CHAPTER 26
_____
On Friday morning Quenby packed a bag and took a direct train south to Newhaven. By early afternoon, she found herself in the hills overlooking the River Ouse. The wide river flowed through town, severing it into two pieces, and she could see the long breakwater that stretched out into the English Channel.
After securing a room and her luggage at a local inn, Quenby located Newhaven Library. The reference section contained a collection of ordnance maps, and she searched through the decades of maps until she found Kelmore Street listed on one from the 1940s. The short road was once north of the library, near the River Ouse.
The map in hand, she greeted the librarian at the reference desk—a woman named Annie—then pointed at the laminated paper. “I’m looking for this street.”
Annie lifted the horn-rimmed glasses dangling around her neck and studied it. “The Kelmore family used to own all that property.”
“Who owns it now?” she asked.
“It’s woodland.”
“Public woodland?”
“I believe so, though . . .” Annie examined the map again. “It looks like that road backed up to the Logans’ farm.”
Quenby snapped a picture of the map on her phone. “How far away is the farm?”
“About three or four miles north on Lewes Road.”
“Walkable miles?”
“If you like to play chicken with the traffic.” The librarian handed her a card. “Better off to ring for a cab.”
“Thank you.” She slid the card into her backpack. “Is there a mill near the river?”
Annie pointed to a blue stripe on the map, on the opposite side of the woodland. “Some of the buildings from Camford Mill are still there, but the operations closed down about a century ago.”
Quenby stepped out of the library and glanced at the time. There were still several hours of daylight. If she didn’t find Kelmore Street tonight, she would set out again to search in the morning.
The cab drove her north on Lewes Road and turned right, into the farm. No one answered her knock at the farmhouse, but a public footpath led through an empty field behind it. Quenby slipped through the turnstile and crossed the muddy land.
She clicked on the picture of the map, but when she enlarged it, trying to determine if the old road was north or south, it was impossible to figure out the direction without any sort of landmark. So she opted to hike east toward the river.
According to Google Maps, there were acres and acres of forest on the other side of the field. And somewhere in those trees was her street.
What an odd place for Olivia to relocate during the war, so close to the English Channel, while Germany was dropping bombs along the coast. Was she desperate for some reason to get away from Breydon Court? Or did she relocate here for work?
She could understand Olivia wanting to leave Lady Ricker’s employment, especially if she discovered her boss was helping the enemy, but if she wanted to leave, why would she give her new address to Lady Ricker? It seemed the women continued some sort of relationship through their correspondence.
Mrs. Douglas had said her mother didn’t believe Mr. Terrell when he’d claimed ignorance as to Olivia’s whereabouts. Had he joined his wife here later? Perhaps this was the only place they could find—or afford—to live after the war.
Mrs. Douglas hadn’t mentioned the Terrells having biological children. Perhaps Brigitte and Olivia grew close during their time here, isolated from the rest of the world. If she could find out what happened to Olivia, she might find Brigitte as well.
Quenby stopped at the edge of the trees. The official footpath meandered north, skirting the forest, and several overgrown paths snaked back into the woodland. Perhaps one of them had once been a road, but it was impossible to say.
Taking a deep breath, she chose one of the paths leading east, into the forest. Mud clung to her shoes. Branches scratched her face. And the worn footpath vanished under all the weeds.
Even if she found the house, she couldn’t imagine there would be much of it left under this mess. The forest had probably devoured the dwelling and any hint of Brigitte or the Terrells.
Her mobile phone slipped out of service, leaving her with the picture of the useless ordnance map. She was all turned around now in this maze of shadows and trees. Was she walking toward the river or away from it?
Something rustled in the brush, and Quenby stopped. When she ran the trails at Hampstead Heath, there were always people near, swimming in the ponds or hiking through the forest. Here she wasn’t certain she wanted to find another person. And certainly not an animal.
She didn’t like being out in the wilderness by herself. Hated it, really, this feeling of isolation and vulnerability. The unknown. It reminded her too much of that day she’d spent a lifetime trying to forget.
The sun began to settle behind the trees, and her head began to spin as she lost herself inside her fears. Almost like being trapped on the Dumbo ride when your mom walked away.
It had been the happiest day of her life, back when she was seven. In the happiest place on earth. As she flew through the sky, ribbed with clouds, she thought she was the happiest kid on earth too.
None of her friends had flown on an elephant. Or eaten chocolate mousse under the Eiffel Tower. Most of her friends had never even been to Florida. But her mom, with all her failings, had brought her there. Just the two of them, to play on their own.
She had waved at her mom again as her elephant, strewn with candied pink, circled the carousel. Up and down. Round and round. On the other side of the black fence, her mom waved back. But then, the next time around, she wasn’t there.
Quenby had strained her neck as the elephant flew higher, searching the fence for her mother’s face. The line for the vendor on the sidewalk. And fear had sparked through her, long before she got off the ride. Her mom liked to play, but like a magician, she was also good at disappearing.
The elephant landed with a thud, and Quenby jumped from her seat, circling the fence on the ground this time. Shouting for her mom to stop hiding. This wasn’t fun anymore.
A security guard had found Quenby, hours later, balled up in the passage under Cinderella’s castle. She never saw her mom again, and in the years that followed, she doubted anyone, except her grandmother, who said they cared about her.
It was fascinating, really, in a sad way. Her own mother had left, without a trace, and never returned, while Mr. Knight had been searching to find someone he loved for more than seventy years.
She blinked. It was half past six now, and she wasn’t at Disney World. Her aloneness wasn’t because someone had left her. Still, she didn’t want to find herself lost in the maze of trees after the sun disappeared. She’d have to search for the Mill House again tomorrow.
A mosquito landed on her arm, and she swatted it before retracing her steps on the path, passing a weathered plot of gray-and-white gravestones between the trees. Cemeteries usually fascinated her, especially the few words chosen to commemorate an entire life, but there would be no ducking back under the low branches to look at these epitaphs tonight. She swatted another mosquito—she’d be lucky to get back to the farmhouse before she was carried away.
The sky was almost dark by the time she found the pasture and blessed mobile service. No one answered when she phoned the cab company; neither did anyone answer when she knocked for a second time on the farmhouse door. Uber didn’t have drivers in this area, and without a vehicle, she had no choice but to walk.
Unfortunately, the librarian was right about the traffic on Lewes Road. Cars were flying by at top speed, and the only place for pedestrians was a thin sliver of weeds on either side of the road. In the dark. Sighing, she tried the cab company one last time and then dialed Lucas’s number.
“Hello, Quenby,” he answered.
“Did you finish your contracts?”
“Contract work never really ends.”
“But for today?” The sky was comp
letely dark now, but the driveway was partially lit by a floodlight hanging on the barn.
“Close enough,” he said. “Why?”
She took a deep breath, sucking in air along with her pride. “I might need a team member after all.”
Silence.
“And a ride . . .”
She waited for him to tease her, but he didn’t. Instead he asked, “Where are you?”
“Down near Newhaven. I came via train, but I can’t find anyone to drive me back to my inn tonight.”
“I see.” She heard the clicking on his keyboard. “I’m almost two hours away.”
She glanced around at the farmhouse, then out at the busy street. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why didn’t you rent a car?”
“No one in England wants me to drive on the left-hand side of the road.”
“On the contrary.” She could hear the laughter in his voice now. “It would be amusing.”
“And deadly,” she said. “You said you could help me—”
“I’m glad to drive you back to your inn. And I can take you around tomorrow as well, if you’d like.”
With Mr. Knight’s money, she supposed she could hire a driver, but it would be much easier to have Lucas’s help, at least in the area of transportation.
She gave him the address to the farm. Then she climbed up to sit on the low limb of a tree.
Checking her e-mail, she found one from the clerk she’d met two days ago in Maidstone. The woman had found evacuee records in their archives from the end of 1940 and discovered the Terrells’ name on the list. The name of their evacuee was simply Girl. The log said that the girl had been billeted with the Terrells in October 1940. And she’d left Mulberry Lane in March 1941 to transition to another home. In Canada.
Quenby powered off her screen. It was the same record Lucas had given her when he turned over Mr. Knight’s file. Like Lucas said, previous investigators followed this lead to Canada, but approximately seven thousand British children had been evacuated to Canada during the war. They found no trace of a German girl hidden among them.
If Brigitte didn’t come to the Mill House with Olivia, did someone adopt her in Canada? Or perhaps something happened to her ship traveling there? Mr. Knight’s file contained an article about a ship being torpedoed on its voyage across the Atlantic. The passenger manifest didn’t list a Brigitte or an unnamed evacuee girl, but something could have happened on another ship.
It seemed unlikely that Olivia would have kept in contact with a child who only stayed at their house for a few months during the war, especially if Brigitte moved on before Olivia left Breydon Court. Perhaps someone else near Breydon Court would know what happened to Brigitte. A teacher or a friend. If the Mill House was a dead end, perhaps Lucas could take her back to Breydon Court tomorrow to continue the search.
Gravel crackled under tires on the driveway, and Quenby looked up to see the glow of headlamps creeping toward her from the far side of the house. A red tractor parked in a nearby shed, and then a man crossed the driveway before entering the farmhouse.
She hopped out of the tree and moved toward the front door to let him know she was waiting on his property. And ask him if he knew the location of the Mill House.
The man answered seconds after she rang the bell. He was about ten years older than her and had a chestnut-colored beard trimmed above the collar of his T-shirt. With a glance over her shoulder, he searched the driveway for her vehicle.
“I was on the public footpath behind your house,” she explained. “My ride’s not here yet—”
“Always glad to have company.” His gaze fell to her mud-coated trainers. Then they wandered much too slowly back up to her face as if she were a portrait at an exhibition. Or a pint of beer. “I can drive you into town.”
She thought briefly about calling Lucas, telling him there was no need to come, but a cacophony of warning sirens blared in her mind. Lucas could tease all he liked. He might annoy her, but he wasn’t creepy. Jury was out on the man before her.
“No thanks.” She took a step back. “My friend will be here soon.”
The sooner, the better.
“But you still decided to knock.”
She pulled her mobile out of her purse. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the woodlands behind your farm.”
He opened the door wider. “Come on inside.”
She eyed the dimly lit corridor behind him. “I need to wait here for my friend.”
He leaned against the doorpost, crossed his arms. “What questions do you have?”
She debated asking about the Mill House but decided she didn’t want to alert him to her destination in the morning. “I’m searching for an old road named Kelmore.”
“There are several overgrown roads near the mill.”
“Who owns the mill?”
“The government does now. My family tried to buy the property from the Ricker family, back in the 1930s, but they refused to sell it.”
Her head jolted. “Did you say the Rickers?”
He nodded. “Do you know the family?”
“I’ve heard of them.” Her heart raced, but she didn’t want to tip her hand. “I thought the Kelmore family owned the property by the river.”
“The Kelmores built the mill a long time ago. The Rickers, on the other hand, let it go to ruin.”
“When did the mill close?”
“After the First World War,” he said. “It was too far gone to open back up during the second war.”
The pieces tumbled around in her mind, trying to fit into place. Why exactly did Lady Ricker send Olivia to live on their property here, after the mill closed? Or did Olivia come on her own accord, knowing that the mill was abandoned?
“I can show you the mill tomorrow,” the man said.
Before she responded, a car plowed up the driveway, brakes squealing as it stopped in front of the house. At first Quenby thought Lucas had made record time, but when the car door slammed, a woman dressed in a fuchsia blouse and tight jeans marched toward the stairs. When she reached the top, she critiqued Quenby up and down like the man had done, except there was no appreciation in her eyes.
“I’m Kyle’s girlfriend,” she said briskly. “Who are you?”
Quenby chose the simple explanation. “A walker.”
The woman moved around her, kissing her boyfriend. Then she stood beside him, one hand knotted into her hip, as if Quenby were a threat.
Quenby wanted to laugh. There’d be no competition from her.
“Thank you for your help.” She backed farther away from the door. “I’ll leave you to your company.”
Kyle stepped toward her. “Are you certain you don’t need a ride?”
“Quite certain.”
“Because I need to fetch a few things from town—”
The woman gripped his arm. “She said she was certain, Kyle.”
Quenby glanced at her phone. “My guy will be here any moment.”
Thankfully Kyle’s girlfriend shut the door.
Chapter 27
Mill House, February 1941
Brigitte batted Roger’s hand away, not wanting him to touch her, but he kept tugging on her arm in the darkness, insisting that she stand.
Frau Terrell hovered over them with a candle, the light dancing wildly on the wall as if her hands were shaking. Why didn’t the woman tell Roger to stop?
“We need you, girl,” he said in German, but she rolled over, her nose pressed against the wall.
Last night she’d tried to sleep under the cot, like she’d done in the Terrells’ home, but something—a rat or mouse—scampered over her leg. Scared, she’d leapt up and spent a sleepless night on the cot. Tonight she’d had no problem falling asleep.
Wind rattled the window, not far from her bed, and she could hear the rats now, rustling near the wall.
Roger yanked on her sleeve, forcing her to turn toward him again. “Get up.”
Her eyes shut, Brigitte clung t
o the edges of her cot, praying he would go away. Give up. Praying they would both leave her alone.
He swore. “There’s no time for this.”
“You can transmit yourself,” Frau Terrell said.
“No one on this side of the channel can know I’m here.”
“I could try—”
“They would never understand your German.”
“Perhaps she’ll do it in the morning.”
“They are listening tonight for my broadcast,” Roger clipped. “If they don’t know I arrived safely, they won’t return to take me home.”
Brigitte heard Frau Terrell step up beside him, her voice soft, almost kind in comparison to the German man’s. “We need your help, girl.”
When Brigitte still didn’t respond, Roger stuck something cold into the side of her neck. Steel. Frau Terrell cried out.
Brigitte could block out his face, but not his gun. Or his words.
Roger whispered in her ear, “Do you know what this is?”
She nodded.
“Then you had better get out of bed. And find your voice.”
Brigitte slowly opened her eyes, but she didn’t sit up. He wouldn’t really shoot her, would he? Frau Terrell wouldn’t let him.
Something moved in the corner. Another rat. Roger whirled around, and his pistol blasted. Pain fired through Brigitte’s ears, all the way down to her toes, and she screamed. The sound echoed around the room like the roar of the gun. And Roger’s horrid lips settled into a smile.
At the sight on the wall, blood spattered across the wood, bile flooded her throat. She closed her eyes, plugged her ears, escaping to the tree house. To the laughter in her heart. To the music in the trees.
There was no music in this house. No laughter. There was nothing but sadness and despair.
Roger nudged her again with his gun. “If you don’t get up, you are as worthless to me as that rat.”
She had no doubt now that he would shoot her. Nothing Frau Terrell could do would stop him.
Shivering from fear and cold, Brigitte sat on the cot, resting her bare feet on the cracked wood floor.
Catching the Wind Page 14