Catching the Wind

by Melanie Dobson

  “There’s an intercom.” The driver pointed toward the stone pillar on the right of the gate. “Do you want me to wait?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m hoping to be here for a while.”

  The gates were locked, so Quenby tried the intercom. When no one answered, she found a seat on the curb, hoping a vehicle would come in or out of the estate this afternoon. In the meantime, she decided to review her notes again on the Ricker family.

  In her research, she’d discovered there were dozens of reasons why men and women became traitors—money, power, politics, devotion to a lover or family member. But it didn’t seem like the Rickers needed any of Germany’s reichsmarks, and they were already powerful in England.

  If Lady Ricker had committed treason, why had she risked death by hanging to cripple the country where she lived? Or was her hatred for the Jewish people so extreme that she would do anything to exterminate them? The interrogator had said Lady Ricker’s aunt was German. Perhaps her ladyship supported nationalism, like so many others at the time, because of her Germanic roots.

  Quenby closed the case over her iPad. She couldn’t fault someone for their loyalty, as long as they didn’t hurt others under the guise of allegiance. Her own grandmother had been born in 1945, while the citizens of Germany were searching for a new identity, recovering from the catastrophe of hatred and loss. Once, Grammy had told her that she followed no one but her Lord. Germany, though, held sweet memories for her, the innocent ones of a child protected by a loving mother who’d been widowed in the last year of the war.

  Grammy had wanted to protect Quenby as well. She couldn’t protect her from everything, but she’d introduced her to love and forgiveness, both at home and in a man who’d also felt abandoned as He died on a cross. A man who loved her so much that He gave His very life for her.

  She’d forgotten that over the years—that Christ had been left alone in the darkness. He’d suffered horrifically in those last hours because of His love, but instead of bitterness, He chose to forgive.

  And it was His forgiveness that changed everything.

  A blue coupe pulled in front of Quenby, and she stood as the front gate opened. Sighing, she hurried to the driver’s side of the car, hoping that Mrs. McMann was inside. Confrontations like this were her least favorite part of the job, but necessary if someone refused to communicate with her via e-mail or phone.

  A woman in her seventies was driving the car, her eyes shaded by sunglasses. She inched down her window as Quenby stepped up beside her.

  Quenby smiled. “Good afternoon.”

  The woman didn’t return the greeting. “You’re not from this area.”

  “I live in London.”

  “But you’re from America.”

  Quenby nodded, sticking her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket. “The state of Tennessee. On the eastern side of the US.”

  “I know where Tennessee is,” the woman snapped.

  “My name is Quenby Vaughn. I’m trying to speak with Mrs. McMann.”

  The woman removed her sunglasses, her eyebrows bowed into two sickles above her glare. “Did you not receive my e-mail?”

  “I did, but—”

  “Then you will return to London this afternoon and tell your supervisor that there will be no story written about my mother or any other member of the Ricker family.”

  The car crept forward, and Quenby followed it toward the gate. “Was someone else in your family spying for Germany as well?”

  Mrs. McMann braked again before lowering her window farther. “I don’t know what fantasy you and your syndicate are trying to create, Miss Vaughn, but there’s no story here, at least not one based on facts.”

  “Your mother was interviewed by an advisory committee in 1948 about suspicions that she assisted the enemy. If she was innocent, then she was the victim of a witch hunt.”

  “My mother was no witch.”

  “I’m only after the truth, Mrs. McMann. If you tell me her story, I’ll set the record straight.”

  The woman stiffened. “Don’t try and teach me how to suck eggs.”

  “I’ve never sucked an egg in my life,” Quenby said. “Not here or in Tennessee.”

  “You know what I mean.” Mrs. McMann’s finger hovered over the button that powered her window.

  “I’m going to find out what happened,” Quenby continued. “I just wanted to give your family the opportunity to tell your side of things.”

  “My mother was an honorable lady who did much good for Britain during the war. There’s nothing else for me to tell.”

  “Did she host evacuees?”

  The woman shook her head. “She was focused on raising her own children.”

  “But you weren’t born until after the war—”

  “I wasn’t an only child.”

  “Of course,” Quenby said, deciding not to add that she knew Mrs. McMann’s brother wasn’t born either until after many of the evacuees had been relocated. “I read that your mother was from America.”

  Mrs. McMann reached for her purse and pulled out her mobile. “I assume you are familiar with the law office of Fenton and Potts.”

  “You familiarized me in your e-mail.”

  Mrs. McMann lifted the phone to her ear. “They are about to become equally familiar with you.”

  The woman drove through the gates. Quenby was tempted to follow her but figured she didn’t need a trespassing charge for Mrs. McMann or any of her family to discredit her story.

  And she was certain now that there was a story. She only had to uncover what Mrs. McMann was trying to hide.

  The gate clanged shut, and she took a step back. The blue coupe had stopped on the other side, as if the woman was making good on her threat to call her lawyer right away.

  A text popped up on her phone from Lucas.

  Have you made a decision?

  She returned his text. I have twelve more hours to decide.

  Seconds later, another question blinked on her screen. Where are you?

  At Breydon Court. Working on my story for WNS.

  Don’t move.

  She stared down at her phone. I have to move. Breathing and all that.

  When she looked back up, she saw Mrs. McMann still in her car, watching Quenby in her rearview mirror. The woman opened her door, craning her neck for her final word from the other side of the fence. “If you come tromping on my land, I’ll call the police.”

  Mrs. McMann slammed the door before driving away.

  As the dust settled back onto the road, Lucas texted her again.

  Do you have a car?

  Don’t need one with Uber.

  I’m south of London. Can drive down.

  Lucas might think he could coerce her by his offer to help—and his flowers—but she couldn’t let him influence her work or her decision.

  She texted back, No need to come. I’m almost done for today.

  His return text came after she started walking. I suppose you can breathe then.

  Generous. Thanks.

  Where are you going next?

  She glanced at the screen for a moment and put her mobile away. She’d send him another text from Mulberry Lane.

  Mrs. McMann couldn’t stop her from tromping on public land.

  Chapter 17

  Breydon Court, December 1940

  With the exception of black draping the windows, Breydon Court hadn’t succumbed to the wartime gloom that billowed across their country and infiltrated the minds of citizens dreary from darkness and fear, from rationed food and the cramped spaces that sheltered them from Germany’s wrath.

  Electric lights were forbidden at night, but candlelight softened the harsh lines and crevices of the formal parlor in the manor house. Even the ancient portraits seemed to bask in the familiarity of flickering wicks, the faint scent of honey in the melting wax, though they glowered down at the modern furniture and clothing of its occupants with open disdain, appearing quite sinister if one bothered to look long enough.


  As Lady Ricker awaited her company in the parlor, Eddie Terrell slipped into the kitchen to find his wife busy preparing for the annual New Year’s Eve party. She, along with three other staff members, had been assigned the task of serving their guests.

  “Where have you been?” Olivia whispered as she reached back behind her collar, checking her neatly pinned knot of hair. There wasn’t a loose strand hanging from it. Never was. But Olivia still felt obligated to check it whenever her hands weren’t occupied with something else.

  “In the gardens,” he lied.

  “You smell like soap.”

  He shrugged. “I cleaned up.”

  He hadn’t really been in the gardens, of course, but truth was as elusive these days as black treacle at the market. His wartime tasks spanned past his obligatory duties as foreman in the outdoor gardens, like Olivia’s. She was a secretary by trade, but Lady Ricker often sent her to work in the kitchen. And now she’d taken on an evacuee for her ladyship as well.

  The wooden counter was filled with platters of jellies, chocolates, and cheese. No wonder people came often from London to visit. Between their gardens and dairy—and the cook’s sleuthing skills—the residents at Breydon Court didn’t suffer the pains of rationing. Here they enjoyed the finest of foods that had seemingly vanished from England at the beginning of the war.

  He stole a piece of cheese while the cook was distracted, her wooden spoon circling inside a copper pot on the stove.

  The chauffeur, a man named James, stepped into the kitchen. “Lord Ricker has arrived.”

  “Blimey,” the cook snapped. “Where are the others?”

  James shrugged. “Haven’t seen anyone else.”

  The cook began stirring the pot again. “The Dragues were due an hour ago.”

  “Their driver is probably wandering around the dark roads. It’s almost impossible to see out there with the new headlamps masking the light, and I know my way.”

  The cook brushed her hands over her stained apron. “One of these days, I fear you’re going to drive right into a den of Nazis.”

  “There aren’t any Germans around here.”

  “Except those working in the garden.” The cook turned toward Eddie as if it were his fault they’d employed prisoners of war to help with chores once done by men who were now fighting or women who’d been recruited by Britain’s Land Army.

  Olivia motioned Eddie toward the pantry, and they stepped away from the rest of the staff. “One of the Germans was talking to the girl today,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought she couldn’t talk.”

  “Doesn’t mean she can’t hear.”

  One of the servants walked by, and they waited until the woman rounded the corner. “Why was the girl outside?” he asked.

  “I sent her to collect eggs.”

  “Maybe we can send her to an orphanage in London with one of our houseguests.”

  “Then Lady Ricker will require us to take in a new evacuee. Unless another member of the staff can billet a child—”

  Breydon Court was required to billet at least one evacuee. Instead of protesting this mandate, Lady Ricker had passed the responsibility down to Olivia, telling her that she would care for an evacuee at home. Her ladyship thought an evacuee would help distract his wife.

  Eddie glanced toward the door. “Perhaps I can persuade her ladyship to change her mind.”

  His words loomed between them, and he waited for Olivia to fuss at him like she always did when he mentioned his friendship with their employer. Instead, she placed her hands on her narrow hips, speaking much too loudly. “Perhaps you can persuade her ladyship to care for the girl herself. The woman is a lazy—”

  “Hush,” he demanded. “Lady Ricker is one of the most driven women I know.”

  Her cheeks flushed with red. “You’re a fool, Eddie Terrell.”

  He smirked as she marched out the door. A fool indeed—he was fooling all of them.

  Minutes later, a housemaid rushed down to the bottom step with the news that their guests had finally arrived. While the other staff clamored for the platters, he picked up his camera and strung it around his neck. Before the war, he’d been a photographer for a magazine in London, taking pictures of cricket matches and society balls.

  The papers these days didn’t care much about society, but Lady Ricker still wanted him to photograph her soirees. They must all act, she insisted, as if the war hadn’t deterred them from their lives. As if the society pages wanted to print these pictures.

  The eight guests were mingling in the room, sipping their drinks, when Eddie walked inside. He heard Admiral Drague talking about the bombs dropped on London, crippling the city and killing more than fifteen thousand people.

  Occasionally they heard Luftwaffe planes in the skies above Breydon Court. The Germans were usually flying north toward London or back across the channel after they’d dropped their bombs. They might empty the last of their explosives on any flickers of light before heading home.

  Lord Ricker stood by himself near the piano, wearing a plum velvet smoking jacket, a glass of bourbon clenched in his hand. Even though most other Members of Parliament dodged the bombing in their country homes, his lordship preferred London over Kent. And he rarely engaged with their guests or even his wife when he was at Breydon Court.

  Lady Ricker’s short hair was curled tightly around her oval face, a diamond necklace glittering above her white sequined dress. She leaned toward Admiral Drague on the divan, her gloved hand on his knee as they whispered together. Eddie stiffened. He knew she must entertain multiple men—for the cause—but still he hated the thought of her with this pompous man.

  He snapped a photograph of them, the light from his bulb flashing off the somber portraits on the wall.

  Admiral Drague’s head whipped up. “Put that away.”

  Lady Ricker gave a sharp nod, acknowledging the man’s demands, and Eddie slowly, defiantly, lowered the camera. He was only doing what she’d asked of him.

  “Eddie,” Lady Ricker said, her voice a dull drone as if she were talking to any of her servants.

  He stepped forward. “Yes?”

  “Those items we discussed earlier today. Go retrieve them for me.”

  He glanced at Admiral Drague and saw the sneer of disdain on the man’s face. Never would he share the photographs with him on his own accord, but if Lady Ricker thought it necessary, he had no choice except to comply.

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  She shooed him away with her jeweled wrist. “Stop dillydallying then.”

  The cottage he and Olivia shared was a fifteen-minute walk from the main house, though he could make it in twelve if he hustled. An electric torch in hand, he hurried through the darkness, down the long lane to the cluster of houses built for those who worked at Breydon Court. He didn’t dare turn on his light, not unless it was an emergency.

  They all must keep their secrets right now, but he hated it when Lady Ricker treated him like one of her subjects. She mustn’t show him any favoritism or others, including Olivia, would guess at their scheme, but still it stung.

  One day, it would all change. Everyone, including Lady Ricker, would treat him with respect.

  His darkroom was in the cellar, but he couldn’t risk storing Lady Ricker’s photographs underneath the house, lest rats tear them apart. Nor could he put them in the bedroom he shared with his wife.

  Now the evacuee was living in the room where he’d stashed his work.

  He pounded on her locked door, heard the girl stir inside, but she didn’t unlock it.

  He pounded again. “Open this door.”

  When the girl still didn’t comply, he went back down to the kitchen and retrieved the key hanging on a peg by the stove. Minutes passed as he jiggled the rusty key, twisting until the door finally opened.

  He shone his torch into the dark room, and it reflected against the glass. Swearing, he yanked the lined blackout curtains across the window before s
canning the room with his light. The girl cowered in the corner.

  He stepped toward her. “You must keep the shades closed at night or we’ll be bombed.”

  Instead of looking up at him, the girl closed her eyes.

  He bent over, whispering to her. “Olivia says you understand plenty. Do not lock that door again and keep these curtains shut.”

  The girl didn’t reply.

  “Turn around,” he ordered. Lady Ricker would be checking her watch now, wondering at his tardiness. He shuddered to think what she might say to Admiral Drague when he returned. Later, she would apologize for belittling him, but he hated being criticized in front of a man who already thought of him as dirt.

  He wouldn’t let this child deter him any longer.

  “I told you to turn around.” He slapped the wall. “Face this.”

  She slid down to the floor, her head falling into her lap. Olivia was wrong—the girl was deaf. And she certainly didn’t talk to anyone, including Germans. His secret would be safe with her.

  He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had already passed. Lady Ricker was going to be furious.

  His back to the girl, he reached for the hammer that he’d hung in the closet and bent down to pry up a floorboard inside the small space. Underneath the plank was a box where he kept the photographs.

  After retrieving the box, he pounded the nail back into the board and rushed back out the door, up the lane. No matter what Lady Ricker said now, she’d show him later how pleased she was with his work.

  CHAPTER 18

  _____

  The narrow lane called Mulberry was located outside Breydon Court’s sandstone wall. There was another iron gate at the end of the lane, leading onto the property, but the grass around the gate was overgrown, the lock rusted.

  It seemed that no one had used this entrance in decades.

  Her back to the gate, Quenby looked at the cottages on both sides of the tree-lined street. The walls on some were whitewashed bricks while other cottages were built of stone, their roofs slanted with slate. Behind the cottages on her left was a pasture that appeared to be part of the estate.