Catching the Wind(73)

“I was over in Brighton,” he explained. “Chandler said you came here on your holiday.”

She opened the door to Lucas’s SUV and tossed her backpack inside, trying to recover. Then she turned back to the man who could make or break her job. “Do you typically check in with your employees on vacation?”

“Of course not.” He slid on his sunglasses. “It’s just that I have a particular interest in the story you’ve been working on.”

“Chandler said you killed it.”

“At the time, there didn’t seem to be enough information to run an article.”

“And Mrs. McMann’s attorney called you.”

He leaned against the car, a casual position more forced than natural. “Mr. Fenton wasn’t very pleasant about the whole business either, but I’m not afraid of a lawsuit. As long as you do your job right, there won’t be any litigation.”

“I was doing my job—”

“You’re a brilliant journalist, Quenby.”

“Thank you,” she said, though her words sounded more like a question. He was leading this conversation, and she wasn’t certain to what end.

“I’m reconsidering this story.” He drummed his fingers on the door. “Chandler said that your research is focused on the Ricker family.”

Quenby nodded. “Lady Ricker organized a network of people who worked for Hitler during the war.”

“But you need proof.”

“I have plenty of proof.”

When his eye twitched, she decided to take a step back from her allegations. “I’m still working to gather all the facts.”

“So nothing concrete yet?”

“I’m verifying what I’ve found.”

“I’m intrigued, but your article has to be different from any other story written on German espionage.”

“It will be,” she said. “It’s about an American-born woman who operated a safe house for German infiltrators. She opened up the door to England and invited the country’s enemies inside.”

“This network,” Evan said slowly. “Are you still gathering information about them as well?”

“I am.”

“And you think there’s some proof at this abandoned mill?”

She hesitated. “I’ve been doing some hiking during my holiday.”

“Of course,” he said, though he didn’t seem to believe her.

“I’ll ring Chandler if I find anything pertinent before I return to work.”

“Please contact me directly if you have any new leads,” he said before giving her the number for his mobile. “Are you staying in Newhaven for the next week?”

With that question, he crossed the line. Quenby loved her job, but she was on a mandated holiday, free to do what she liked whether it was walking the woodlands or searching for a lost woman or flying off to Florida.

She climbed into the SUV, the door propped open. “I’ll be around,” she said as she started the engine.

“I don’t suppose I need to remind you about the confidentiality in your job.”

The reminder sounded a whole lot like modern-day blackmail to her.

“I know all about confidentiality.”

But there was nothing in her contract about staying mum on a canceled story.

She closed the door and drove north, toward the Biggin Hill Airport to meet Lucas.

Like Louise McMann, Evan was worried about something, and she intended to find out what it was.





Chapter 44




River Ouse, April 1943

Rosalind’s hands were clamped over the wheel of the Wolseley, her gaze fixed on the ruts in the bumpy road. The laughter was gone from her lips. The quick wit that could put even Herr in his place. The two of them, together they’d put Herr permanently into a place where he’d never trouble them again.

Neither of them shed tears over the man as they fled the Mill House, but baby girl cried, kicking against Brigitte’s chest. She was hungry and probably just as scared.

When they emerged onto the narrow road beside the river, Rosalind turned north. And Brigitte ventured a question. “Where are we going?”

Rosalind didn’t answer. It was as if she couldn’t hear.

They would travel far away from here, the three of them. Go someplace where Lady Ricker would never find them. Wherever the wind led.

Farmland was on their left, the river on their right until the road turned west toward the farms. As the road meandered through pastures and woodlands, Brigitte realized that Rosalind had no destination in mind. No plan. She was just driving away from the house, until their petrol was gone.

For so long she’d wanted to be free from the oppressive hand of the Terrells, but this was not what she’d imagined. A dead man and a friend who’d slipped out of her mind.

There was no door to hide behind now. No words to twist or change. She and baby were both exposed and at the mercy of Rosalind.

“We can drive to London,” Brigitte said. “My friend’s aunt lives there.”

Silence.

“Or you and the baby can go back to Germany. Her father could take care of both of you.”

Rosalind shook her head, her gaze frozen forward. But this time she spoke. “Her father is dead.”