No wonder the guilt haunted Mr. Knight. For months, he and Brigitte had leaned solely on each other, and then they’d been brutally separated like so many during the war. He’d fought long and hard to protect her, sacrificing himself repeatedly for her good. Then he felt as if he’d failed her. And poor Brigitte, she probably thought Dietmar had abandoned her.
Abandonment—Quenby knew what that felt like. A full-blown quake of earth as two plates, once fused together, were wrenched apart. People abandoned those in their care for different reasons, but in this case, Dietmar had no other choice. He’d wanted what was best for Brigitte because he loved her. Not because he wanted to be rid of her.
She pressed on her temples, trying to massage away her own memories. This wasn’t about her story; it was about Dietmar and Brigitte.
Lucas said the Terrells had indeed taken Brigitte to their house on Mulberry Lane, located on the grounds of Breydon Court. But none of the investigators were able to find out what happened after Brigitte left Mulberry Lane.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late for Dietmar—Daniel Knight—to discover where Brigitte went. Quenby’s only fear was what she might find. What if Brigitte died on Mulberry Lane? Or what if this Mr. Terrell or other men abused her when she was a girl? The truth might destroy him.
“You okay?” Lucas asked.
“Pretty wrecked.”
“The story wrecked me too.”
The safety of home had been stolen from Brigitte and Dietmar during the war. Their family and friends stripped away. They were strangers in a new land, like the children she’d interviewed for her article on refugees.
She slowly opened her eyes. “Where did the police take Mr. Knight?”
“To the Isle of Man, hundreds of miles from Tonbridge.”
“The camp for prisoners of war?” she asked.
“It was an internment camp, mostly for German professionals living in Great Britain.”
Lucas glanced into his rearview mirror to change lanes. Then he circled his Range Rover through a roundabout and drove north toward her flat.
“Did he tell the police about Brigitte?”
Lucas shook his head. “He was afraid of what officials would do if they discovered she was German as well, so he didn’t even try to write her until after the war. He kept her secret, but he prayed every day for her.”
They drove up Rosslyn Hill, the trendy boutique shops and eateries closed for the night. She and Lucas had lingered at the restaurant until much too late, closing down the place after eating coconut ice cream and dark-chocolate mousse. And drinking two rounds of cappuccinos. Lucas remained on his best behavior throughout the meal. She still doubted his authenticity, but at least he seemed to realize she was genuine in her concern about Brigitte.
“In retrospect—” he stopped at a red light—“Mr. Knight was treated quite well at the camp, and he was gifted with a brilliant education from some of the brightest German professors and scientists who were also interned there. A Jewish man named George taught him how to generate electricity, and the two of them used a downed German airplane called a Pfeil—”
“Arrow,” she translated.
“Exactly. They took the propeller from the plane and created wind on the island to help power the camp. They all hoped, of course, that the war would end soon. Mr. Knight busied himself with his reading and work with George, thinking his mother would be pleased with his education when they were reunited. But the months on the island turned into years. By the time the war ended, he was almost eighteen.”
The clock on his dashboard rolled over to 11:42 as Quenby processed the story.
It must have seemed like an eternity for Mr. Knight, waiting on that island, not knowing what happened to Brigitte or his parents. They probably received very little news about the war while they were interned there.
Quenby directed Lucas to turn toward the park called Hampstead Heath. “Where did he go after the war?”
Lucas parked his car outside the weathered brick building that housed her flat. “To live with George and his wife, Letha, in London. It was supposed to be a temporary situation until he found his aunt, but his aunt and cousins had died in the Blitz. The uncle didn’t have the resources to help his late wife’s nephew.”
Lucas opened his door and stepped outside. When she reached for her handle, Lucas moved swiftly around the car, opening the door for her. The night air was pleasantly cool, and she could smell the musty scent of woodland and moss drifting over from the heath. Lucas escorted her up the sidewalk, the bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand again, but he didn’t climb the steps leading into her building.
Quenby leaned against the metal railing that lined the stairs, lamplight pouring down over both of them. “What happened to his parents?”
“They died in a concentration camp called Chelmno, long before the war ended, and the Nazis killed Brigitte’s father too.”