A mandarin duck, with his purple breast and red beak, landed in one of the water basins. Then he paddled a wide circle around the fountain’s spray before moving toward the statue of the dolphin, as if the creature might come play with him.
Instead of texting Lucas, she phoned him.
“Hello, Quenby,” he said when he answered. Perhaps the Miss Vaughn ended with dinner last night. “Any luck on Mulberry Lane?”
“I interviewed several people, and I found something else . . .”
“What did you find?”
She hesitated, wondering if she should ask. But they needed to talk about Brigitte, ASAP, and they would both need to eat this evening. “Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Nothing in stone. Are you still in Tonbridge?”
“No, I’m sitting at the Italian Gardens in Kensington. Tonight Chandler mandated that I take a holiday from the syndicate.”
“But your story—”
“Has officially been canceled.” A female mandarin joined the male, and they began circling the fountain together. “And since I have nothing else to do for the next two weeks . . .”
“Excellent,” Lucas said. “Mr. Knight will be pleased. We should go celebrate.”
The ducks flew away together, as if they were conspiring for their next venture. “I’d rather pick up something to make back in my flat. Nothing fancy.”
“I can do casual.”
She smiled. “Are you certain?”
“Quite. Should I bring red wine or white?”
“That sounds fancy.”
“How about a French rosé?”
She shrugged. “It’s all the same to me.”
Chapter 21
Breydon Court, February 1941
Brigitte watched snowflakes fall outside her window until darkness swallowed the theater of white. In her right hand was Dietmar’s knight, its smooth helmet and sword pressed against her fingers. She carried it everywhere in the pocket of her cardigan, pretending her friend was with her.
When the Terrells weren’t listening, she’d sometimes talk to Dietmar. Ask him if he was hungry or scared or lonely too.
Sometimes, she’d pretend that he talked back to her.
Moonlight parted the clouds, and Brigitte watched as an aeroplane dipped low over the pasture. Then a white canopy floated down from the sky, and she thought she saw legs dangling underneath the canopy before it blended into the drifts of snow.
A great siren blasted through the silence, and she clutched the knight to her chest. But she didn’t leave the window. Four silver planes glistened under the moon, and she watched as an ember of light sparked from one of them, like a match struck against its sterling holder. Instead of floating like the canopy, the light plunged toward the ground. Then it exploded in the pasture, shooting flames up into the darkness.
Still she didn’t move, and neither Herr nor Frau Terrell were here to demand she unlock the door.
The fire grew, and in the distance, she heard the clang of a fire engine.
What would she do if the flames crept up to the house?
She climbed under her cot and lay on the floor until someone shouted outside. When she looked through the window again, she saw the spray of a hose trying to combat the flames. It reminded her of a broom handle attempting to ward off a lion.
Minutes passed, perhaps an hour, and the flames began to diminish. A door slammed downstairs, and she heard Frau Terrell shout for her. Soon after, the woman unlocked Brigitte’s door and stepped inside.
A strand of Frau Terrell’s long hair had slipped from its pins and fallen across the shoulder of her wrinkled blouse. “You’re supposed to be in the cellar.”
Brigitte understood the words but pretended she did not.
The woman stepped toward the window, looking down at the cinders still glowing orange in the darkness. “It’s too late for the shelter now, I suppose.” She motioned her toward the door. “Come downstairs to eat.”
Frau Terrell busied herself in the smoky kitchen, boiling two eggs over the stove while Brigitte sliced pieces of bread to toast. The woman didn’t complain about the thickness of the slices. Perhaps she was hungry as well.
Brigitte sat beside the kitchen table, the images of fire still blazing in her mind.
Should she tell Frau Terrell about the canopy that dropped from the sky? Her English was better now—she’d been mimicking the Terrells in the secrecy of her room—but she didn’t know the right words to explain what she saw. And if she should speak to this woman at all.
But what if one of Hitler’s men had jumped from the plane? What if he’d come across the water from Germany? If he found her, he might take her back. Then she would never find Dietmar.
Frau Terrell spooned the eggs from the hot pan, and as she rolled them in a separate bowl of water to cool, Herr Terrell burst into the kitchen. When Frau Terrell looked at him, her face flushed red. “Where have you been?”
“Lady Ricker is expecting a delivery tonight.” He reached for one of the eggs and peeled it. Then he popped it into his mouth. “I was waiting near the toolshed.”
“That egg was for the girl,” Frau Terrell reprimanded him.
He glanced over. “She won’t starve.”
Brigitte clutched the bread in both hands lest he take that as well. No need to toast it.
“Did the delivery arrive?” Frau Terrell asked.
“The plans were botched.”
“What do you mean, botched?”
He glanced at Brigitte again but kept talking. “We can’t seem to find it.”
Frau Terrell’s eyes darted toward the window. “It has to be out there.”
As Herr Terrell ate the second boiled egg, Brigitte devoured her dry brown bread. Then she picked up a pencil and paper and began sketching.
Herr Terrell sat down at the table. “Lady Ricker has a new assignment for you.”
His wife’s eyebrows climbed. “Why doesn’t Lady Ricker assign it to me herself?”
“It’s a bit more complicated this time.”
From the corner of her eye, Brigitte saw Frau Terrell look at her.
“The girl won’t understand,” Herr Terrell said.
Brigitte drew the rounded edges of a canopy, the body of a man dangling below. An aeroplane, flying below the moon.
“You don’t know that—”
“She’s not mute, Olivia. She speaks German.” He leaned toward Brigitte. “Sind Sie Deutsche?”
Her eyes flew up at his question. The words, he pronounced them all wrong, but somehow he’d discovered her secret.
Her gaze dropped back to her paper, and she pulled it down onto her lap. She wouldn’t answer his question.
“See.” Herr Terrell turned back to his wife. “She can help all of us.”
“What does her ladyship want from me?”
“There’s a house, about an hour from here. No one will suspect what you’re doing there.”
“We have to move?” Her voice quivered with her question.
“Not both of us. Lady Ricker needs me to work from here.”
Frau Terrell shook her head, and Brigitte watched a tear trail down her cheek. “I’m not going without you.”
“The girl will help you with chores. And the messages.”
“This is ridiculous, Eddie.”
“Lady Ricker will double your wages. I’ll bring them to you every weekend along with supplies.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Then do it for me, love,” Herr Terrell said, scooting toward her.
“The girl,” Frau Terrell whispered.
He motioned toward the staircase, and like the dog that followed Brigitte across the pasture, Frau Terrell followed him up to their room.
Brigitte finished her picture, and with the paper clutched in her hand, she walked upstairs. Words were softer now behind the Terrells’ door, whispered until Frau Terrell’s tears turned into laughter.
Inside her room, Brigitte tore her picture into
a thousand pieces. Then she opened her window and released them to the embers and snow.
What would the Terrells do, now that they knew her secret?
She plugged her ears so she couldn’t hear the laughing next door. For some reason, it seemed to her even worse than the fighting.
CHAPTER 22
_____
Quenby sautéed chopped garlic and slices of red pepper in a pan, simmering it with olive oil. She hadn’t made chicken cacciatore in eons, but the dish had been her grandmother’s favorite meal. They’d made it together in the cramped kitchen back in Tennessee, Clint Black or Tanya Tucker blaring from the stereo, Grammy twirling around the butcher’s block with her spoon in hand like she was boot scootin’ across a dance floor.
Lucas arrived at eight with a bottle of pinot noir, wearing jeans and a white polo shirt. “I’m glad we’re working on the same team now,” he said as he stepped into the kitchen.
She stirred diced tomatoes and capers into the sauce. “Mr. Knight didn’t mention being part of a team.”
“I’m supposed to assist you in any way that I can.”
“I work best when I’m alone,” she said before facing him again. Making the expectations clear now would eliminate any surprises—or distractions—in the weeks ahead.
“Fair enough,” he complied, eyeing the vase that displayed his bouquet from last night.
“Thank you again for the flowers.”
He smiled. “I’m glad I didn’t have to take them home.”
“Did you tell Mr. Knight that I’ll look for Brigitte?”
“I called him tonight, and he’s pleased.” He opened a leather portfolio and removed several papers, stapled neatly together. Then he slid it across the counter. “Now we have to make it official.”
She handed him the spoon. “I assume you know how to stir.”
“I’m an expert.” He manned the stovetop while she read through the legalese in the contract. It was simple enough—she was supposed to search for Brigitte over the next two weeks and send a report of her progress to Lucas each evening. Her findings were confidential. There would be no article for the syndicate or book later on, unless Brigitte authorized the story.
In exchange for her work, Mr. Knight would deposit an enormous sum into Quenby’s bank account for expenses and a retainer. If she found Brigitte, the contract said he’d double the sum.
She tapped the paper. “That’s too much money.”
Lucas eyed her curiously. “Take it up with Mr. Knight.”
“Seriously—”
“It’s fair, Quenby, but if you want to negotiate, you’re welcome to do so. This is equivalent to what he paid the other investigators.” He slipped a pen out of his portfolio. “Welcome to the team.”
“I said I—”
“I know, you work alone. Brilliant.”
She snatched the pen from his hand, preparing herself for another fight. “Is this your idea of a truce?”
“I’m attempting diplomacy,” he said, but he was smiling this time. Teasing her. Her shoulders began to relax.
“I’ll be setting up a password-protected website for you to upload photographs and videos; then I’ll add your reports to the website after I review them. Mr. Knight wants to see everything, but—”
“You want to protect him.”
He nodded. “I want you to be completely honest with me about your findings, but I may cushion the news I forward to him, at least until all the facts are in place. And I’ll leave you alone to your work.”
Perhaps she and Lucas would get along during the weeks ahead after all.
She handed back his pen, and then he slid something else across the table. The wooden princess. “Mr. Knight wants you to have this,” he said. “So you can give it to Brigitte when you find her.”
Quenby placed Princess Adler on the throne of her windowsill, then turned and added the chicken pieces to the pan, coating them with sauce to simmer.
“Look what I found today.” Her pulse quickening, she pulled the tin from her handbag. When she’d first opened it on the train, she thought the brown envelope inside was empty. But it contained five tiny photographs, smaller than the tip of her thumb.
Lucas reached for one of the pictures and placed it in his palm. “What are these?”
“Microphotographs,” she explained, drawing from the information she’d read online. “The Germans and Allies used them to transmit information during World War II.”
He tried to view it in the light like she’d done, but without magnification, the images were only dark blotches on a clear background. “Where did you find them?” he asked.
“In Brigitte’s closet.”
He slipped the photographs back into the envelope. “How do you know the closet was Brigitte’s?”
“Because she carved her initials on the wall.”
He smiled at her again, his brown eyes warm. “Impressive.”
She propped her elbows on the table. “Did Mr. Knight’s investigators find the initials?”
“They did, but not a box.”
“What else did they uncover?”
“An evacuee record that said Brigitte was sent to Canada, but her trail ends before she left England. Mr. Knight believes the relocation record was either fabricated or incorrect.” He replaced the lid on the box and then handed her a file. “Here’s everything from the previous investigations, and there’s a profile on Brigitte’s family in Germany as well.”
“Did the other investigators search in Canada?”
“Every province, but nothing was found.” He tapped on the box. “Can you look at these on a microfilm reader?”
“Most of those readers are for light images on dark film. I’ll rent a microscope in the morning to view our pictures.”
He lifted his phone and began typing. “That is something I can help you with.”
“Seriously?”
“There are some advantages to working as a team.”
When the chicken was finished, Quenby topped it with fresh basil, and they slipped outside to the small circular table on the patio with their plates. Bullfrogs croaked in the pond below, but the light from her patio drowned out any view of the pond or starlight.
Lucas poured the pinot noir, and she took a small sip like he’d done in the restaurant. It tasted like every red wine she’d ever tried. “What would you do if you didn’t like it?”
“Spit it out.”
She scrunched her nose. “That’s disgusting.”
He laughed. “I’ve never spit out wine before.”
She tilted her glass toward him. “What do you taste?”
He took a sip, seeming to contemplate the flavors. “Black cherry. A hint of raspberry. This wine is from the Burgundy region of France.”
She chalked up the cherry taste in her mouth to the power of suggestion.
He placed his goblet back on the table. “Listen to that.”
An owl hooted from a nearby tree, the one that kept her up at night when she left her window open.
Standing, he stepped toward the railing. “It reminds me of visiting my mother’s parents in the summer. I’d spend my daylight hours exploring the forest behind their gardens.”
“I didn’t spend much time inside my grandmother’s house either when I stayed with her. Her neighbor had a boat and a daughter my age.”
He smiled as he returned to his seat. “Sounds extraordinary.”
“Grammy was my rock after my home fell apart.”
“My grandparents were more of the holiday sort,” he said.
“They liked to vacation?”
“No, I only saw them twice a year when I was a kid—a few days each summer and then during Christmas.” After another bite of food, he tapped the plate with his fork. “This is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted.”
“You’re lying.”
He sipped his wine. “I don’t lie, Quenby. At least not intentionally.”
She filled his plate again, and as they continued eating
, she told him about her visits with Mrs. McMann and Mrs. Douglas.
“Mrs. Douglas’s mother knew the Terrells, and she confirmed that the Terrells housed an evacuee during the war. She also said Mrs. Terrell moved soon after the war began . . .” Her words trailed off.
Olivia—that was what Mrs. Douglas had called Mrs. Terrell.
Lucas set down his fork. “What’s wrong?”
She stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Inside her flat, she propped up her iPad and scrolled through the hundreds of pictures she’d taken at the National Archives. Memos, photographs, newspaper articles, official correspondence. The letter addressed from Lady Ricker to Olivia was among them.
She scanned the seemingly mundane note.
APRIL 1942
Dear Olivia,
You’ll be pleased to know the baby took his first steps this week. He seems anxious to move.
He’s eating better as well. Last night he woke me up at eleven to eat, but other than that, he is sleeping through the night.
I hope you’re enjoying my gift.
Yours truly,
Lady Ricker
The next image was a brown envelope. There was no name on it—of the sender or receiver—but there was an address. Mill House on Kelmore Street. In Newhaven.
Switching to Google, Quenby found the town of Newhaven south along the English Channel, not far from Brighton. An hour from Breydon Court via car.
Lucas was over her shoulder now, looking at her screen, but he didn’t interrupt as she searched for the street. There was no record of a Kelmore Street in Newhaven, at least not online. The house had probably been numbered in recent years, the road renamed.
She swiped the screen, moving back to the letter. “I think our Mrs. Terrell went to live in Newhaven after Mulberry Lane.”
He didn’t say anything in reply, examining her face instead. She brushed her long bangs away from her eyes. “What?”
He shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“Wise or not, this time I’m going to ask what you’re thinking.”
Catching the Wind Page 12