Catching the Wind(91)

“Quenby—”

But she was already out in the corridor. She’d been avoiding this conversation since their evening in Florida, and she had no desire to start it now. Her heart was all wrapped up in this man, and she was terrified that it was some sort of mirage. When she blinked, he’d be gone.

Beside the kitchen was a breakfast nook that contained a small table walled in by windows. She removed Mrs. Douglas’s file from her bag along with her phone and iPad, placing them on the table.

Mrs. Hough walked into the kitchen and glanced at the items spread across the table. “Would you like some tea?”

“I would love some.”

“With milk?”

“Please.”

Mrs. Hough filled three mugs with hot water and dropped a tea bag into each one. Once they steeped, she added fresh milk to the mugs and brought them to the table, sitting down beside Quenby. “You’re immersed in some sort of project,” she said, tapping the file.

“Lucas and I have been working to find someone lost during World War II.”

She nodded. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lucas so—so engrossed.”

Her words seemed to hover between them and the steam from their mugs. Was Mrs. Hough talking about her son’s interest in this case or his interest in Quenby?

She propped her iPad up, uncertain how to respond.

Mrs. Hough patted her hand. “It’s good for him.”

“He’s a loyal man—to Mr. Knight.”

Mrs. Hough smiled. “He’s always been loyal to the people he cares for.”

Quenby glanced back at her computer screen.

“What are you searching for?” Mrs. Hough asked.

“A house in Yorkshire called Adler.” She turned the screen so Mrs. Hough could see the reference online.

“Lucas’s grandparents might know where it is. They spend a few weeks up there each summer.”

“I tried to ring them,” Lucas said as he stepped into the room. “They aren’t answering their phones.”

“They’re holidaying in Porto Cervo at the moment.” Mrs. Hough inched one of the mugs toward her son. “I’ll contact a few of my friends up near Yorkshire to see if they know of it.”

Lucas reached for Quenby’s iPad, pulling it away from her. “You’re not supposed to be on that.”

“Bossy,” she huffed.

He shrugged, winking at her. “Doctor’s orders.”

Mrs. Hough cleared her throat.

“I’m allowed to look at photographs,” Quenby said, opening the paper file.

She spread the articles and photographs from Mrs. Douglas out on the kitchen table, looking at the various pictures she assumed were taken by Eddie Terrell. Photographs of dinner parties and of people sunning on beach chairs by a swimming pool and bathing hut. Some of the photographs had been taken inside an elaborate parlor that reminded her of the one used for Downton Abbey, Lady Ricker trimmed with a jeweled necklace, opera gloves, and a tiara.

“Where is this?” Mrs. Hough asked, picking up a photo of Lady Ricker sitting on a settee.

“Most of them were taken at Breydon Court near Tonbridge. At the home of Lord and Lady Ricker.” Quenby inched the photographs toward her. “Do you know any of these people?”

Mrs. Hough turned over one of them as if searching for writing on the back, but it was blank. “I recognize this man.”

Lucas leaned forward. “Who is it, Mum?”

“Drague,” she said, pointing at an older gentleman with Lady Ricker. “Admiral Drague. He was quite the charmer in London society after his wife died.”

“Was he a commander during World War II?” Lucas asked.

“No, it would have been the First World War. He came home a hero.”

Quenby looked at Lucas, and she knew he was wondering as well why this hero from the war was socializing with Lady Ricker. And why he had later purchased her home.

“Didn’t you say you worked for the World News Syndicate?” Mrs. Hough asked.

“That’s correct.”

“Admiral Drague’s daughter married Richard Graham, back in the 1940s, I think. Around the time he founded the syndicate.”

Quenby’s eyes widened at this revelation, stray pieces of this puzzle snapping into place. She turned back toward the iPad, her fingers itching to start researching the man.

“I’ll do it for you,” Lucas said as if he’d read her mind.

He typed as Quenby and Mrs. Hough sipped their tea. Then he whistled.

Quenby dove toward the iPad, but he pulled it out of her reach. “I’ll read it.”

He’d found an editorial written by Richard Graham—Evan’s father—in 1948, about the late Lord Ricker and his wife. It was a seething condemnation of anyone absurd enough to think they’d been part of an aristocratic espionage network. The Rickers, he wrote, were loyal to Great Britain and the efforts of the war.

“This story must have run around the time Lady Ricker was interviewed,” Quenby said. “If she and Admiral Drague were acquaintances, he would have wanted her name cleared so no one would suspect him of being a traitor to his country as well.”

Lucas nodded. “A marriage between his daughter and Richard Graham was collateral for the future. With Graham as his son-in-law, any other questions about the Rickers could have been circumvented by the papers.”