Catching the Wind

by Melanie Dobson

  “I don’t suppose I need to remind you about the confidentiality in your job.”

  The reminder sounded a whole lot like modern-day blackmail to her.

  “I know all about confidentiality.”

  But there was nothing in her contract about staying mum on a canceled story.

  She closed the door and drove north, toward the Biggin Hill Airport to meet Lucas.

  Like Louise McMann, Evan was worried about something, and she intended to find out what it was.

  Chapter 44

  River Ouse, April 1943

  Rosalind’s hands were clamped over the wheel of the Wolseley, her gaze fixed on the ruts in the bumpy road. The laughter was gone from her lips. The quick wit that could put even Herr in his place. The two of them, together they’d put Herr permanently into a place where he’d never trouble them again.

  Neither of them shed tears over the man as they fled the Mill House, but baby girl cried, kicking against Brigitte’s chest. She was hungry and probably just as scared.

  When they emerged onto the narrow road beside the river, Rosalind turned north. And Brigitte ventured a question. “Where are we going?”

  Rosalind didn’t answer. It was as if she couldn’t hear.

  They would travel far away from here, the three of them. Go someplace where Lady Ricker would never find them. Wherever the wind led.

  Farmland was on their left, the river on their right until the road turned west toward the farms. As the road meandered through pastures and woodlands, Brigitte realized that Rosalind had no destination in mind. No plan. She was just driving away from the house, until their petrol was gone.

  For so long she’d wanted to be free from the oppressive hand of the Terrells, but this was not what she’d imagined. A dead man and a friend who’d slipped out of her mind.

  There was no door to hide behind now. No words to twist or change. She and baby were both exposed and at the mercy of Rosalind.

  “We can drive to London,” Brigitte said. “My friend’s aunt lives there.”

  Silence.

  “Or you and the baby can go back to Germany. Her father could take care of both of you.”

  Rosalind shook her head, her gaze frozen forward. But this time she spoke. “Her father is dead.”

  Baby squirmed in Brigitte’s arms as farmland transformed back into forest. Rosalind turned right onto a bumpy path and the Wolseley began to climb a wooded hill toward the river.

  “She’s blessed, Rosalind. She has a good mother to care for her, no matter where you live.”

  Rosalind’s lips pressed together in a steely silence as she accelerated the car. Brigitte braced her feet against the floorboard, her fingers clutching the handle. Their tires hit another rut, and her head slammed against the metal roof.

  “Slow down,” she demanded, but Rosalind was lost to her again.

  And Brigitte knew—she had to get the baby out of here.

  Baby was crying louder now, but the cries only seemed to propel Rosalind to drive faster, as if speed would swallow the car and the noise. The wand on the fuel gauge dipped toward empty, and Brigitte prayed the petrol would run out before Rosalind killed them all.

  A cow stepped into the path ahead of them. Brigitte screamed, and Rosalind braked, the car shivering as it swerved through the branches. Brigitte yanked on her handle and the door swung open, its hinges rattling behind her. Then she jumped out onto the forest floor with baby clutched close to her chest. She rolled into the brush, away from the car.

  The crunch of metal ripped through the trees, her door torn from its hinges. And the cow, it snorted at her before strolling back into the forest.

  Baby girl was quiet in her arms—too quiet. As she sat on the moss, stunned, Brigitte thought the impact might jolt Rosalind back to reality, that she would turn around at least to check on the baby, but minutes passed, and Rosalind didn’t return.

  Adrenaline rippled through Brigitte’s body as she stood, the earth beneath her still trembling, branches bobbing in the wind. When baby began kicking again, the realization hit her. She had nothing to care for an infant. No food or clothing or diapers. She could survive in the woodland until winter, if she must, but the baby could not. Without milk, baby girl might not survive the day.

  A blast of sound raked through the forest then—the squeal of brakes, skidding of tires, the crash of metal against rocks.

  Brigitte raced with the baby through the trees, until she reached the cliff above the river. Wind gusted up from the chalky canyon, blowing past her, rustling the trees. In the grass strip between trees and cliff were black tire marks, leading straight over the edge.

  Below she could see the blue Wolseley in the water, the boot standing on end as if it were the mast on a sinking sailboat. She couldn’t see inside the vehicle—the front was completely immersed.

  “Rosalind!” she shouted over the edge. The name rolled and coiled and sprang back to her.

  There was no answer to her pleas. No sight of her friend.

  Her stomach turning, Brigitte scanned the cliff for some sort of path, but a rock wall blocked her from the river. It would be precarious climbing down there by herself, and she certainly couldn’t do it with a baby.

  There was no sentiment for losing Herr, but Rosalind . . .

  How could she bear to lose her only friend?

  Brigitte called her name again and again as if she might be in the water, waiting for her.

  Finally she turned back toward the forest. When she did, she swore she saw a shadow shift in the trees.

  “Rosalind!” she called one last time, but the shadow was gone.

  Welcher Mensch ist unter euch, der hundert Schafe hat und, so er der eines verliert,

  der nicht lasse die neunundneunzig in der Wüste und hingehe nach dem verlorenen, bis daß er’s finde?

  LUKAS 15:4, LUTHER BIBLE (1912)

  What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them,

  doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?

  LUKE 15:4, KING JAMES VERSION (1611)

  CHAPTER 45

  _____

  “It’s very odd,” Lucas said as the jet prepared to take off from Biggin Hill. He was across the aisle from Quenby in a leather recliner the color of silver birch.

  “Evan didn’t seem to think our visit was odd at all. He was spending a few days near Brighton and wanted to speak with me about the story.”

  Lucas continued his rant. “But how did he know you were in Newhaven?”

  “Chandler told him.”

  “Brighton was just an excuse. He came down to see you.”

  She took one last sip of her London Fog before Samantha swept the cup away. “Chandler said he’d taken an unusual interest in this story.”

  “Obsessive might be more accurate.”

  “Like Mr. Knight?”

  “No—Mr. Knight’s interest is more like a calling. I think you uncovered something that’s worrying Evan Graham.”

  “Intrigued is what he said. He asked me to report what I find directly to him instead of Chandler.”

  “Which you’re not going to do—”

  “Of course not. Until my story’s reinstated, I won’t be reporting anything about it to him.”

  “If it is reinstated, how are you going to write it without mentioning Brigitte?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. The lines between the Terrell story and the Rickers had blurred in her mind now, Brigitte like a zipper holding them together. “It’s all so confusing.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “You once told me I had to earn your trust, and I think you’re absolutely right. Evan needs to earn your trust as well.”

  “Do you know Evan?” she asked.

  “I’ve never met him, but I know about him. He’s from an old London family.”

  She’d never heard Evan talk about his family in their meetings, but he certainly had the air of one who’d been rooted in superiority,
like Lucas had acted when she first met him.

  Evan’s father, Richard Graham, had started a small newspaper called the London News after the war to support the recovery of their country. Back then, Chandler once told her, the Graham family hadn’t been as concerned about making money. They’d wanted to stitch back together what had been frayed by the war.

  Quenby glanced out the window, at the brick chapel near the terminal. It was a memorial, Lucas had told her, for the RAF and civilian men and women killed here during the war. How strange to think that bombs were raining down on this place seventy-five years ago. That some people today could still remember them falling.

  The plane sped down the runway and the wheels lifted. In seconds they were climbing above the outskirts of London and then soaring over the gardens and woods of Kent.

  “Look out this window,” Lucas said, motioning for Quenby to join him across the aisle.

  When she scooted to the seat opposite him, Samantha scolded her from the front of the plane. “You’d better find that seat belt right away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Quenby snapped it. “Seat belt is on.”

  “Splendid.” Samantha looked back down at the magazine in her lap.

  The jet flew low over trees until the forest flattened into lawn. They were above a grand house now with its austere stone facade, a dozen chimneys, and two wings that rambled down each side of the main house, the slate roof sloping down toward garden walls and a swimming pool with a stone pool house.

  “Is that Breydon Court?” Quenby asked, glancing at Lucas. He was grinning.

  “The very one.”

  “It’s bigger than I imagined.”

  “The Rickers were quite influential in their day,” Lucas said.

  “I read that Lady Ricker stopped coming here after the war. She settled into their town house in London and became somewhat of a recluse.”

  Lucas placed his laptop on the coffee table between them, the screen open. “How many children did she have by then?”

  “Two—Anthony and Louise. Louise was born a few months after Lord Ricker died.”

  “Perhaps she decided to focus on raising her children?”

  “Perhaps . . .” But Lady Ricker didn’t seem like the type of woman who would prize motherhood. “Mrs. Douglas showed me a picture of Anthony Ricker when I visited her. When he was younger, he looked exactly like Eddie Terrell.”

  “You think they were having an affair?”

  “I’m fairly certain of it.”

  Lucas sighed. “I wonder if Anthony Ricker ever found out.”

  “That’s not a conversation I’d like to have with his children.”

  “Was Lord Ricker the father of Louise?”

  “Mrs. Douglas didn’t mention her when we spoke.”

  Samantha stepped up beside them. “Would you like to fly over the house again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After Samantha spoke with the pilots, the plane circled above Breydon Court one more time. Then it headed west toward the Atlantic.

  “Are you going to sleep this trip?” Quenby asked.

  “Only the second half, and you should sleep too.” He pointed at his laptop screen. “Do you know they have special passes so you don’t have to wait in line for Space Mountain?”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  Her sarcasm didn’t deter him. “Will you ride Space Mountain with me?”

  “You’re like a kid.”

  “Will you?” he persisted.

  “I’m not big on theme park rides.”

  He sighed. “I suppose we can stick to Winnie the Pooh.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going into the park.”

  “Dream slayer.”

  She’d let him think she was only trying to douse his dreams instead of avoiding her own nightmare.

  They flew out over the coastline of England, above a lineup of wind turbines twirling like the batons of a majorette troupe—owned by Arrow Wind, Lucas informed her. Then he unbuckled his seat belt. “Mr. Knight wants to conference with us.”

  Quenby followed him back toward the leather couch. “Does Mr. Knight travel very often in this jet?”

  “Not anymore, though his executives use it often to meet with other companies around the world. I think . . .”

  “What?” she pressed.

  “I suppose having a plane makes Mr. Knight feel more secure, as if he can escape quickly if necessary.”

  At the press of a button, a television screen slid up from a bureau across from the couch. Seconds later, Lucas had connected them with Mr. Knight, and the older man’s greeting boomed through the cabin. It was three in the morning on the Pacific coast, and Quenby wondered when the man slept.

  He greeted both of them and then called out, “Hello, Samantha.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Knight.”

  “Are you treating my passengers right?”

  “I’m planning to spoil them, sir.”

  “You better warn their waistlines,” he said.

  “They could both stand to gain a pound or two.”

  When he returned the laugh, Quenby rested back against the cool leather. Not only was his mind clear; Mr. Knight seemed to be in a jovial mood. And it comforted her, knowing that the man had surrounded himself with employees who were like family to him. Samantha, she suspected, had worked for him for a number of years, like Jack and Eileen.

  The aroma of strawberries and espresso drifted through the cabin as Quenby recapped what she’d discovered about the Terrells. Mr. Knight didn’t speak until she was done.

  “Where did Brigitte go after Olivia died?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to find that out,” she said, but it was like the ocean itself had swept over Brigitte’s trail now, erasing it from the sand.

  “If Mrs. Douglas was right, who do you think killed Eddie?”

  “I suspect either Olivia or Lady Ricker asked one of Hitler’s men to do it.”

  “You don’t think Brigitte—”

  “Only if she was in danger,” she assured him.

  He leaned back in his chair, his eyes sad again. “Whoever killed Eddie could have taken Brigitte’s life as well.”

  The sadness of that thought lingered for a moment before Lucas spoke. “Quenby took some pictures of the cemetery and the Mill House this morning.”

  She reached for her iPad and typed in the password for their private website. “I’ll post them right now.”

  As she worked, Lucas told Mr. Knight about her odd visit from Evan Graham. Mr. Knight inched toward his computer, his face ballooning on their screen. “You have to be careful, Quenby. There are still Fascists in England today.”

  “Mr. Graham isn’t a Fascist,” she said.

  “But the Ricker family might go to great lengths to keep Lady Ricker’s secret.”

  In her work, she knew that people did indeed try to cover things up, but she didn’t want to be paranoid. “The only way the Ricker family has threatened me is through legal action.”

  “Then you’ll need a good lawyer.” Mr. Knight glanced between them. “In fact, I’d like Lucas to accompany you wherever you go this next week.”

  When she looked at Lucas, he winked at her. Neither of them told Mr. Knight that he was already accompanying her almost everywhere she went—and that she had accompanied him to a Hough family dinner.

  “Anything else before you enjoy Samantha’s cuisine?” Mr. Knight asked.

  Lucas’s eyes were on her, and she fidgeted under his gaze. “Do you have anything else, Quenby?”

  She swallowed hard, knowing she needed to ask Mr. Knight another question before they landed in Florida. One of the hardest questions she’d ever asked before.

  “When we met at your house, you read from a file about me,” she said slowly. “Does that include more information on my mother?”

  “It does.”

  She took a deep breath. “Could I read it?”

  “Certainly. Lucas should have the file with him.”


  She cringed. Did Lucas already know what happened to her? If so, he was being extremely cruel in trying to coax her to visit Disney World.

  When they disconnected, Lucas dug a white catalog envelope out of his messenger bag and held it out to her. Quenby stared at the sealed envelope like it was sprinkled with poison. Or bits of candy, leading right up to the witch’s front door.

  She glanced out the window, at the blue wash of sea below them. “Have you read it?”

  “No. Mr. Knight told me you’re the only person allowed to open it.”

  She took the envelope and clutched it in her lap. “I’m not quite ready . . .”

  He closed his eyes. “I can pretend to sleep.”

  “No sleeping yet,” Samantha said beside them. “Not after I went to the effort of making these.” She held out two strawberry and yogurt parfaits in glass mugs, each one topped with Oreo Mickey Mouse ears.

  “Very clever,” Quenby said, though she wished her stomach didn’t turn with every reminder of their destination.

  “Would you like a latte with yours?”

  “I believe I would. Decaf, though, if you have it.”

  “Of course I have it.”

  Samantha placed each parfait on a plate, both of them centered on the coffee table. Then Quenby dipped her spoon into the concoction and took a bite. It was as rich and sweet as it appeared with the layers of strawberries and honey. “You’re a master craftswoman.”

  “And you’re my new best friend.”

  Lucas laughed. “Quenby collects friends wherever she goes.”

  “Along with a few enemies.”

  After Samantha moved up toward the galley, Lucas searched Quenby’s face. “Why don’t you want to open this file?”

  “It contains a minefield of memories.”

  “About your parents?”

  “About my mother,” she said, and in that moment, she decided to trust him with the ugliest part of her own story. “Her name was Jocelyn, and she left me alone when I was seven.”

  “Left you at home?”

  “No, she left me flying on Dumbo.”