Catching the Wind(67)

“You look lovely,” Quenby said as she extended her gift.

The woman smiled from her high-back chair next to the hospital bed, placing the flower on the tray beside a blue ceramic teapot, steam curling from its spout, and a plate of digestive biscuits. “Thank you for returning, Ms. Vaughn.”

“Please call me Quenby.” She gently shook the woman’s hand, mindful of her tender translucent skin.

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Quenby thought about her first venture alone on England’s roads and was quite pleased with herself. She’d left Lucas an hour ago, at the train station in Bromley, and her confidence was bolstered by the time she reached Tonbridge. “It wasn’t any trouble at all.”

“I can’t stop thinking about Olivia Terrell,” Mrs. Douglas said as she dashed each cup with milk and then poured the tea. “Could you please remind me why you’re trying to locate her?”

“I’m searching for the evacuee girl who lived with the Terrells,” she explained. “When Mrs. Terrell moved away, Brigitte went with her.”

Mrs. Douglas scooted toward the edge of her chair. “Do you know what happened to Mrs. Terrell?”

“Lady Ricker sent her to live in a house near the coast, but I don’t know where she went after the war.”

Mrs. Douglas shook her head sadly. “So many people were killed in those days. My father died at the Biggin Hill aerodrome in December 1941.”

Quenby set her biscuit back on her plate. “Did he work at the airfield?”

“Yes, he was an instructor.”

“I found some photographs of the airfield at the Terrells’ house.”

“What sort of photographs?” Mrs. Douglas asked.

“The sort that might have educated the German military.”

Mrs. Douglas closed her eyes briefly and then opened them. “I suppose that doesn’t surprise me. Mother suspected Eddie Terrell was up to no good. He was curious about the RAF and even went with my father several times to visit the base. Eddie told my parents he was interested in joining the RAF, but he stayed at Breydon Court.”

“Did your mother continue to work at Breydon Court?”

She nodded. “Lord Ricker died before the war ended, and then Lady Ricker took her two children to live in London.”

“And your mother was out of a position—”

“Oh no. Lady Ricker kept her on the payroll as a housekeeper until the house was transferred to the Dragues. My mother followed the lives and careers of the Ricker children as they grew. Kept lots of clippings and such from the papers.” She smiled. “My mother liked to keep things.”

In Quenby’s work, she had a fondness for people who kept things, especially pictures and papers. “Why did your mother tell you so much about Eddie Terrell?”

“Come with me.” Mrs. Douglas leaned forward on her walker and motioned for Quenby to follow her. They walked around the kitchen, into an office next to it.

The room was filled with boxes and stacks of papers, one pile of boxes looking like a tower of Jenga blocks, ready to tumble onto the floor. Mrs. Douglas’s walker maneuvered precariously close to the tower, but she moved smoothly around it. Then she knocked on a box with the leg of her walker. “Would you be so kind as to open this?”

“Of course.” Quenby removed the cardboard boxes from the top of the stack and placed the selected one on the desk.

Mrs. Douglas peered inside; then she riffled through the manila files. “Here it is.” She pulled out a file. “Eddie was usually behind his camera, but someone must have borrowed it.”

Quenby studied the black-and-white picture of a man leaning against a polished newel post, his legs crossed casually as if he didn’t have a care in the entire world. Beside him was a prim-looking woman, probably in her late twenties, but she looked a decade older than her husband with her lips pressed firmly together, her hands clasped in front of her straight skirt.

“Is this Olivia?”

“It is. Quite an unhappy-looking woman.”

Quenby agreed. “How did you get her picture?”

“My mother found it in Lady Ricker’s bureau, years after the family moved out.” Mrs. Douglas opened a drawer and took out a clear cover with newspaper clippings inside. “I don’t think she had any qualms about taking it. She said no one was left to appreciate the beautiful things anymore. The Dragues, she feared, would dispose of it all.”

Mrs. Douglas plopped one of the newspaper articles onto the desk. Eddie Terrell was on the front page, smiling back at them. The date was May 1965.

Quenby glanced between the glossy photograph and newsprint. “He looks almost the same—”

Mrs. Douglas tapped the paper. “Read the caption.”

Quenby read it twice.

It wasn’t Eddie Terrell in the photograph. It was Lord Anthony Ricker, the Rickers’ only son.

“I see,” Quenby said before looking up again. Apparently Eddie Terrell had known Lady Ricker quite well.

Mrs. Douglas’s gaze was intense. “Do you?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, then.” Mrs. Douglas shuffled toward the door. “Shall we finish our tea?”

“When did Eddie pass away?” Quenby asked as she returned to her chair.