Catching the Wind(17)
Q. Your gardener had a German grandfather.
A. He couldn’t change his lineage, no matter how distasteful.
Q. How did your marriage to Lord Ricker work out?
A. My marriage is no concern of yours or this investigation.
Q. Your husband died in 1944.
A. (nods) Our flat was hit by a doodlebug.
Q. Why was Lord Ricker in London?
A. I can’t recall.
Q. You can’t recall what your husband was doing the night he died?
A. (No answer)
Q. Was Admiral Drague with you?
A. (stands up) Is the committee finished with their questioning?
Q. We can resume later if you’d prefer.
A. I have nothing more to add to your inquiry.
After the transcript was a handwritten letter from Lady Ricker to a woman named Olivia. The letter was brief and rather impersonal, talking about the weather, gardening, and the health of her baby, who apparently suffered from croup. Quenby took pictures of the interview and letter before turning to the next page.
A profile on Janice Ricker listed her description as five foot six in height with blue eyes and short black hair, curled in a fashionable style. She had been married twice. Her first marriage was to an American businessman who amassed a fortune before they divorced in 1928. As a wealthy socialite, Janice had relocated to England in the 1930s like many other American women who enjoyed London’s society. There she met and married Lord Ricker.
Her next of kin included a son born during her marriage to Lord Ricker. And Louise, who was born a few months after Lord Ricker died.
Quenby’s mobile phone blinked inside the plastic bag, and she glanced down at the text. It was from Lucas.
Do you have dinner plans?
She read his message twice and turned over the bag. Why was he bothering to be amiable now? She’d text him back later, after she made plans.
At a half past four, she left the study room to return her files. Along the wall were computers to search through the 32 million records available. Slipping into a seat, she decided to search for Brigitte Berthold. Nothing came up in the results, but that didn’t mean Brigitte’s name wasn’t included in another file. Only that there was no archived mention of Mr. Knight’s friend.
Someone stepped up beside her. A thin woman in a trouser suit, her hair twisted in a sock bun. “We’re closing in fifteen minutes.”
Quenby thanked her, and with the plastic bag at her side, she cleared security and descended the staircase to the locker room. The ground floor smelled like cinnamon rolls and coffee, the scent lingering from the cafeteria. Lunch had been an afterthought today, a quick meal of crisps and an apple she’d stored in her locker.
Her phone blinked again: another message from Lucas asking about dinner. She did have plans—a run through the heath and eating take-out sushi on her patio.
Her briefcase secure over her shoulder, she crossed the plaza by the reflecting pool. Then she heard someone call her name from near the car park. Turning, she saw Lucas hurrying toward her, waving a bouquet of peonies and lavender like it was a white flag.
Groaning, she walked faster toward the train station, but he caught up quickly to her side. She refused to look over as she hurried toward the street. “I thought you were in New York.”
“I flew back last night.”
With a glance to her right, she stepped off the curb. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Your editor said you were here.”
She just might wring Chandler’s neck.
He held out the flowers. “I couldn’t find an olive branch at the florist.”
She didn’t take the flowers, but on the other side of the street she stopped and faced him. His brown eyes reminded her of a puppy, guilty of stealing his owner’s shoes, then chewing them to shreds when no one was around. “What do you want, Lucas?”
“A truce.”
“Really?”
“And dinner,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’m guessing you’re hungry too.”
“Please stop making assumptions about me.” She resumed walking toward the Underground station.
He caught up beside her again, the flowers down at his side. “I’m paying.”
Of course he was. He probably thought she couldn’t afford to buy her own dinner. “I can pay for myself.”
“I’m sorry for being so abrupt before—”
She didn’t stop walking. “You were downright rude, Lucas.”
“Tell you what,” he said, ducking under the limb of a tree. “You choose the place and the conversation. Or for that matter, you can choose not to talk at all. I will completely ignore you if that’s what you want.”
She hiked her handbag up on her shoulder. “Did Mr. Knight tell you to play nice?”
“He really wants to hire you.”
“Your job’s on the line, isn’t it?”
“No, but he’s done a lot for me, and I want to help him.”
She slowed her pace. How could she argue with that? “I can’t linger for hours.”
“Nor can I.”
He followed her to the station, up the flight of stairs. Sterile lights illuminated the tracks and platform, the board above ticking through arrival times. Her train would be here in three minutes.
“How about Italian food?” she asked.