertation featuring a chapter on Daffyd Llewellyn and Eleanor’s Magic Doorway.”

  Sadie’s eyebrows arched.

  “And last but not least . . .”

  “There’s more?”

  “We aim to please. Another map of the property, including plans for the house. Rather special, this one. Quite a stroke of luck. It came from a set of documents that were only discovered a few years ago. They were stored in an old trunk—God only knows who put them there—and found when renovations were being undertaken for the millennium. The originals were badly water-damaged but were sent off for restoration. They only came back to the County Archives last month.”

  Sadie was nodding keenly in the hope it would hurry him along. It took every ounce of patience she had not to tear open the newspaper archive envelope and devour its contents in a single gulp, but listening to Alastair’s enthusiastic research-related narrations was part of the deal. Never mind that she already had a perfectly adequate plan of the house and property. Alastair chattered, Sadie nodded, until finally he drew breath and she was able to squeeze in a thank you and something about the dogs needing to get home.

  Her mood was strangely light as she emerged back into the brilliance of the sunlit day, packages in hand. Sadie would never have guessed in a million years that a person could gain this sort of satisfaction from a visit to the library, certainly not a person like her.

  There was a small white-rendered hotel just down the road, with giddy sprays of flowers in hanging baskets, views to the harbour and a convenient wooden bench seat out front. Sadie sat against a neat sign reading hotel guests only!, tore open the envelope and scoured the article inside.

  Her heart sank as she realised the information wasn’t new. Clearly this was where Pickering had done his research. There were, at least, two photographs she hadn’t seen before: one of an elegant, smiling woman sitting beneath a tree with three little girls in summer white dresses gathered around her and a copy of Eleanor’s Magic Doorway on her lap; and another featuring the same woman, only this time her face was serious and drawn and a tall, handsome man had his arm around her, his hand resting on her waist by way of support. Sadie could identify the room as the Loeanneth library. It was unchanged, right down to the framed picture on the table by the French doors. distraught parents! the headline clamoured, before continuing: Mr And Mrs Anthony Edevane urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of their young son, Theodore, to come forward.

  There was a depth of sorrow in the woman’s face that Sadie recognised. This was a woman who’d lost a part of herself. Although the letter on the ivy-rimmed paper had been
written during an earlier pregnancy, the longing and love expressed for her unborn child made it clear that Eleanor was the sort of woman for whom motherhood was a blessing, her children a joy. The intervening decades had given the photograph an additional layer of resonance. It had been captured when the horror of the disappearance was hot and new, when Eleanor Edevane still believed her son would be returned and that the raw, empty hole torn by his absence was temporary. Sadie, observing the frozen moment from the future, knew better. The loss was one Eleanor would always carry, and beyond the loss itself, the agony of uncertainty. Not knowing whether her baby was dead or alive, loved or suffering, whether he cried for her through the long nights.

  She set the paper aside and looked down the cobbled lane towards the shimmer of water. Maggie Bailey’s daughter had cried for her. When Sadie and Donald discovered Caitlyn alone in the flat in Holborn, the little girl’s face had been stained with old tears. The two of them had pushed their way through the stack of junk mail piled behind the door and been met with a smell so foul even steel-gutted Donald had retched; the rubbish bin in the kitchen had been buzzing with flies.

  Sadie would never forget her first glimpse of the Bailey child—she’d been halfway down the corridor when the small, wide-eyed girl materialised like a ghost in her Dora the Explorer nightie—but then they hadn’t been expecting a kid. The neighbour who’d made the complaint had reported a bad smell; when questioned about the occupant of the apartment she’d described a woman who kept to herself, occasional loud music, a mother who came to visit sometimes. She hadn’t mentioned a child. Afterwards, when Sadie asked her why not, she’d shrugged before offering the familiar refrain, “You didn’t ask.”

  All hell had broken loose when they found her. Jesus Christ, a child, alone for a week in a locked apartment? Donald had called it in while Sadie sat on the floor with the girl, with Caitlyn—they’d learned her name by then—playing with a toy bus, struggling to remember the lyrics to a single nursery rhyme, and trying to get her head around how this turn of events changed things. It changed them a lot. Little girls left all alone tended to bring the services out in force, and more police, forensics and child protection all seemed to come at once, milling about in the tiny apartment, measuring and searching and dusting. At some point, as the day turned into night, the little girl had been taken away.