Charlotte stood up. “Come on, follow me.”

She led him up a ladder to the next roof, along a board footway, then up a short flight of wooden steps leading to a small, square door set in a wall. She said: “At one time this must have been the way they got out onto the roofs for maintenance-but now everybody has forgotten about it.” She opened the door and crawled through.

Gratefully, Feliks followed her into the welcoming darkness.

Lydia borrowed a motor car and driver from her brother-in-law, George, and, having lain awake all night, left London very early. The car entered the drive at Walden Hall at nine o’clock, and she was astonished to see, in front of the house and spreading over the park, hundreds of policemen, dozens of vehicles and scores of dogs. George’s driver threaded the car through the crowd to the south front of the house. There was an enormous tea urn on the lawn, and the policemen were queuing up with cups in their hands. Pritchard walked by carrying a mountain of sandwiches on a huge tray and looking harassed. He did not even notice that his mistress had arrived. A trestle table had been set up on the terrace, and behind it sat Stephen with Sir Arthur Langley, giving instructions to half a dozen police officers, who stood in front of them in a semicircle. Lydia went over to them. Sir Arthur had a map in front of him. She heard him say: “Each team will have a local man, to keep you on the correct route, and a motorcyclist to dash back here and report progress every hour.” Stephen looked up, saw Lydia, and left the group to speak to her.

“Good morning, my dear, this is a pleasant surprise. How did you get here?”

“I borrowed George’s car. What is going on?”

“Search parties.”

“Oh.” With all these men looking for him, how could Feliks possibly escape?

Stephen said: “Still, I wish you had stayed in Town. I should have been happier for your safety.”

“And I should have spent every minute wondering whether bad news was on its way.” And what would count as good news? she wondered. Perhaps if Feliks were simply to give up and go away. But he would not do that, she was sure. She studied her husband’s face. Beneath his customary poise there were signs of tiredness and tension. Poor Stephen: first his wife, and now his daughter, deceiving him. A guilty impulse made her reach up and touch his cheek. “Don’t wear yourself out,” she said.

A whistle blew. The policemen hastily drained their teacups, stuffed the remains of sandwiches into their mouths, put on their helmets and formed themselves into six groups, each around a leader. Lydia stood with Stephen, watching. There were a lot of shouted orders and a good deal more whistling. Finally they began to move out. The first group went south, fanning out across the park, and entered the wood. Two more headed west, into the paddock. The other three groups went down the drive toward the road.

Lydia regarded her lawn. It looked like the site of a Sunday-school outing when all the children have gone home. Mrs. Braithwaite began to organize the cleaning-up with a pained expression on her face. Lydia went into the house.

She met Charlotte in the hall. Charlotte was surprised to see her. “Hello, Mama,” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming down.”

“One gets so bored in Town,” Lydia said automatically; then she thought: What rubbish we talk.

“How did you get here?”

“I borrowed Uncle George’s car.” Lydia saw that Charlotte was making small talk, and thinking of something else.

“You must have started very early,” Charlotte said.

“Yes.” Lydia wanted to say: Stop it! Let’s not pretend! Why don’t we speak the truth? But she could not bring herself to do it.

“Have all those policemen gone yet?” Charlotte asked. She was looking at Lydia in a strange way, as if seeing her for the first time. It made Lydia uncomfortable. I wish I could read my daughter’s mind, she thought.

She replied: “Yes, they’ve all gone.”

“Splendid.”

That was one of Stephen’s words-splendid. There was, after all, something of Stephen in Charlotte: the curiosity, the determination, the poise-since she had not inherited those things, she must have acquired them simply by imitating him…

Lydia said: “I hope they catch this anarchist,” and watched Charlotte’s reaction.

“I’m sure they will,” Charlotte said gaily.

She’s very bright-eyed, Lydia thought. Why should she look that way, when hundreds of policemen are combing the county for Feliks? Why is she not depressed and anxious, as I am? It must be that she does not expect them to catch him. For some reason she thinks he is safe.

Charlotte said: “Tell me something, Mama. How long does it take for a baby to grow and be born?”

Lydia’s mouth fell open and the blood drained from her face. She stared at Charlotte, thinking: She knows! She knows!

Charlotte smiled and nodded, looking faintly sad. “Never mind,” she said. “You’ve answered my question.” She went on down the stairs.

Lydia held on to the banister, feeling faint. Feliks had told Charlotte. It was just too cruel, after all these years. She felt angry at Feliks: why had he ruined Charlotte’s life this way? The hall spun around her head, and she heard a maid’s voice say: “Are you all right, my lady?”

Her head cleared. “A little tired, after the journey,” she said. “Take my arm.”

The maid took her arm and together they walked upstairs to Lydia’s room. Another maid was already unpacking Lydia’s cases. There was hot water ready for her in the dressing room. Lydia sat down. “Leave me now, you two,” she said. “Unpack later.”

The maids went out. Lydia unbuttoned her coat but did not have the energy to take it off. She thought about Charlotte’s mood. It had been almost vivacious, even though there was obviously a lot on her mind. Lydia understood that; she recognized it; she had sometimes felt that way. It was the mood you were in when you had spent time with Feliks. You felt that life was endlessly fascinating and surprising, that there were important things to be done, that the world was full of color and passion and change. Charlotte had seen Feliks, and she believed him to be safe.

Lydia thought: What am I going to do?

Wearily, she took off her clothes. She spent time washing and dressing again, taking the opportunity to calm herself. She wondered how Charlotte felt about Feliks’s being her father. She obviously liked him very much. People do, Lydia thought; people love him. Where had Charlotte got the strength to hear such news without collapsing?

Lydia decided she had better take care of the housekeeping. She looked in the mirror and composed her face; then she went out. On the way downstairs she met a maid with a tray laden with sliced ham, scrambled eggs, fresh bread, milk, coffee and grapes. “Who is that for?” she asked.

“For Lady Charlotte, m’lady,” said the maid.

Lydia passed on. Had Charlotte not even lost her appetite? She went into the morning room and sent for Cook. Mrs. Rowse was a thin, nervous woman who never ate the kind of rich food she prepared for her employers. She said: “I understand Mr. Thomson will be arriving for lunch, m’lady, and Mr. Churchill also for dinner.” Lydia discussed the menus with her, then sent her away. Why on earth was Charlotte having such a massive breakfast in her room? she wondered. And so late! In the country Charlotte was normally up early and had finished breakfast before Lydia surfaced.

She sent for Pritchard and made the table plan with him. Pritchard told her that Aleks was having all his meals in his room until further notice. It made little difference to the table plan: they still had too many men, and in the present situation Lydia could hardly invite people to make up the right numbers. She did the best she could, then sent Pritchard away.

Where had Charlotte seen Feliks? And why was she confident that he would not be caught? Had she found him a hiding place? Was he in some impenetrable disguise?