Catching the Wind(36)

Mentally, she tried to brush it off and return to the matter at hand. Evan might be able to take away her official work on the Ricker story, but vacation was her personal time. The syndicate couldn’t keep her from asking questions on her own, as long as she didn’t sell the story to someone else. At least she could find out the end of one story—and perhaps how it intersected with another.

Stepping out of the building, she elbowed her way through the after-work crowds until she reached Hyde Park. The crowds thinned on the other side of the pedestrian gate, mostly couples strolling along the waterfront of the curved lake called the Serpentine. At the other end of the lake were the Italian water gardens that Prince Albert had built as a gift for his wife.

Quenby sat in the small pavilion overlooking Queen Victoria’s marble fountain and the stone statues, the briefcase with her iPad beside her and the tin from Mulberry Lane on her lap. Leaning back against the plaster wall, she mentally reviewed all she had learned about the Ricker and Terrell families, trying to fit together the scattered puzzle pieces that spanned almost eight decades now.

She slipped the picture that Mr. Knight had given her from her handbag and examined the girl with braids. The two parents who obviously loved her.

Her answer for Mr. Knight was quite clear now. She had two weeks to find out what happened to Brigitte. And perhaps, in the midst of searching for Brigitte, she could find out what Louise McMann was trying to hide.

A mandarin duck, with his purple breast and red beak, landed in one of the water basins. Then he paddled a wide circle around the fountain’s spray before moving toward the statue of the dolphin, as if the creature might come play with him.

Instead of texting Lucas, she phoned him.

“Hello, Quenby,” he said when he answered. Perhaps the Miss Vaughn ended with dinner last night. “Any luck on Mulberry Lane?”

“I interviewed several people, and I found something else . . .”

“What did you find?”

She hesitated, wondering if she should ask. But they needed to talk about Brigitte, ASAP, and they would both need to eat this evening. “Do you have plans for dinner?”

“Nothing in stone. Are you still in Tonbridge?”

“No, I’m sitting at the Italian Gardens in Kensington. Tonight Chandler mandated that I take a holiday from the syndicate.”

“But your story—”

“Has officially been canceled.” A female mandarin joined the male, and they began circling the fountain together. “And since I have nothing else to do for the next two weeks . . .”

“Excellent,” Lucas said. “Mr. Knight will be pleased. We should go celebrate.”

The ducks flew away together, as if they were conspiring for their next venture. “I’d rather pick up something to make back in my flat. Nothing fancy.”

“I can do casual.”

She smiled. “Are you certain?”

“Quite. Should I bring red wine or white?”

“That sounds fancy.”

“How about a French rosé?”

She shrugged. “It’s all the same to me.”





Chapter 21




Breydon Court, February 1941

Brigitte watched snowflakes fall outside her window until darkness swallowed the theater of white. In her right hand was Dietmar’s knight, its smooth helmet and sword pressed against her fingers. She carried it everywhere in the pocket of her cardigan, pretending her friend was with her.

When the Terrells weren’t listening, she’d sometimes talk to Dietmar. Ask him if he was hungry or scared or lonely too.

Sometimes, she’d pretend that he talked back to her.

Moonlight parted the clouds, and Brigitte watched as an aeroplane dipped low over the pasture. Then a white canopy floated down from the sky, and she thought she saw legs dangling underneath the canopy before it blended into the drifts of snow.

A great siren blasted through the silence, and she clutched the knight to her chest. But she didn’t leave the window. Four silver planes glistened under the moon, and she watched as an ember of light sparked from one of them, like a match struck against its sterling holder. Instead of floating like the canopy, the light plunged toward the ground. Then it exploded in the pasture, shooting flames up into the darkness.

Still she didn’t move, and neither Herr nor Frau Terrell were here to demand she unlock the door.

The fire grew, and in the distance, she heard the clang of a fire engine.

What would she do if the flames crept up to the house?

She climbed under her cot and lay on the floor until someone shouted outside. When she looked through the window again, she saw the spray of a hose trying to combat the flames. It reminded her of a broom handle attempting to ward off a lion.

Minutes passed, perhaps an hour, and the flames began to diminish. A door slammed downstairs, and she heard Frau Terrell shout for her. Soon after, the woman unlocked Brigitte’s door and stepped inside.

A strand of Frau Terrell’s long hair had slipped from its pins and fallen across the shoulder of her wrinkled blouse. “You’re supposed to be in the cellar.”

Brigitte understood the words but pretended she did not.

The woman stepped toward the window, looking down at the cinders still glowing orange in the darkness. “It’s too late for the shelter now, I suppose.” She motioned her toward the door. “Come downstairs to eat.”