Catching the Wind(16)

Instead of residing among the monuments in central London, the National Archives were housed here, hidden between gardens and houses as if the country’s heritage was embedded in the hearts of its people. A thousand years of history documented and stored in one building, the immense structure reflecting back on itself in a shallow pool below the entrance.

Inside, she stored her leather briefcase and most of her belongings in a locker on the bottom floor. Her iPad and mobile were dumped into a clear plastic bag that, like a school uniform, equalized all stations of researchers who used these archives—those searching for their family’s genealogy, history for a textbook, or information for a news story. Inside these walls everyone was treated alike.

After security searched her plastic bag, she retrieved the stack of files she’d requested, taking them to her reserved seat in the reading room, an octagonal table overlooking a park. The top file on her stack was a faded-green folder, stamped Secret in red and held together with orange yarn and plastic tabs. The type across the top read: German Espionage in the UK.

The file was filled with transcriptions of interviews, memorandums, and correspondence related to men and women suspected of spying for Germany during World War II. As she skimmed through the records, Quenby typed notes into her iPad about a network of British people helping German combatants who parachuted into Kent or snuck over to England via boat.

Germans, she read, recovered the identity cards and wallets from British soldiers they’d killed or imprisoned, then supplied these personal items to spies sent over the channel to retrieve information or sabotage airfields, machine shops, and factories. Many of these spies were incarcerated hours after landing in England, but some managed to infiltrate the country. Then they’d report back to Berlin via wireless about British defenses and military. Or whether they’d been successful in their sabotage work.

If she was going to write this feature, she needed a compelling new angle that would pique interest today. Like an aristocratic American woman who moved to England before turning traitor. Or perhaps she’d relocated to England specifically to assist the Germans.

Her gaze wandered out the window to a boy and girl swinging in the park below. And her thoughts shifted to the boy and girl in Mr. Knight’s story.

Mr. Knight said that Brigitte had been taken from him. Had they made it out of Belgium together? If so, it must have been dreadful living in England as a German during and after the war. No matter their innocence, most Germans were despised in the 1940s. They might have hated Hitler and his regime, but during that decade, they were all considered guilty.

Quenby leaned back in her chair, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Mr. Knight’s jet had returned her to London on Sunday afternoon, but it almost seemed like the trip to his island had been part of a dream, like she’d never awakened from watching the girl trying to capture puzzle pieces that floated in the heath.

On their way home, the plane had stopped in New York to leave Lucas and his work there. Once they were airborne again, she’d slept the entire journey.

Leaning forward, she checked her e-mail again, hoping one of the Ricker grandchildren might actually enjoy the warmth of the limelight, but none of them had responded to her request to meet. Her next step was to visit Mrs. McMann at her home in Breydon Court, but first she needed to arm herself with more information from the war files.

In the next folder, she found exactly what she was looking for—the transcript of an interview between Lady Ricker and an unnamed interrogator from an advisory committee. Quenby glanced over both shoulders as if someone might be trying to scoop her story, but the other dozen or so people in the room were equally intent on their own research. Still it made her feel better to know everyone around her was occupied.

The interviewer asked about Lady Ricker’s upbringing in Philadelphia and about her first husband, whom she’d married in Boston when she was nineteen. Then he began quizzing her about her involvement during World War II.

Q. You entertained many people at Breydon Court during the war.

A. (nod) I entertained people there before the war as well.

Q. Some of these people were known advocates of the Nazi party.

A. Known now, perhaps, but no one ever advocated for Hitler in my presence.

Q. You told a friend once that you despised Jews. A Mrs.— A. That doesn’t make me a Nazi.

Q. Why do you hate the Jewish people?

A. I don’t hate them. (fidgets with handkerchief) I was concerned about what was happening in Germany.

Q. Your aunt was German.

A. She immigrated to America when she was six.

Q. Still she would have been an influence.

A. She never spoke about her childhood.

Q. Did you visit Germany with her?

A. Once.

Q. Did you maintain contact with the people you met there?

A. Any contact I had stopped at the beginning of the war.

Q. Several German POWs were employed at Breydon Court.

A. Many of the prisoners from Tonbridge worked on local farms.

Q. Did you help these men?

A. Lord Ricker and I supplied all of our staff with food and shelter.

Q. Did you supply the German prisoners with information as well?

A. Our head gardener spoke directly with them, not me.

Q. Because he spoke German?

A. Yes, he was an asset.

Q. Until he died.

A. One tends to lose their significance after death.