Catching the Wind(57)

She and Lucas began to translate it together.

Hitler’s men only come when the weather cooperates, meaning that fog is heavy over the trees. The numbers in Lady Ricker’s letters correspond with the times our guests arrive, so I changed the number in the last letter, from nine to seven, and waited for a hazy night.

I didn’t know for certain how Hitler’s men arrived, but their trousers are usually soaked when Frau fetches them, their boots coated with mud. I snuck out the front door last night, trekking down to the river in the fog—so like the night Dietmar and I crossed the channel. Then I hid behind the bars of rush.

There was no sound of a motor, but the boat arrived suddenly, as if emerging from the deep. Like one of the undersea boats the German POWs talked about at Breydon Court.

In seconds, a man climbed over the rubber side, dressed like some of the others in a British uniform, his trousers rolled up high. A backpack was secured over his shoulders, and each of his hands clutched a boot as he waded through the shallow water, making him look like a duck flapping its wings.

When he stepped onto the bank, the boat vanished back in the fog. The man looked both ways, seemingly lost below the mill, before he sat down on a flat rock to tie his boots.

I made ticking noises from my fortress of reeds. Like a bush cricket. Then I couldn’t seem to help myself. A shriek escaped my lips. Wild and strong.

Startled, he stood up, patting his side for something that didn’t seem to be there.

I wailed again, loud and long like a banshee. Like a sea monster waiting to devour whoever dared wake him from his sleep.

Hitler’s man sprinted up the riverbank, swearing in our shared language.

I doubled over as he ran, in a vain attempt to stop my laughter. But I couldn’t help it. It felt good to yell and laugh. To watch Hitler’s man run the other way.

For the first time since Frau and I arrived, my voice chased evil away instead of inviting it through our front door.

Frau went to find the man at nine that night, but all she found was a pair of leather boots.

Quenby put down the letter, but her eyes didn’t wander from the writing. Not only was Brigitte’s story linked to Lady Ricker, but here was proof that linked Lady Ricker directly with the espionage mentioned in the National Archives file, her letters orchestrating the delivery of Nazi agents onto England’s shores.

Her fingers drummed on paper, itching to write the lead for a story piecing together in her head. If only Evan would let her write it, she could leave Brigitte’s name out of the story. Her sources would remain confidential, for Mr. Knight’s sake.

“You still with me?” Lucas asked.

Blinking, Quenby looked over at him.

“You’ve gone back again, haven’t you? About seventy years ago?”

She shifted in her chair. After she found out what happened to Brigitte, she’d ask Chandler to speak with Evan about moving forward with this story. Or if Evan did call her directly, she’d try to convince him herself.

She slipped the letter to the bottom of the stack. “Good for Brigitte for fighting back against the evil the best she could.”

“I wonder if the Terrells ever discovered that she was working against them,” he said.

“If they did, they would have tried to silence her for good.” The Terrells or Lady Ricker couldn’t have let her live, especially after the Germans lost the war. Traitors were killed, and Brigitte knew the secrets that could convict all of them.

There would be some sort of grim relief in knowing Brigitte escaped from the Terrells’ abuse, yet in her heart, she hoped Brigitte had survived this, even thrived. For Mr. Knight’s sake.

Lucas poured cream into his coffee. “Her resilience is exemplary.”

“She kept thinking that Dietmar was coming for her.”

“And he did.”

She looked down at the next letter. “Where did you go?”

MARCH 1942

Herr rarely comes now, but a box of food arrives each week from Breydon Court, along with L.R.’s letters. At least he doesn’t let us starve.

Frau seems to think he will love her forever, but Herr loves her as much as he loves the hoe he left in the shed. Both are useful to him. For now.

I fear what will happen when he has no need for her or me anymore.

SEPTEMBER 1942

The letters stopped coming for several months, so I had no paper to write. But then a letter. And a week later, another of Hitler’s men.

Lothar ate. A lot. And he stayed much too long before he went wherever these men go.

After he left, I had to scrounge for berries and nuts and what was left in our garden since nothing remained from our box.

Lothar also came into my little room before he left, late at night. But he wasn’t like Roger. Instead of shaking me, he slithered up to my cot and touched me. Where no one should touch.

When I screamed, Frau ran into the room. I didn’t think she would help, but she coaxed Lothar to leave. Said he could come back in a year or two.

Then she locked my door. I heard them laughing on the other side.

She thinks I still don’t understand much English, but I understand the important words. From now on, when the men come, I will sleep with my cot against the door. And wish I had Roger’s gun.

OCTOBER 1942

Herr finally came, and he was angry. The postman directed Frau to town.

Herr said she shouldn’t have registered for coupons there. Frau said if she hadn’t, both she and I would have starved. And frozen to death since he’d forgotten to send matches for our fire.