Catching the Wind(34)

“I don’t know if this is helpful, but we did some remodeling a few months ago and I found this tin under a floorboard.”

Quenby clutched the bag. “Thank you.”

“Why are you trying to find this family?”

“I think a German girl by the name of Brigitte was billeted at their home during the war. One of her friends is trying to find out what happened to her.”

The woman smiled, motioning Quenby back toward the house. “Let me show you something else.”

An upstairs bedroom had been transformed into a pale-green nursery with flowers painted on the wall and a sketch of Peter Rabbit hopping toward a white picket fence, ears flapping in the wind as if Mr. McGregor was in close pursuit.

The woman pointed toward the flecked carpet in the small closet. “The tin was under there.” When she waved her forward, Quenby held up her mobile phone to use the light. “Look at that.”

Carved in the wood above the baseboard were the letters B. B.

“I couldn’t bring myself to paint over it,” the woman said.

Quenby smiled as well, snapping a picture on her phone before her gaze turned toward the window, at the acres of pastureland behind it. Mr. Knight’s story, it seemed, was true. Brigitte must have stayed in this cottage, carving her initials like Dietmar had done into the tree back in Moselkern.

Had Olivia Terrell taken her when she left, or had Brigitte relocated to another home?

“Did Brigitte come to England on the Kindertransport?” the woman asked as they walked back down the steps.

“No, she and a friend ran away after the Nazis arrested their parents.”

The woman kissed her baby’s head. “I hope you discover what happened to her.”

“Me too,” Quenby said.

She pulled the tin out of the bag and had started to open it when her phone chimed. Instead of Lucas texting her this time, it was Chandler.

We need to talk.

Quenby stared at the screen. Her editor never demanded they talk unless something was wrong.

I can phone now, she typed.

No—come back to London.

Quenby checked the train schedule on her phone before texting back.

I’m still in Tonbridge. Won’t be home until almost six.

I’ll wait for you at the office.

Quenby read the message twice before sending a reply. What’s wrong?

As she waited for Chandler’s response, the excitement over finding Brigitte’s initials and even the tin began to fade.

Louise McMann must have made good on the threat to contact her attorney.





Chapter 19




Breydon Court, February 1941

Eddie closed the door behind him and locked it. Snow fell over the deer park outside the bedroom window, the sky darkening. He pulled the blackout curtains over the glass, and then his focus settled on the woman waiting for him on her bed, resting back against satin pillows that glowed in the candlelight.

Lady Ricker smoothed a manicured finger across the gold thread on her bed covering. “Olivia must be wondering where you are.”

“She’s taking dinner to the girl,” he said, slipping onto the pillows beside her.

“I suppose she’s too simple to understand anyway—”

“Not as simple as you’d think.” Just last night his wife had yelled at him for staying late at the big house again. Lady Ricker, she said, demanded too much of him.

Olivia had no idea as to the extent of his duties for her ladyship, especially when Lord Ricker was away.

He’d met Lady Ricker in London three years ago when he’d photographed her and Lord Ricker’s wedding ceremony for the magazine. She’d called him months later, asking him to take pictures at one of her many parties. As the weeks passed, they’d clarified the parameters of their relationship. Lady Ricker was a decade older than him and not wholly unattractive with her ebony curls and slender figure, though he liked to pretend she was beautiful. Attraction was secondary to their mutual passion.

She lifted her hand, smoothing his wrinkled collar. “You’ve worked hard today.”

He smiled. “I always work hard for you, my lady.”

“Admiral Drague phoned this morning. He was pleased with your latest photographs.”

He stiffened. “I don’t work for Admiral Drague.”

“Now, now.” She clutched his chin between her fingers like he was a child. “You mustn’t be jealous.”

“You treat me like a dog when he’s here.”

“If I treated you any other way, they would suspect.”

“Let them suspect.” He reached across the bed, trailing his finger down her bare arm.

Lady Ricker caught his hand and returned it to his side, focused on the business at hand. And making it quite clear who was in charge of this relationship. “Where are you keeping the pictures?”

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“They’re hidden,” he told her, cracking his knuckles. “In the cottage.”

“What if Olivia finds them?”

“She won’t. No one will find them.”

“I have plans for you and me, Eddie. Big plans.”

He began unbuttoning his shirt. “I know.”