Eddie shoved aside two dirty plates and dropped the box of food onto the kitchen table. She tore open the box and rummaged through the tins of Spam and tomato soup, pushing aside the dried vegetables and tea until she found a block of government cheddar.
“The dolt from London came back multiple times after you left,” he tried to explain. “I couldn’t travel until he gave up or he might suspect we’d done something wrong.”
“The investigation is done?” she asked, her mouth full of cheese.
He nodded. “Cold as ice. The man couldn’t find anything except the parachute.”
Truth was that Inspector Hill had returned only once since Olivia left, on his way to investigate another parachute that was found farther south. He’d found no trace of Roger or evidence that anyone on the estate had assisted a German parachutist. Eddie told the man his wife had left him, so he didn’t inquire again about Olivia. And the photos were buried safely under the floorboard upstairs, in case the detective searched the house.
“Did you receive my parcels?” he asked.
“The postman brought them, but there wasn’t enough food for the girl and me.”
“Everyone is rationing.”
“There is plenty of food at Breydon Court,” she insisted.
“I’ll start sending you boxes twice a week.”
“Once a week, Eddie. You can bring the second one when you visit on Saturdays.”
He glanced around the dirty room, not wanting to stay another minute in this place, much less an entire Saturday. All Olivia had to do was keep house and prepare for the guests that Lady Ricker sent her way. Had she forgotten how to use a broom? Or how to coax the girl to do it for her?
He tested the legs of a rickety chair before he sat in it. “Where’s the girl?”
“Locked in her room.” She pointed toward a closed door. “She tried to run away right after we arrived, but she returned the next day.”
He opened a tin of biscuits and ate one. “I wish we could let her run.”
She took her place across the table from him, her hazel eyes grim. “This business is going to be the death of us, Eddie.”
Her laziness might be the death of them, but he kept that thought to himself. Lady Ricker had made him swear to keep Olivia as happy as possible, her stomach full, until their business was over. “It won’t be long now.”
“So you say—”
He reached across the table, pulling her hands into his. “We’ll live like a lord and lady when the Germans take over. Think of it—a house of our own, as big as Breydon Court. The prettiest gowns money can buy. A lady’s maid, even, to attend your needs.”
Olivia’s smile was lopsided, but at least it was a smile. Perhaps the idea of being a lady of her own home instead of this dump would keep her engaged.
“Right now, I’d be satisfied with a good meal. Roast chicken or beef Wellington.”
“Beef will be the first item on our menu.”
She shook away his hands and reached for an apple in the box. “Can you imagine us having our own cook?”
“That’s the spirit, Olivia. You’ll have anything you want. From jewels to jellies.”
“Peach trifle?”
“Of course,” he said, growing weary of the game, the talk of food. But everything was dependent on her faithfulness and the work of the girl. Lady Ricker would blame him if anything went awry, rescinding his lordship under the Führer.
“The lady from Tonbridge stopped to register the girl for school,” he said.
“What did you tell her?”
“That another woman came after the bombing and accompanied the girl to an evacuee ship traveling to Canada.”
“Was she satisfied?”
“I believe so, though she was quite frustrated that someone usurped her authority.”
Olivia glanced toward the door. “So the girl is ours.”
“Until the end of the war.”
She knotted her hands together. “It can’t end soon enough, Eddie.”
“Agreed.” If he left within the hour, he could be back to Breydon Court before dark. “I have more food in the car. Boxes of it.”
“Did you bring my coupons?”
“I’m using them to buy food for you.”
“I’d rather go into town myself—”
He shook his head. “No one from Newhaven can know you’re here.”
“The postman knows. And if he can ride his bike out here, I can walk to the grocer.”
“It’s much too far, and you can’t leave the girl.” He glanced around the cluttered room again. “It seems you have plenty of work to do here.”
She groaned. “I’m bored out of my mind, Eddie.”
“You and the girl can plant a garden.” He lifted two bags of seeds from his pocket. “I brought you a hoe as well.”
If she could grow some of her own food, he wouldn’t have to make the journey often over that miserable road.
“I’ve never gardened before.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said.
She didn’t thank him. “We need more candles.”
“I’ll mail you some, straightaway.”
“And another bucket.”
No matter what he gave her, she always wanted more. “Why do you need another bucket?”
“To retrieve water from the well.” She leaned into the table. “And one more thing.”
“There’s a war going on, Olivia. We can’t have everything we’d like.”
“I want some of Lady Ricker’s magazines.”
He stood up, irritated, but he calmed his demeanor. Lady Ricker certainly had plenty of old magazines stacked by her dressing table, saved from before the war. “I’m sure Lady Ricker would be glad to send you a few magazines with her letters.”
Olivia carried the stack of dirty plates to the sink. “This is not what I envisioned when we married.”
“It’s only temporary,” he said, trying to reassure her again. “We have to keep our eyes on the future.”
“I can’t see past tomorrow.”
He handed her a letter for the girl to read over the wireless. “You’ll have another guest soon. Next Thursday, if it’s foggy enough to bring a boat up the river.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I want to come home with you.”
“I know you do.” He kissed her forehead. “It won’t be long now.”
She opened the letter and read the words. “Lady Ricker is expecting a child?”
He shrugged. “I don’t speak to her about such things.”
“But you want me to tell the Germans about her baby?”
“Not you, the girl. But you’ll have to translate it first.” He pulled a German dictionary out of the box. It was much too risky for him to carry a German letter to her or put one through the post.
“Why must the Germans know about a baby?”
“Trust me, Olivia.”
Still she pouted, as if she no longer believed him or in the hope of their mission. Putting down the letter, she walked toward the cobwebs on the window. “I could die out here, and you’d never know it.”
“I would know,” he said tenderly. “And you can’t die. Your work here is going to win the war.”
“Sometimes I think you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“I want what’s best for you, for us,” he said, pulling her close to him. “But I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Perhaps he’d stay for the night after all. Then he’d go back to Breydon Court at first light. “If nothing else, stay strong for me, Olivia.”
“I’m trying—”
“Nothing will ever tear us apart.”
CHAPTER 30
_____
They found the abandoned flour mill where the River Ouse flattened and drifted between curtains of reeds along its banks. On the other side of the river, someone was swimming upstream, and Quenby shivered at the thought of being immersed in the murky water, unable to see what was under or beside you. She much pr
eferred venturing on land so she had some visual, even if it was limited in these trees. And she much preferred being here with Lucas to being alone, in case Kyle discovered her on his land again.
Behind the mill, set back in the woodland, was a chimney shaft that towered above a moss-covered waterwheel and a weathered roof striped with rusty corrugated iron. Wild thyme sweetened the breeze as she and Lucas hiked into the forest, but as she scanned the ruined buildings, the rugged piles of wood and brick between the Queen Anne’s lace, Quenby feared again that the growth and elements had destroyed the Mill House as well.
“I feel like we’re hiking through a jungle,” Lucas said as he ducked under a branch.
“Have you ever actually been in a jungle?” she asked. This time she was armed with insect repellent and a pair of rubber wellies she’d bought in town to combat the swarms of mosquitoes and the mud that had stained her trainers.
“I hiked through the Amazon when I was twenty.” He lifted another branch and she walked under it. “How about you?”
She shook her head. “There’s a reason I live in the city.”
“Don’t you swim in those ponds behind your flat?”
“I prefer being able to see through the water.”
“No surprises?”
“I’m surprised enough in my work.” Mud tugged at her wellies as they turned onto a soggy path, but she pressed on.
“I bet you’ve stumbled over all manner of secrets in your job.”
“I don’t stumble, Lucas. I search.” With that declaration, her toe caught on the root of a tree and she fell forward, plunging into the grass. Her hand snagged on a briar, and she rolled away from the blackberry bush.
Lucas reached out his hand, but she didn’t take it. Standing again on her own, she wiped the blood off her hand with a leaf. Her jeans and blouse were now coated with mud.
He reached out and plucked a leaf from her hair, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you okay?”
She held her head high. “Still searching.”
“I’m glad you never stumble.” His cheeks trembled with his words, a feeble attempt at suppressing his laugh.
“Let’s move along.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She stuck out her tongue.
Lucas continued following her on the dense trail until they reached a cross path. She turned right.
“Look at this,” Lucas said, and she stepped back. Intertwined in vines at the edge of the path was an old post. The two of them worked carefully to uncover the rusty sign underneath. Kelmore Street. The words she’d been searching for.
“Well done,” Quenby said, and he glanced up, surprised at her affirmation. “I mean it.”
His brown eyes smiled along with his lips. “Glad you approve.”
Weeds paved the forgotten road, and trees on both sides had spread their limbs over the path, as if reaching across to shake the branches on the opposite side. Perhaps long ago this road had been wide enough for a vehicle, but there’d be no driving any sort of car or even a bicycle down it now.
As they walked, she searched the bramble for more ruins, but it wasn’t until they reached the end of the lane that they found an old cottage, protected by a canopy of tall oak trees. The front window was shattered, though jagged pieces of glass edged the frame, reminding her of the isolated farmhouse in Wuthering Heights.
“This must be it,” she said. No nameplate hung near the door, but it was the only house on the entire road.
“For once, I think we can agree.”
She eyed it. “What a miserable place to live.”
“Not if you’re trying to keep a secret.”
She took several pictures with her iPad, then tested her foot on the stoop. It held. “Now to find out what secrets the Terrells were trying to keep.”
Lucas reached for her arm. “This isn’t safe, Quenby.”
“Of course it’s not safe.” She climbed another step. “Watch for nails on the floor.”
“I mean the roof. It could collapse at any moment.”
She turned back. “You’ve hiked through the Amazon!”
“With a guide. And there were no falling roofs where we went.”
She switched her phone to the flashlight app. The front door was missing its knob, but when she pushed, it swung open. And a bird flew out.
A shriek escaped her mouth before she burst out laughing. Lucas joined her laughter. “Death by kamikaze swallow.”
“You think there are more inside?” she asked, eyeing the door again.
He examined the eaves. “Probably.”
She groaned. “That’s fabulous.”
“It’s not the birds that concern me.”
Quenby took a deep breath, trying to inhale courage. “I’m still going in.”
“You want me to go first?”
“Yes, but I’d kick myself for being a coward.”
He held the door wide for her. “I’ll be right behind you then.”
Dull light sifted through a mud-caked window, settling over the room like the bits of plaster that coated the couch, stone fireplace, and crippled kitchen table. The entire room smelled like mold and animal droppings, and tiny footprints, a hundred constellations of heels and toes, were embedded in the dusty floor around the furnishings. Hers was the only shoe print.
There were two plates on the wooden table. No food remained, but it was as if the occupants had rushed away from the house without even finishing their meal.
Lucas whistled when he stepped into the room, the floor creaking under him. “It’s like time stopped here, decades ago.”
To the right of the main room was a kitchen with a wooden sink, but no oven or refrigerator. No light switch for an electric bulb or pipes for running water. Olivia might have lived here for a season, but she certainly hadn’t lived in luxury. Quenby eyed the chipped plates again, hoping that Brigitte had been the one sharing a meal.
Off the kitchen was a sloped tin roof with a toilet seat. An indoor outhouse of sorts. There were two bedrooms along a narrow corridor, one with a window still intact and the other with the broken window. Springs from a bed remained in one of the rooms and the other had an old cot. There were no wall closets in this house, but there was a small wardrobe in the larger room, the one with the bedsprings.
Quenby opened the wardrobe and found several articles of women’s clothing. And a dozen British magazines from the 1930s—Woman and Woman’s Own—along with several old issues of the American Cosmopolitan.
Instead of a wardrobe in the second room, wooden knobs were screwed into the wall. Quenby crossed her arms, wishing she could climb back up in a tree outside to think.
Why had Olivia moved from a comfortable home to this dilapidated place?
Scratch marks marred the bedroom walls, piles of leaves and debris cluttering the floor. But there was something else, below the middle knob on the wall. She leaned over to see it and realized she was looking at something carved into the wood.
She shone her flashlight on the wall, and her heart leapt when she saw the dual B’s etched together again.
Lucas stepped into the room. “We’ll probably catch some sort of virus just by breathing this trash.”
“That’s what vaccinations are for.” She held up the light to him. “Besides, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no treasure to be found in here.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain.” Her gaze fell to the floorboards below the initials.
Had Brigitte hidden something underneath her initials? Quenby tapped the board with her toe. It was held in place by a nail, but the rest seemed loose to her.
She knelt beside it. “Think we can pry this off?”
“I thought we were avoiding nails,” he said, though he leaned down next to her.
“Changed my mind.”
“Typical,” he quipped, but she ignored him.
Together they managed to remove the floorboard without injuring themse
lves. And Quenby’s heart began to race. Inside was another tin. “See?” she whispered. “Treasure.”
Reaching into the crevice, she pulled out the tin, opened the lid. Lucas shone the light from his phone over it.
Inside was a fountain pen with a silver star on the cap. A German Montblanc, like Grammy used to have. Underneath was a small stack of folded paper. Letters. Perhaps a dozen of them. They were letters from Lady Ricker to Olivia, written in English, but on the back of each paper was a letter in German as well, dated by month starting in September 1941. They looked as if they’d been scribbled by a child, each letter signed with a simple B.
Brigitte would have been almost twelve when she was writing these. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to practice her handwriting since she left Germany. Or perhaps she was in a hurry. Either way, it was the confirmation Quenby needed. Brigitte had remained in England, at least after her short stay on Mulberry Lane, and her story was intertwined with Lady Ricker’s.
She stood up, the tin in both hands. “Brigitte left us a trail.”
“Left Mr. Knight a trail.”
“Of course,” she said, silently chiding herself. She’d already let this search become too personal, thinking the girl was leaving clues for her. “The point is, Brigitte wanted to be found.”
“And you’ll find her, Quenby.”
The girl from her dream flashed back into her mind. “I hope so.”
And she hoped the contents of these letters would be life-giving for Mr. Knight.
When they reached the river, Lucas brushed off the leaves on a felled log, and they sat side by side to look at the first letter. Quenby snapped a picture of it with her phone, front and back.
On the front of each letter were Lady Ricker’s mundane reports about her baby and the weather and a trip she was planning up to Swindon. On the back sides, the letters were much longer, the German words written in block instead of cursive.
Quenby had learned German from the old fairy tales that Grammy liked to tell her before bed, the ones passed on from the Brothers Grimm. She preferred stories with happy endings, but she’d learned at a young age how a story could haunt you. And teach you about morality.
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