Catching the Wind(39)

He laughed. “I’ve never spit out wine before.”

She tilted her glass toward him. “What do you taste?”

He took a sip, seeming to contemplate the flavors. “Black cherry. A hint of raspberry. This wine is from the Burgundy region of France.”

She chalked up the cherry taste in her mouth to the power of suggestion.

He placed his goblet back on the table. “Listen to that.”

An owl hooted from a nearby tree, the one that kept her up at night when she left her window open.

Standing, he stepped toward the railing. “It reminds me of visiting my mother’s parents in the summer. I’d spend my daylight hours exploring the forest behind their gardens.”

“I didn’t spend much time inside my grandmother’s house either when I stayed with her. Her neighbor had a boat and a daughter my age.”

He smiled as he returned to his seat. “Sounds extraordinary.”

“Grammy was my rock after my home fell apart.”

“My grandparents were more of the holiday sort,” he said.

“They liked to vacation?”

“No, I only saw them twice a year when I was a kid—a few days each summer and then during Christmas.” After another bite of food, he tapped the plate with his fork. “This is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted.”

“You’re lying.”

He sipped his wine. “I don’t lie, Quenby. At least not intentionally.”

She filled his plate again, and as they continued eating, she told him about her visits with Mrs. McMann and Mrs. Douglas.

“Mrs. Douglas’s mother knew the Terrells, and she confirmed that the Terrells housed an evacuee during the war. She also said Mrs. Terrell moved soon after the war began . . .” Her words trailed off.

Olivia—that was what Mrs. Douglas had called Mrs. Terrell.

Lucas set down his fork. “What’s wrong?”

She stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Inside her flat, she propped up her iPad and scrolled through the hundreds of pictures she’d taken at the National Archives. Memos, photographs, newspaper articles, official correspondence. The letter addressed from Lady Ricker to Olivia was among them.

She scanned the seemingly mundane note.

APRIL 1942

Dear Olivia,

You’ll be pleased to know the baby took his first steps this week. He seems anxious to move.

He’s eating better as well. Last night he woke me up at eleven to eat, but other than that, he is sleeping through the night.

I hope you’re enjoying my gift.

Yours truly,

Lady Ricker

The next image was a brown envelope. There was no name on it—of the sender or receiver—but there was an address. Mill House on Kelmore Street. In Newhaven.

Switching to Google, Quenby found the town of Newhaven south along the English Channel, not far from Brighton. An hour from Breydon Court via car.

Lucas was over her shoulder now, looking at her screen, but he didn’t interrupt as she searched for the street. There was no record of a Kelmore Street in Newhaven, at least not online. The house had probably been numbered in recent years, the road renamed.

She swiped the screen, moving back to the letter. “I think our Mrs. Terrell went to live in Newhaven after Mulberry Lane.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, examining her face instead. She brushed her long bangs away from her eyes. “What?”

He shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“Wise or not, this time I’m going to ask what you’re thinking.”

Another breath of silence before he responded. “I was thinking that perhaps Mr. Knight knew exactly what he was doing when he hired you.”

She folded her iPad over the keyboard. “Your confidence is overwhelming.”

“It’s meant to be a compliment, Quenby. If anyone could find Brigitte, I believe it would be you.”

She thought he was mocking her, but as she looked at him again, studying his face like he’d done to her, she saw strength in his brown eyes, a genuine smile on his lips.

And it seemed that this time he was telling the truth.





Chapter 23




Mulberry Lane, February 1941

“Hurry up,” Eddie urged, yanking open the drawers in their bedroom bureau, dumping Olivia’s blouses and knickers onto the bed. It wouldn’t be long before the two detectives up at the big house started knocking on the doors of cottages near the bomb site.

She folded several items of clothing into a suitcase as if the folding were critical. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”

He tossed a pile of clothes into her case and clasped it shut. “You must leave now!”

A wet trail streaked across the linoleum and carpet upstairs, starting from where he’d pulled her from her bath minutes ago, but still she didn’t seem to understand the urgency of their situation. This was no holiday. Nor was there time to coordinate outfits and such. The basics were all she needed.

She sniffled again, but there was no time for tears either. He’d left the big house twenty minutes ago, soon after two detectives from London arrived. The men were meeting with Lord Ricker, asking about a German parachute the Tonbridge police found after the fire yesterday, hidden in the shed by the greenhouse.