Ken Follett - The Man From St. Petersburg

She was an astonishing child. She had such strength of character. Had she inherited it from him? He wanted to think so. He was very happy to have told her the truth about her birth. He had the feeling she had not quite accepted it, but she would. She had listened to him turn her world upside down, and she had reacted with emotion but without hysteria-she did not get that kind of equanimity from her mother.

From the lane they turned into an orchard. Now, looking between the tops of the trees, Feliks could see the roofs of Walden Hall. The orchard ended in a wall. Charlotte stopped the horse and said: “You’d better walk beside me from here. That way, if anyone should glance out of a window, they won’t be able to see you very easily.”

Feliks jumped off. They walked alongside the wall and followed it around a comer. “What’s behind the wall?” Feliks asked.

“Kitchen garden. Better not talk, now.”

“You’re marvelous,” Feliks whispered, but she did not hear.

They stopped at the next corner. Feliks could see some low buildings and a yard. “The stables,” Charlotte murmured. “Stay here for a moment. When I give you the signal, follow me as fast as you can.”

“Where are we going?”

“Over the roofs.”

She rode into the yard, dismounted, and looped the reins over a rail. Feliks watched her cross to the far side of the little yard, look both ways, then come back and look inside the stables.

He heard her say: “Oh, hello, Peter.”

A boy of about twelve years came out, taking off his cap. “Good morning, m’lady.”

Feliks thought: How will she get rid of him?

Charlotte said: “Where’s Daniel?”

“Having his breakfast, m’lady.”

“Go and fetch him, will you, and tell him to come and unsaddle Spats.”

“I can do it, m’lady.”

“No, I want Daniel,” Charlotte said imperiously. “Off you go.”

Marvelous, Feliks thought.

The boy ran off. Charlotte turned toward Feliks and beckoned. He ran to her.

She jumped onto a low iron bunker, then climbed onto the corrugated tin roof of a lean-to shed, and from there got onto the slate roof of a one-story stone building.

Feliks followed.

They edged along the slate roof, moving sideways on all fours, until it ended up against a brick wall; then they crawled up the slope to the ridge of the roof.

Feliks felt dreadfully conspicuous and vulnerable.

Charlotte stood upright and peeped through a window in the brick wall.

Feliks whispered: “What’s in there?”

“Parlormaids’ bedroom. But they’re downstairs by now, laying the breakfast table.”

She clambered onto the window ledge and stood upright. The bedroom was an attic room and the window was in the gable end, so that the roof peaked just above the window and sloped down either side. Charlotte moved along the sill, then cocked her leg over the edge of the roof.

It looked dangerous. Feliks frowned, frightened that she would fall. But she hauled herself onto the roof with ease.

Feliks did the same.

“Now we’re out of sight,” Charlotte said.

Feliks looked around. She was right: they could not be seen from the ground. He relaxed a fraction.

“There are four acres of roof,” Charlotte told him.

“Four acres! Most Russian peasants haven’t got that much land.”

It was quite a sight. On all sides were roofs of every material, size and pitch. Ladders and strips of decking were provided so that people could move around without treading on the slates and tiles. The guttering was as complex as the piping in the oil refinery Feliks had seen at Batum. “I’ve never seen such a big house,” he said.

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…