Catching the Wind(33)

The woman set her laptop on a shoe rack and switched the baby to her other hip. “I’ve never heard of them, but we’ve only been here for a year.”

“Do you know anyone who could answer some questions about the history of Breydon Court?”

The baby started to cry. “You should talk to Mrs. Douglas. She’s lived here her entire life.”

Quenby glanced down the cracked sidewalk. “Which house is hers?”

“It’s by the wall. Only house with a palm tree planted in the front lawn.”

After thanking her, Quenby walked down four cottages. A man wearing blue scrubs answered her knock, and when Quenby inquired about Mrs. Douglas, he introduced himself as Paul before inviting her inside.

“You have a visitor,” he called down the hallway. Then he led Quenby into a sitting room cluttered with dozens of frames—some displaying black-and-white photographs, others filled with embroidered sailboats, fruit, and animals. On a hospital bed near the window was a woman propped up into a seated position, wearing a jade dressing gown. She had short gray hair, neatly rolled and styled.

“Please, come in.” Mrs. Douglas waved Quenby forward. “Are you from St. Stephen’s?”

“No,” Quenby said as she sat on a chair beside the woman. “I’m trying to find more information about the Ricker family and a girl who lived on Mulberry Lane about seventy-five years ago.”

“I was born in this house, back in 1936, but I don’t remember much about the Rickers.” The woman glanced out the window, toward the iron gate. Then, turning back, she reached for Quenby’s hand and squeezed it.

Quenby held the woman’s hand, remembering for a moment how Grammy used to hold her hand as well whenever her thoughts began to wander.

“Did one of your parents work for the Rickers?” Quenby asked.

“My mother was a housekeeper there, though she was often required to serve guests on the evenings Lady Ricker entertained. After Anthony Ricker was born, my mother cared for him.”

“I read that Lady Ricker enjoyed entertaining.”

Mrs. Douglas nodded. “Mother said she’d charm every man in the room with her elegance and wit.”

“But not the women?”

“I don’t believe most women appreciated her charms.”

Paul reentered the room, carrying a porcelain tea set glazed with peach roses and a matching plate filled with biscuits—some custard iced, others dotted with jam. Mrs. Douglas released her hand, and Quenby splashed milk into both her and Mrs. Douglas’s cups before she poured the tea.

“Did Lady Ricker entertain often?”

“She hosted friends from London before and during the war, but there weren’t any more parties at the house after V-E Day.”

Quenby took a sip of her drink. “I heard that Lady Ricker was anti-Semitic.”

Mrs. Douglas blinked. “Who told you that?”

Quenby thought about the file back at the National Archives. The interrogator who had questioned the woman’s views. “There are rumors that the men and women she hosted were Fascists. Perhaps they thought Hitler was the solution to what they perceived to be a problem.”

“I don’t put any stock in rumors.” Mrs. Douglas set her teacup on a stand beside the bed, and Quenby saw the concern in her eyes. “Why do you want to know about Lady Ricker?”

She decided to redirect the conversation. “I’m also looking for a family by the name of Terrell.”

“Terrell . . .” Mrs. Douglas’s voice trailed off; her gaze focused on two robins fighting outside the window. “Do you mean Olivia Terrell?”

Quenby leaned forward. “Did she live on this street during the war?”

Mrs. Douglas nodded. “She was a secretary for Sir Winston Churchill until she got married. Then she came to work for the Rickers.”

“As a secretary?”

“Sometimes, I suppose, though Lady Ricker kept her in her place by requiring she work in the kitchen. Mrs. Terrell and my mother were acquaintances until Mrs. Terrell moved away. Mr. Terrell was . . .”

When she stopped, Quenby pressed her. “Mr. Terrell was what?”

Mrs. Douglas shook her head. “It’s just a rumor.”

“Sometimes these rumors prove true.”

Mrs. Douglas patted her hand. “No sense dredging up the past now.”

“Do you know where the Terrells moved after the war?” Quenby asked.

“No.” Mrs. Douglas leaned back against her pillows. “My mother said that Mrs. Terrell didn’t report to work one morning, and she never returned. Mr. Terrell said he didn’t know where she or the girl went, though my mother didn’t believe him.”

Quenby inched closer to her. “What girl?”

Mrs. Douglas shook her head weakly. “I don’t remember her name.”

Paul stepped up beside them. “I’m afraid she’s done for the day.”

“Of course,” Quenby said, though she was aching to ask more about the girl. Instead she reached for her briefcase and handed the nurse a business card. “Please ring if she’d like to speak again.”

As Paul arranged blankets around Mrs. Douglas, Quenby let herself out through the front door.

“Hello again,” someone called out from down the street. Turning, Quenby saw the woman from number twelve walking toward her, balancing both her baby and a brown paper bag.