Catching the Wind(30)

A woman in her seventies was driving the car, her eyes shaded by sunglasses. She inched down her window as Quenby stepped up beside her.

Quenby smiled. “Good afternoon.”

The woman didn’t return the greeting. “You’re not from this area.”

“I live in London.”

“But you’re from America.”

Quenby nodded, sticking her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket. “The state of Tennessee. On the eastern side of the US.”

“I know where Tennessee is,” the woman snapped.

“My name is Quenby Vaughn. I’m trying to speak with Mrs. McMann.”

The woman removed her sunglasses, her eyebrows bowed into two sickles above her glare. “Did you not receive my e-mail?”

“I did, but—”

“Then you will return to London this afternoon and tell your supervisor that there will be no story written about my mother or any other member of the Ricker family.”

The car crept forward, and Quenby followed it toward the gate. “Was someone else in your family spying for Germany as well?”

Mrs. McMann braked again before lowering her window farther. “I don’t know what fantasy you and your syndicate are trying to create, Miss Vaughn, but there’s no story here, at least not one based on facts.”

“Your mother was interviewed by an advisory committee in 1948 about suspicions that she assisted the enemy. If she was innocent, then she was the victim of a witch hunt.”

“My mother was no witch.”

“I’m only after the truth, Mrs. McMann. If you tell me her story, I’ll set the record straight.”

The woman stiffened. “Don’t try and teach me how to suck eggs.”

“I’ve never sucked an egg in my life,” Quenby said. “Not here or in Tennessee.”

“You know what I mean.” Mrs. McMann’s finger hovered over the button that powered her window.

“I’m going to find out what happened,” Quenby continued. “I just wanted to give your family the opportunity to tell your side of things.”

“My mother was an honorable lady who did much good for Britain during the war. There’s nothing else for me to tell.”

“Did she host evacuees?”

The woman shook her head. “She was focused on raising her own children.”

“But you weren’t born until after the war—”

“I wasn’t an only child.”

“Of course,” Quenby said, deciding not to add that she knew Mrs. McMann’s brother wasn’t born either until after many of the evacuees had been relocated. “I read that your mother was from America.”

Mrs. McMann reached for her purse and pulled out her mobile. “I assume you are familiar with the law office of Fenton and Potts.”

“You familiarized me in your e-mail.”

Mrs. McMann lifted the phone to her ear. “They are about to become equally familiar with you.”

The woman drove through the gates. Quenby was tempted to follow her but figured she didn’t need a trespassing charge for Mrs. McMann or any of her family to discredit her story.

And she was certain now that there was a story. She only had to uncover what Mrs. McMann was trying to hide.

The gate clanged shut, and she took a step back. The blue coupe had stopped on the other side, as if the woman was making good on her threat to call her lawyer right away.

A text popped up on her phone from Lucas.

Have you made a decision?

She returned his text. I have twelve more hours to decide.

Seconds later, another question blinked on her screen. Where are you?

At Breydon Court. Working on my story for WNS.

Don’t move.

She stared down at her phone. I have to move. Breathing and all that.

When she looked back up, she saw Mrs. McMann still in her car, watching Quenby in her rearview mirror. The woman opened her door, craning her neck for her final word from the other side of the fence. “If you come tromping on my land, I’ll call the police.”

Mrs. McMann slammed the door before driving away.

As the dust settled back onto the road, Lucas texted her again.

Do you have a car?

Don’t need one with Uber.

I’m south of London. Can drive down.

Lucas might think he could coerce her by his offer to help—and his flowers—but she couldn’t let him influence her work or her decision.

She texted back, No need to come. I’m almost done for today.

His return text came after she started walking. I suppose you can breathe then.

Generous. Thanks.

Where are you going next?

She glanced at the screen for a moment and put her mobile away. She’d send him another text from Mulberry Lane.

Mrs. McMann couldn’t stop her from tromping on public land.





Chapter 17




Breydon Court, December 1940

With the exception of black draping the windows, Breydon Court hadn’t succumbed to the wartime gloom that billowed across their country and infiltrated the minds of citizens dreary from darkness and fear, from rationed food and the cramped spaces that sheltered them from Germany’s wrath.

Electric lights were forbidden at night, but candlelight softened the harsh lines and crevices of the formal parlor in the manor house. Even the ancient portraits seemed to bask in the familiarity of flickering wicks, the faint scent of honey in the melting wax, though they glowered down at the modern furniture and clothing of its occupants with open disdain, appearing quite sinister if one bothered to look long enough.