The file was filled with transcriptions of interviews, memorandums, and correspondence related to men and women suspected of spying for Germany during World War II. As she skimmed through the records, Quenby typed notes into her iPad about a network of British people helping German combatants who parachuted into Kent or snuck over to England via boat.
Germans, she read, recovered the identity cards and wallets from British soldiers they’d killed or imprisoned, then supplied these personal items to spies sent over the channel to retrieve information or sabotage airfields, machine shops, and factories. Many of these spies were incarcerated hours after landing in England, but some managed to infiltrate the country. Then they’d report back to Berlin via wireless about British defenses and military. Or whether they’d been successful in their sabotage work.
If she was going to write this feature, she needed a compelling new angle that would pique interest today. Like an aristocratic American woman who moved to England before turning traitor. Or perhaps she’d relocated to England specifically to assist the Germans.
Her gaze wandered out the window to a boy and girl swinging in the park below. And her thoughts shifted to the boy and girl in Mr. Knight’s story.
Mr. Knight said that Brigitte had been taken from him. Had they made it out of Belgium together? If so, it must have been dreadful living in England as a German during and after the war. No matter their innocence, most Germans were despised in the 1940s. They might have hated Hitler and his regime, but during that decade, they were all considered guilty.
Quenby leaned back in her chair, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Mr. Knight’s jet had returned her to London on Sunday afternoon, but it almost seemed like the trip to his island had been part of a dream, like she’d never awakened from watching the girl trying to capture puzzle pieces that floated in the heath.
On their way home, the plane had stopped in New York to leave Lucas and his work there. Once they were airborne again, she’d slept the entire journey.
Leaning forward, she checked her e-mail again, hoping one of the Ricker grandchildren might actually enjoy the warmth of the limelight, but none of them had responded to her request to meet. Her next step was to visit Mrs. McMann at her home in Breydon Court, but first she needed to arm herself with more information from the war files.
In the next folder, she found exactly what she was looking for—the transcript of an interview between Lady Ricker and an unnamed interrogator from an advisory committee. Quenby glanced over both shoulders as if someone might be trying to scoop her story, but the other dozen or so people in the room were equally intent on their own research. Still it made her feel better to know everyone around her was occupied.
The interviewer asked about Lady Ricker’s upbringing in Philadelphia and about her first husband, whom she’d married in Boston when she was nineteen. Then he began quizzing her about her involvement during World War II.
Q. You entertained many people at Breydon Court during the war.
A. (nod) I entertained people there before the war as well.
Q. Some of these people were known advocates of the Nazi party.
A. Known now, perhaps, but no one ever advocated for Hitler in my presence.
Q. You told a friend once that you despised Jews. A Mrs.—
A. That doesn’t make me a Nazi.
Q. Why do you hate the Jewish people?
A. I don’t hate them. (fidgets with handkerchief) I was concerned about what was happening in Germany.
Q. Your aunt was German.
A. She immigrated to America when she was six.
Q. Still she would have been an influence.
A. She never spoke about her childhood.
Q. Did you visit Germany with her?
A. Once.
Q. Did you maintain contact with the people you met there?
A. Any contact I had stopped at the beginning of the war.
Q. Several German POWs were employed at Breydon Court.
A. Many of the prisoners from Tonbridge worked on local farms.
Q. Did you help these men?
A. Lord Ricker and I supplied all of our staff with food and shelter.
Q. Did you supply the German prisoners with information as well?
A. Our head gardener spoke directly with them, not me.
Q. Because he spoke German?
A. Yes, he was an asset.
Q. Until he died.
A. One tends to lose their significance after death.
Q. Your gardener had a German grandfather.
A. He couldn’t change his lineage, no matter how distasteful.
Q. How did your marriage to Lord Ricker work out?
A. My marriage is no concern of yours or this investigation.
Q. Your husband died in 1944.
A. (nods) Our flat was hit by a doodlebug.
Q. Why was Lord Ricker in London?
A. I can’t recall.
Q. You can’t recall what your husband was doing the night he died?
A. (No answer)
Q. Was Admiral Drague with you?
A. (stands up) Is the committee finished with their questioning?
Q. We can resume later if you’d prefer.
A. I have nothing more to add to your inquiry.
After the transcript was a handwritten letter from Lady Ricker to a woman named Olivia. The letter was brief and rather impersonal, talking about the weather, gardening, and the health of her baby, who apparently suffered from croup. Quenby took pictures of the interview and letter before turning to the next page.
A profile on Janice Ricker listed her description as five foot six in height with blue eyes and short black hair, curled in a fashionable style. She had been married twice. Her first marriage was to an American businessman who amassed a fortune before they divorced in 1928. As a wealthy socialite, Janice had relocated to England in the 1930s like many other American women who enjoyed London’s society. There she met and married Lord Ricker.
Her next of kin included a son born during her marriage to Lord Ricker. And Louise, who was born a few months after Lord Ricker died.
Quenby’s mobile phone blinked inside the plastic bag, and she glanced down at the text. It was from Lucas.
Do you have dinner plans?
She read his message twice and turned over the bag. Why was he bothering to be amiable now? She’d text him back later, after she made plans.
At a half past four, she left the study room to return her files. Along the wall were computers to search through the 32 million records available. Slipping into a seat, she decided to search for Brigitte Berthold. Nothing came up in the results, but that didn’t mean Brigitte’s name wasn’t included in another file. Only that there was no archived mention of Mr. Knight’s friend.
Someone stepped up beside her. A thin woman in a trouser suit, her hair twisted in a sock bun. “We’re closing in fifteen minutes.”
Quenby thanked her, and with the plastic bag at her side, she cleared security and descended the staircase to the locker room. The ground floor smelled like cinnamon rolls and coffee, the scent lingering from the cafeteria. Lunch had been an afterthought today, a quick meal of crisps and an apple she’d stored in her locker.
Her phone blinked again: another message from Lucas asking about dinner. She did have plans—a run through the heath and eating take-out sushi on her patio.
Her briefcase secure over her shoulder, she crossed the plaza by the reflecting pool. Then she heard someone call her name from near the car park. Turning, she saw Lucas hurrying toward her, waving a bouquet of peonies and lavender like it was a white flag.
Groaning, she walked faster toward the train station, but he caught up quickly to her side. She refused to look over as she hurried toward the street. “I thought you were in New York.”
“I flew back last night.”
With a glance to her right, she stepped off the curb. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Your editor said you were here.”
>
She just might wring Chandler’s neck.
He held out the flowers. “I couldn’t find an olive branch at the florist.”
She didn’t take the flowers, but on the other side of the street she stopped and faced him. His brown eyes reminded her of a puppy, guilty of stealing his owner’s shoes, then chewing them to shreds when no one was around. “What do you want, Lucas?”
“A truce.”
“Really?”
“And dinner,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’m guessing you’re hungry too.”
“Please stop making assumptions about me.” She resumed walking toward the Underground station.
He caught up beside her again, the flowers down at his side. “I’m paying.”
Of course he was. He probably thought she couldn’t afford to buy her own dinner. “I can pay for myself.”
“I’m sorry for being so abrupt before—”
She didn’t stop walking. “You were downright rude, Lucas.”
“Tell you what,” he said, ducking under the limb of a tree. “You choose the place and the conversation. Or for that matter, you can choose not to talk at all. I will completely ignore you if that’s what you want.”
She hiked her handbag up on her shoulder. “Did Mr. Knight tell you to play nice?”
“He really wants to hire you.”
“Your job’s on the line, isn’t it?”
“No, but he’s done a lot for me, and I want to help him.”
She slowed her pace. How could she argue with that? “I can’t linger for hours.”
“Nor can I.”
He followed her to the station, up the flight of stairs. Sterile lights illuminated the tracks and platform, the board above ticking through arrival times. Her train would be here in three minutes.
“How about Italian food?” she asked.
“Actually . . .” He paused. “I made reservations at the Garden House.”
The Garden House was an elegant, award-winning restaurant near Kew Gardens, known for insanely high prices and excellent food. A place she’d always wanted to try, but still—“You said I could choose the place.”
“I’ll cancel.”
She faced him again, people streaming around on both sides of them. “If I eat dinner with you, you’ll answer my questions.”
“I’ll answer anything I can.”
“Which probably isn’t much.”
He flinched ever so slightly before he regained his composure. “Mr. Knight asked me to tell you about the last time he saw Brigitte.”
Her breath caught against her will. “What if I decide not to search for her?”
“He thinks you can keep a secret.”
The word—secret—whistled through her mind, her thoughts jolting back again to that day with her mother long ago, to the secret she’d kept for more than twenty years. Ironic, really, since she searched daily for the truth about other people, often finding men and women who didn’t particularly want to be found. Just never the person who’d once mattered most.
Even as she sought other people to interview, she’d refused to seek the truth about her own past.
“Quenby?”
She turned toward Lucas, barely registering the use of her first name.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded slowly.
Mr. Knight was right—she could keep secrets. And whether or not she chose to search for Brigitte, she would keep his story secret as well.
Chapter 10
Belgium, October 1940
The dogs barked again as Dietmar stumbled around a lake, Brigitte lying motionless against his chest. There was still life in her; he could feel her breath in the cold, the heat from her skin.
He ducked into the dark forest, branches scraping his arms and face as he fled.
It would be impossible to escape a pack of dogs, even if she ran beside him now, but the alternative was unthinkable. They’d come so far these weeks, struggling to survive. If the Nazis didn’t kill them, they would surely separate him from Brigitte.
She would never survive their treatment, and he—
He didn’t think he could bear being torn from someone else he loved.
If the enemy overtook them, they would go down together. Nothing would make him leave her side.
A needle of light pricked the darkness, like the slender shaft drifting through a keyhole. Then he smelled woodsmoke mixing with the salty air.
Was another house nearby? He knew well the risks of seeking shelter, but if he didn’t try, he’d regret it.
Instead of running away from the house, he followed the trail of light and smoke.
Brigitte moaned softly, stirring in his arms. “Be still,” he whispered, so different from his commands to run.
This time she listened.
The light drew closer, but so did the dogs, the haunting sound of their hunt echoing through the trees. They had to get inside, hide from the animals and the men who hunted them.
But the light in the woods didn’t come from a house. It trickled out of a rambling structure built of towers and stone. A fortress of old.
Dietmar rapped on the massive front door, praying he would find a friend on the other side.
A man dressed in a black robe answered his knock, a lantern clutched in his hand and a silver cross dangling from his neck. He glanced down at Brigitte, then up at the flashes of torchlight in the trees.
“Quickly,” the monk commanded, ushering them into a great hall. The man shut the door behind them and slid a bolt. Nothing would keep the Nazis out, Dietmar knew, but perhaps the bolt would slow them down.
The monk lifted Brigitte from his arms.
“I won’t leave her,” Dietmar said.
The monk studied him before speaking again. “Come with me then.”
Dietmar heard a knock as they rushed through a series of stone corridors, up into a room with ten beds, six of them already filled.
There was no time to change into nightdress, but the monk took the knapsack from Dietmar’s shoulder and tucked it into a closet. Brigitte, he laid in one bed. Then Dietmar climbed into the one next to hers.
“You must listen,” the monk said in German, and Brigitte’s head turned toward him. “No matter what happens, keep the covers over your clothing and your eyes closed. The only children we house here are ones who cannot see.”
Brigitte’s eyes fluttered shut, but as the monk locked the door behind him, Dietmar glanced toward the window. Faint rays of moonlight stole into the musty space, and he saw the faces of the sleeping children around them. None but he and Brigitte were aware of the enemy downstairs.
Yet inside these formidable walls, he felt safe.
He prayed that God would bring them through this night. That He would provide food for their stomachs and nourish Brigitte’s empty soul.
When he heard footsteps outside the door, the lock clicking as it opened, he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the lightning stripes down the collars of men who wanted to take everything from him.
It seemed to him that the entire world was blind to the Nazis’ evil scheme.
Tonight he would pretend to be blind to their scheme as well.
CHAPTER 11
_____
A server bustled around the white-cloaked table at the restaurant, interrupting Lucas’s story. Quenby uncurled her fingers from the edge of her chair, returning to the clamor inside the dining room, the glare of streetlights filtering through the window.
In her mind, she’d been right there in the dark forest with the children, running from the Gestapo. She could hear the clicking of boots across the cold stone floor, eyes examining the face of each child, awake or asleep.
She couldn’t imagine how Brigitte and Dietmar must have felt. Two children trying to survive. Strangers in a hostile country, desperately needing a home.
“Quenby?” Lucas whispered.
She blinked. “What?”
He motioned toward the server. “This gentleman is inqu
iring about your meal.”
“I can return later,” the man said, clearly concerned about her mental state.
“No, I—” She scanned the menu. “I’ll have the white onion soup and pearl barley risotto.”
The server took their menus, and Quenby turned toward Lucas again. “Did the Nazis find them in Belgium?”
Lucas smiled. “I’ll finish the story after dinner.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I’m not going to leave here before I eat.”
“Still,” he said, the firelight from their candle flickering on the glass behind him. “It’s collateral.”
She sipped on mineral water as she studied the man sitting across from her, his dark-brown eyes and the shadow of a goatee around his lips. The arrogance in his gaze had been replaced by something else. Admiration, she might even think, if she wasn’t convinced he thought himself elite compared to her.
Perhaps it was still a game for him to win. Mr. Knight wanted to hire her, so Lucas needed to be cordial to her. The second she declined the work—or found Brigitte—his cold shoulder would turn her way again.
In the meantime, she’d regain her own professionalism and return his attempts at friendliness, no matter how feigned. “So you won’t tell me any more about Mr. Knight as a boy—”
“In time, Miss Vaughn.”
“How about you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “This isn’t about me.”
“What were you like as a boy?”
“Ornery,” he answered. “Inquisitive.”
“Annoying?”
The server was over his shoulder, pouring white wine into his glass. Lucas sniffed it, then took the tentative sip of a wine connoisseur, seeming to consider its virtues. For a moment, she thought he might actually send it back, but he nodded his approval before resuming their discussion. “What did you ask?”
“Were you annoying as a child?”
He shrugged. “It all depends on perspective.”
“How about the perspective of your parents?”
“Unfortunately they weren’t around enough to make much of a judgment. I spent most of my growing-up years at a series of boarding schools.”
Catching the Wind Page 6
