“Stay away,” the woman commanded, waving the potato peeler in her hand as she approached.
The man returned to his work, and Brigitte prayed neither man would tell her secret, that she too spoke the language forbidden here. But they seemed to be afraid of Frau Terrell as well. One man dipped his spade into the mortar while the other lifted a brick.
Dozens of words spilled from Frau Terrell’s mouth before she boxed Brigitte on the ear. “Fetch the eggs.”
Brigitte’s head hung as she moved away, her cheeks burning from embarrassment as she found the henhouse to the left of the wall. The chickens scattered when she plodded through the straw, stealing eggs from their nests.
She didn’t know much, but Dietmar had taught her how to run. She could leave tonight through her window, climbing down the ladder of vines. The Terrells wouldn’t know she was gone, at least until the morning.
But if she left tonight, where would she go? She didn’t know this strange country. Didn’t know where to find Dietmar or his aunt.
Dietmar knew where she was. He’d promised to come for her, and Dietmar never broke his promises.
The dog joined her side again as she latched the henhouse door.
Just a little longer, and Dietmar would find her.
A little longer, and they could return to their parents.
It wouldn’t be long now before they could all go home.
CHAPTER 16
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The Tonbridge train station was mostly quiet at a half past one, a direct contrast to the throngs in London. The town center was a paradox as well, modern storefronts mixed with the medieval past. A river ran through town and lapped against the foundations of old shops now housing establishments like Subway and Starbucks. And an abandoned stone castle perched on a grassy hill, overlooking the town.
The public hall had been replaced with an apartment building, three stories tall, but the sidewalk where Quenby stood was the last place Dietmar had seen Brigitte, her nose pressed to the car window. If the Terrells had taken her to Breydon Court, they would have driven north through the town center before leaving town.
With the Uber app on her phone, Quenby requested a ride to Breydon Court. Then she found a bench as she waited for the driver, facing the white bridge that crossed over the river. Its Narnia-like lampposts framed the castle wall behind it.
She’d already spent several hours in the town of Maidstone this morning, searching through records for information. The Elizabethan house at Breydon Court had been built in the 1500s; the owners in 1626 then expanded it into one of the largest manor houses in Kent. The Ricker family inherited it in 1868, and they resided there until Lord Ricker’s death in 1944.
After her husband’s death, Lady Ricker and her two young children relocated to a town house in the affluent St John’s Wood, a district of northwest London. The Dragues, a prestigious family from London, purchased Breydon Court with the contingency that the two Ricker children could keep an apartment in the house for the remainder of their lives if they wished.
Was this why the interviewer had asked Lady Ricker about Admiral Drague during her interrogation? Or was there a personal connection between the Ricker family and the Dragues?
Louise McMann, Quenby had read, married in 1968. After the death of her husband, she’d returned to live in her family’s former home.
Quenby couldn’t search the census records for the Ricker or Terrell families—those were closed to the public in Britain for one hundred years—but before she left Maidstone, she’d asked the clerk for records of Tonbridge evacuees in late 1940 and early 1941. The woman assured her that she’d e-mail Quenby anything she found in their archives. Thousands of children were evacuated to this area at the beginning of the war, until the Luftwaffe began bombing Kent. Then they had to be evacuated from Kent as well.
A silver Volvo pulled up to a curb near the bridge, and the Uber driver confirmed Mrs. McMann’s address before driving Quenby north, past fields with docile cows and brilliant-yellow blooms.
Until the policeman took them to Tonbridge, Brigitte and Dietmar would have walked for miles through pastures and trees like this, searching for the skyline of London. They’d been so close— But if they had found Dietmar’s aunt, both children might have been killed in the Blitz as well.
A jet flew overhead as her driver turned west.
“Is there an airport near here?” she asked.
He nodded. “Biggin Hill is about ten miles north.”
“I didn’t realize there was an airport so close.”
“It’s mostly for private airplanes now, but it was an RAF base during the war.”
Quenby scooted forward on her seat. “Do you know the World War II history of this area?”