Catching the Wind(75)

“Do you know Evan?” she asked.

“I’ve never met him, but I know about him. He’s from an old London family.”

She’d never heard Evan talk about his family in their meetings, but he certainly had the air of one who’d been rooted in superiority, like Lucas had acted when she first met him.

Evan’s father, Richard Graham, had started a small newspaper called the London News after the war to support the recovery of their country. Back then, Chandler once told her, the Graham family hadn’t been as concerned about making money. They’d wanted to stitch back together what had been frayed by the war.

Quenby glanced out the window, at the brick chapel near the terminal. It was a memorial, Lucas had told her, for the RAF and civilian men and women killed here during the war. How strange to think that bombs were raining down on this place seventy-five years ago. That some people today could still remember them falling.

The plane sped down the runway and the wheels lifted. In seconds they were climbing above the outskirts of London and then soaring over the gardens and woods of Kent.

“Look out this window,” Lucas said, motioning for Quenby to join him across the aisle.

When she scooted to the seat opposite him, Samantha scolded her from the front of the plane. “You’d better find that seat belt right away.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Quenby snapped it. “Seat belt is on.”

“Splendid.” Samantha looked back down at the magazine in her lap.

The jet flew low over trees until the forest flattened into lawn. They were above a grand house now with its austere stone facade, a dozen chimneys, and two wings that rambled down each side of the main house, the slate roof sloping down toward garden walls and a swimming pool with a stone pool house.

“Is that Breydon Court?” Quenby asked, glancing at Lucas. He was grinning.

“The very one.”

“It’s bigger than I imagined.”

“The Rickers were quite influential in their day,” Lucas said.

“I read that Lady Ricker stopped coming here after the war. She settled into their town house in London and became somewhat of a recluse.”

Lucas placed his laptop on the coffee table between them, the screen open. “How many children did she have by then?”

“Two—Anthony and Louise. Louise was born a few months after Lord Ricker died.”

“Perhaps she decided to focus on raising her children?”

“Perhaps . . .” But Lady Ricker didn’t seem like the type of woman who would prize motherhood. “Mrs. Douglas showed me a picture of Anthony Ricker when I visited her. When he was younger, he looked exactly like Eddie Terrell.”

“You think they were having an affair?”

“I’m fairly certain of it.”

Lucas sighed. “I wonder if Anthony Ricker ever found out.”

“That’s not a conversation I’d like to have with his children.”

“Was Lord Ricker the father of Louise?”

“Mrs. Douglas didn’t mention her when we spoke.”

Samantha stepped up beside them. “Would you like to fly over the house again?”

“Yes, please.”

After Samantha spoke with the pilots, the plane circled above Breydon Court one more time. Then it headed west toward the Atlantic.

“Are you going to sleep this trip?” Quenby asked.

“Only the second half, and you should sleep too.” He pointed at his laptop screen. “Do you know they have special passes so you don’t have to wait in line for Space Mountain?”

“Everyone knows that.”

Her sarcasm didn’t deter him. “Will you ride Space Mountain with me?”

“You’re like a kid.”

“Will you?” he persisted.

“I’m not big on theme park rides.”

He sighed. “I suppose we can stick to Winnie the Pooh.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going into the park.”

“Dream slayer.”

She’d let him think she was only trying to douse his dreams instead of avoiding her own nightmare.

They flew out over the coastline of England, above a lineup of wind turbines twirling like the batons of a majorette troupe—owned by Arrow Wind, Lucas informed her. Then he unbuckled his seat belt. “Mr. Knight wants to conference with us.”

Quenby followed him back toward the leather couch. “Does Mr. Knight travel very often in this jet?”

“Not anymore, though his executives use it often to meet with other companies around the world. I think . . .”

“What?” she pressed.

“I suppose having a plane makes Mr. Knight feel more secure, as if he can escape quickly if necessary.”

At the press of a button, a television screen slid up from a bureau across from the couch. Seconds later, Lucas had connected them with Mr. Knight, and the older man’s greeting boomed through the cabin. It was three in the morning on the Pacific coast, and Quenby wondered when the man slept.

He greeted both of them and then called out, “Hello, Samantha.”

“Good morning, Mr. Knight.”

“Are you treating my passengers right?”

“I’m planning to spoil them, sir.”