Catching the Wind

by Melanie Dobson

  Perhaps someone on this street could answer her questions about the Rickers as well as the Terrell family.

  There were only four stone cottages on the lane that looked as if they might be at least seventy years in age. Number twelve backed up to the pasture.

  The woman who answered her knock was dressed in black yoga pants and a light-pink T-shirt freshly stained. On one hip she was bouncing a baby girl even as she clutched her laptop to her chest with her other hand.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Quenby said. “I’m trying to track down a family named the Terrells. They lived on this street in the 1940s.”

  The woman set her laptop on a shoe rack and switched the baby to her other hip. “I’ve never heard of them, but we’ve only been here for a year.”

  “Do you know anyone who could answer some questions about the history of Breydon Court?”

  The baby started to cry. “You should talk to Mrs. Douglas. She’s lived here her entire life.”

  Quenby glanced down the cracked sidewalk. “Which house is hers?”

  “It’s by the wall. Only house with a palm tree planted in the front lawn.”

  After thanking her, Quenby walked down four cottages. A man wearing blue scrubs answered her knock, and when Quenby inquired about Mrs. Douglas, he introduced himself as Paul before inviting her inside.

  “You have a visitor,” he called down the hallway. Then he led Quenby into a sitting room cluttered with dozens of frames—some displaying black-and-white photographs, others filled with embroidered sailboats, fruit, and animals. On a hospital bed near the window was a woman propped up into a seated position, wearing a jade dressing gown. She had short gray hair, neatly rolled and styled.

  “Please, come in.” Mrs. Douglas waved Quenby forward. “Are you from St. Stephen’s?”

  “No,” Quenby said as she sat on a chair beside the woman. “I’m trying to find more information about the Ricker family and a girl who lived on Mulberry Lane about seventy-five years ago.”

  “I was born in this house, back in 1936, but I don’t remember much about the Rickers.” The woman glanced out the window, toward the iron gate. Then, turning back, she reached for Quenby’s hand and squeezed it.

  Quenby held the woman’s hand, remembering for a moment how Grammy used to hold her hand as well whenever her thoughts began to wander.

  “Did one of your parents work for the Rickers?” Quenby asked.

  “My mother was a housekeeper there, though she was often required to serve guests on the evenings Lady Ricker entertained. After Anthony Ricker was born, my mother cared for him.”

  “I read that Lady Ricker enjoyed entertaining.”

  Mrs. Douglas nodded. “Mother said she’d charm every man in the room with her elegance and wit.”

  “But not the women?”

  “I don’t believe most women appreciated her charms.”

  Paul reentered the room, carrying a porcelain tea set glazed with peach roses and a matching plate filled with biscuits—some custard iced, others dotted with jam. Mrs. Douglas released her hand, and Quenby splashed milk into both her and Mrs. Douglas’s cups before she poured the tea.

  “Did Lady Ricker entertain often?”

  “She hosted friends from London before and during the war, but there weren’t any more parties at the house after V-E Day.”

  Quenby took a sip of her drink. “I heard that Lady Ricker was anti-Semitic.”

  Mrs. Douglas blinked. “Who told you that?”

  Quenby thought about the file back at the National Archives. The interrogator who had questioned the woman’s views. “There are rumors that the men and women she hosted were Fascists. Perhaps they thought Hitler was the solution to what they perceived to be a problem.”

  “I don’t put any stock in rumors.” Mrs. Douglas set her teacup on a stand beside the bed, and Quenby saw the concern in her eyes. “Why do you want to know about Lady Ricker?”

  She decided to redirect the conversation. “I’m also looking for a family by the name of Terrell.”

  “Terrell . . .” Mrs. Douglas’s voice trailed off; her gaze focused on two robins fighting outside the window. “Do you mean Olivia Terrell?”

  Quenby leaned forward. “Did she live on this street during the war?”

  Mrs. Douglas nodded. “She was a secretary for Sir Winston Churchill until she got married. Then she came to work for the Rickers.”

  “As a secretary?”

  “Sometimes, I suppose, though Lady Ricker kept her in her place by requiring she work in the kitchen. Mrs. Terrell and my mother were acquaintances until Mrs. Terrell moved away. Mr. Terrell was . . .”

  When she stopped, Quenby pressed her. “Mr. Terrell was what?”

  Mrs. Douglas shook her head. “It’s just a rumor.”

  “Sometimes these rumors prove true.”

  Mrs. Douglas patted her hand. “No sense dredging up the past now.”

  “Do you know where the Terrells moved after the war?” Quenby asked.

  “No.” Mrs. Douglas leaned back against her pillows. “My mother said that Mrs. Terrell didn’t report to work one morning, and she never returned. Mr. Terrell said he didn’t know where she or the girl went, though my mother didn’t believe him.”

  Quenby inched closer to her. “What girl?”

  Mrs. Douglas shook her head weakly. “I don’t remember her name.”

  Paul stepped up beside them. “I’m afraid she’s done for the day.”

  “Of course,” Quenby said, though she was aching to ask more about the girl. Instead she reached for her briefcase and handed the nurse a business card. “Please ring if she’d like to speak again.”

  As Paul arranged blankets around Mrs. Douglas, Quenby let herself out through the front door.

  “Hello again,” someone called out from down the street. Turning, Quenby saw the woman from number twelve walking toward her, balancing both her baby and a brown paper bag.

  “I don’t know if this is helpful, but we did some remodeling a few months ago and I found this tin under a floorboard.”

  Quenby clutched the bag. “Thank you.”

  “Why are you trying to find this family?”

  “I think a German girl by the name of Brigitte was billeted at their home during the war. One of her friends is trying to find out what happened to her.”

  The woman smiled, motioning Quenby back toward the house. “Let me show you something else.”

  An upstairs bedroom had been transformed into a pale-green nursery with flowers painted on the wall and a sketch of Peter Rabbit hopping toward a white picket fence, ears flapping in the wind as if Mr. McGregor was in close pursuit.

  The woman pointed toward the flecked carpet in the small closet. “The tin was under there.” When she waved her forward, Quenby held up her mobile phone to use the light. “Look at that.”

  Carved in the wood above the baseboard were the letters B. B.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to paint over it,” the woman said.

  Quenby smiled as well, snapping a picture on her phone before her gaze turned toward the window, at the acres of pastureland behind it. Mr. Knight’s story, it seemed, was true. Brigitte must have stayed in this cottage, carving her initials like Dietmar had done into the tree back in Moselkern.

  Had Olivia Terrell taken her when she left, or had Brigitte relocated to another home?

  “Did Brigitte come to England on the Kindertransport?” the woman asked as they walked back down the steps.

  “No, she and a friend ran away after the Nazis arrested their parents.”

  The woman kissed her baby’s head. “I hope you discover what happened to her.”

  “Me too,” Quenby said.

  She pulled the tin out of the bag and had started to open it when her phone chimed. Instead of Lucas texting her this time, it was Chandler.

  We need to talk.

  Quenby stared at the screen. Her editor never demanded they talk unless something was wrong.

 
I can phone now, she typed.

  No—come back to London.

  Quenby checked the train schedule on her phone before texting back.

  I’m still in Tonbridge. Won’t be home until almost six.

  I’ll wait for you at the office.

  Quenby read the message twice before sending a reply. What’s wrong?

  As she waited for Chandler’s response, the excitement over finding Brigitte’s initials and even the tin began to fade.

  Louise McMann must have made good on the threat to contact her attorney.

  Chapter 19

  Breydon Court, February 1941

  Eddie closed the door behind him and locked it. Snow fell over the deer park outside the bedroom window, the sky darkening. He pulled the blackout curtains over the glass, and then his focus settled on the woman waiting for him on her bed, resting back against satin pillows that glowed in the candlelight.

  Lady Ricker smoothed a manicured finger across the gold thread on her bed covering. “Olivia must be wondering where you are.”

  “She’s taking dinner to the girl,” he said, slipping onto the pillows beside her.

  “I suppose she’s too simple to understand anyway—”

  “Not as simple as you’d think.” Just last night his wife had yelled at him for staying late at the big house again. Lady Ricker, she said, demanded too much of him.

  Olivia had no idea as to the extent of his duties for her ladyship, especially when Lord Ricker was away.

  He’d met Lady Ricker in London three years ago when he’d photographed her and Lord Ricker’s wedding ceremony for the magazine. She’d called him months later, asking him to take pictures at one of her many parties. As the weeks passed, they’d clarified the parameters of their relationship. Lady Ricker was a decade older than him and not wholly unattractive with her ebony curls and slender figure, though he liked to pretend she was beautiful. Attraction was secondary to their mutual passion.

  She lifted her hand, smoothing his wrinkled collar. “You’ve worked hard today.”

  He smiled. “I always work hard for you, my lady.”

  “Admiral Drague phoned this morning. He was pleased with your latest photographs.”

  He stiffened. “I don’t work for Admiral Drague.”

  “Now, now.” She clutched his chin between her fingers like he was a child. “You mustn’t be jealous.”

  “You treat me like a dog when he’s here.”

  “If I treated you any other way, they would suspect.”

  “Let them suspect.” He reached across the bed, trailing his finger down her bare arm.

  Lady Ricker caught his hand and returned it to his side, focused on the business at hand. And making it quite clear who was in charge of this relationship. “Where are you keeping the pictures?”

  “You said you didn’t want to know.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “They’re hidden,” he told her, cracking his knuckles. “In the cottage.”

  “What if Olivia finds them?”

  “She won’t. No one will find them.”

  “I have plans for you and me, Eddie. Big plans.”

  He began unbuttoning his shirt. “I know.”

  “And a new assignment.”

  He turned toward her, his chest bare. “I don’t want to talk about work.”

  “The girl in your house. What language does she speak?”

  He reached for her again. “I don’t want to talk about the girl either.”

  Lady Ricker shook off his hand. “What language, Eddie?”

  Sighing, he inched away from her. “She doesn’t speak at all.”

  “Not English, perhaps.” She stood up, her dark-blue nightgown trailing behind her as she paced toward the black curtains and peeked outside. “I’m told she speaks German.”

  “Who told you that?”

  She waved her hand. “It’s of no matter.”

  He propped himself up on the pillows. “And you want to use her—”

  “You make it sound so crass.”

  He moved to the window beside her. “You are a crass woman.”

  She intertwined her fingers in his. “That’s our secret.”

  He kissed her neck. They shared secrets, lots of them. Secrets he would die for.

  “No one will suspect her.” She wove her fingers through his hair. “We need her help.”

  “Then you shall have it.”

  “Olivia won’t be pleased.”

  “Olivia will do what I say,” he assured her.

  “Very good.”

  She leaned in to kiss him, but the scream of the air raid siren cut through the room.

  “Blast it.”

  Lady Ricker sighed. “I suppose we must go to the boiler room with the rest of them. Make a show out of it.”

  Eddie swore as he rebuttoned his shirt.

  The sooner this war was done, the better it would be for all of them.

  CHAPTER 20

  _____

  “This makes no sense,” Quenby insisted, shielding her chest with her iPad.

  “It doesn’t have to make sense.” Chandler paced across the span of her corner office, waving her cigarette as she moved past Quenby’s chair.

  She leaned forward. “You told me Evan would love this story.”

  “Apparently I was wrong.”

  “I thought you’d already told him my idea.”

  Chandler marched by her again. “I wanted to surprise him.”

  Evening had fallen across London, and a school of cars and buses swam below the window, streaming between their office building and the department store across Brompton.

  Just yesterday Chandler had implored her to do everything she could to secure the interview with Mrs. McMann, saying there wouldn’t be any problem revealing a decades-old espionage scheme in print. Then all of a sudden, with a wave of Evan’s wand, Quenby’s story disappeared.

  Chandler edged into her office chair, facing Quenby from across the cluttered desk. As if Quenby were a naughty student, at the mercy of her teacher.

  “Did Mrs. McMann’s lawyers threaten him?” Quenby asked.

  “They called, but I wasn’t privy to the conversation.”

  “Evan’s never seemed to concern himself with lawyers before.”

  “Defamation is a major offense.”

  “I know that, Chandler.” She pulled her chair toward the desk. “I’ve never defamed a person in my life.”

  Chandler placed her elbows on her desk. “For the record, I thought it was going to be smashing. Thought it might even win us some awards.”

  “Let me talk to Evan. I’ll explain what I’ve found so far and all of my documentation from the National Archives.”

  “I told him what you’d found, but he still shut it down.”

  Quenby looked back down at the sea of vehicles, trying to make sense of Chandler’s words, but there was no sense in them. “I must be close to something big or Mrs. McMann wouldn’t threaten a lawsuit.”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “The lawyers can’t stop me from asking questions. I’ll write the story and then you and Evan and a whole team of lawyers can read it before you decide whether or not it’s publishable.”

  Chandler crushed her unlit Kent Blue on a tea saucer. A ring of dark-red lipstick coated the cigarette butt. “Evan wants you to take a break.”

  “A break?”

  “You haven’t taken leave for more than a year.”

  Anxiety mounted in her chest. “I don’t need a holiday.”

  “Two weeks, Quenby. Visit the south of France or Spain or someplace where you can sit on the beach and rest.”

  “I hate sitting on beaches.”

  “And you hate to rest, but it’s good for you,” Chandler replied. “If you won’t travel south, spend some time with your friends in the States and focus on yourself for a change. When you return, we’ll talk about a new assignment for you. Something just as fresh that Evan will love.”

>   “Someone else is going to scoop my story.”

  “It’s not yours, Quenby.”

  But it felt like it belonged to her. She’d personally vested herself in this story, like she did with every story she wrote. How could she quit, when she didn’t know how this one ended?

  Chandler opened the door, and when Quenby stepped outside, she looked both ways down the hall as if she were lost. Chandler wanted her to focus on herself, but her work kept her mind engaged, her eyes focused on someone else. Since she’d started this job three years ago, she’d always had a story to work on, even if it was just preliminary research during a public holiday. Old, worn feelings flared inside her again, as if Evan Graham had personally rejected her instead of just her idea.

  Mentally, she tried to brush it off and return to the matter at hand. Evan might be able to take away her official work on the Ricker story, but vacation was her personal time. The syndicate couldn’t keep her from asking questions on her own, as long as she didn’t sell the story to someone else. At least she could find out the end of one story—and perhaps how it intersected with another.

  Stepping out of the building, she elbowed her way through the after-work crowds until she reached Hyde Park. The crowds thinned on the other side of the pedestrian gate, mostly couples strolling along the waterfront of the curved lake called the Serpentine. At the other end of the lake were the Italian water gardens that Prince Albert had built as a gift for his wife.

  Quenby sat in the small pavilion overlooking Queen Victoria’s marble fountain and the stone statues, the briefcase with her iPad beside her and the tin from Mulberry Lane on her lap. Leaning back against the plaster wall, she mentally reviewed all she had learned about the Ricker and Terrell families, trying to fit together the scattered puzzle pieces that spanned almost eight decades now.

  She slipped the picture that Mr. Knight had given her from her handbag and examined the girl with braids. The two parents who obviously loved her.

  Her answer for Mr. Knight was quite clear now. She had two weeks to find out what happened to Brigitte. And perhaps, in the midst of searching for Brigitte, she could find out what Louise McMann was trying to hide.