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‘No trouble at all. I love driving the thing, though not when the roads are icy. We’re lucky the snow held off.’

‘And when do you head home, Harry?’ Minerva asked, her tone as sharp as the pointed question.

‘Er, not for a couple of days yet,’ he said, his shrug loose and carefree . . . not that she could see him from the front seat but he was sure she sensed both.

‘Oh, in that case you should come to the club for a drink! What’s your poison, young man?’

‘I like a single malt,’ he offered. He wasn’t lying but he was playing with them.

‘Excellent, excellent! Come over tomorrow night. I’ll make arrangements. I have a marvellous bottle of something precious behind the bar that you must taste.’

Charles ignored the sideways glare from his wife while Harry grinned in the shadows. ‘I’d be delighted to, sir.’

‘Your name will be at the door. Any time. I’ll probably be staying over anyway.’

‘I thought we were going to the Thorntons’,’ Minerva bleated. ‘We’ve already cancelled once.’

‘It’s going to snow tomorrow, darling. I don’t plan on driving around in it, or even asking Potter to drive us at night. I have a tough board meeting too so perhaps it’s best I stay at the club.’

That was the end of it. Banal chatter ensued about the railways before they were easing into the street of Harry’s guesthouse.

‘Well, this was most kind of you. Thank you again.’

‘See you tomorrow, Blake,’ Charles said as Harry shook his hand through the window.

Harry touched the rim of his hat and gave a small bow. ‘Good evening, Lady Frobisher. Thank you for this evening.’

She warbled something about the efforts being all their daughter’s.

‘Yes, she’s most generous with her hospitality,’ he offered. ‘Drive safely.’

And the huge Bentley moved off like a slow beast into the darkness, only visible in the unlit street because of its shiny red lights glowing like coals in the night and making him imagine that the eye of Minerva was closely upon him.

__________

The next morning Harry was up early and restless at breakfast. Charles Frobisher hadn’t lied. Snow had fallen silently through the small hours to paint a bright, crystalline world that made York outside his guesthouse look like a fairyland. Even the aroma of chocolate was negated by the chilled smell of freshly fallen snow and all was still. There was not so much as a bird call into the dawn as he had lifted the window to inhale the morning.

Now he felt imprisoned. And Kitty was very much on his mind. He stepped out into the reception area, dithering as to what his best move was. He needed to burn off energy and dampen down thoughts of making love to Alex Britten-Jones.

‘You look like a caged lion at London Zoo, prowling around like that,’ the landlady, looking up from her register, commented with a chuckle.

‘What’s to do on a day like today?’ he wondered aloud and as he spoke more snow began to fall, heavier too, although he found its silence mesmerising.

‘Not much, to be honest. Better to be indoors.’

‘I need to work off some of your fine breakfasts,’ he added with a good-natured grin. ‘Can’t say I’m used to being idle.’

‘Well, now, let me think.’

Her husband arrived into the conversation. ‘The Knavesmire’s good for a brisk walk.’

‘Don’t be daft, Bernard. Look out there, will you,’ she said pointing, her tone exasperated.

‘Well, can you swim, Captain Blake?’ Bernard wondered.

‘Yes, of course, but a swim?’ he repeated, sounding incredulous, his gaze darting back to the wife.

Bernard continued. ‘The Rowntree complex has public swimming baths. I go once a week to help my wheeze. Good for the lungs,’ he said, tapping his chest.