“What else did they uncover?”
“An evacuee record that said Brigitte was sent to Canada, but her trail ends before she left England. Mr. Knight believes the relocation record was either fabricated or incorrect.” He replaced the lid on the box and then handed her a file. “Here’s everything from the previous investigations, and there’s a profile on Brigitte’s family in Germany as well.”
“Did the other investigators search in Canada?”
“Every province, but nothing was found.” He tapped on the box. “Can you look at these on a microfilm reader?”
“Most of those readers are for light images on dark film. I’ll rent a microscope in the morning to view our pictures.”
He lifted his phone and began typing. “That is something I can help you with.”
“Seriously?”
“There are some advantages to working as a team.”
When the chicken was finished, Quenby topped it with fresh basil, and they slipped outside to the small circular table on the patio with their plates. Bullfrogs croaked in the pond below, but the light from her patio drowned out any view of the pond or starlight.
Lucas poured the pinot noir, and she took a small sip like he’d done in the restaurant. It tasted like every red wine she’d ever tried. “What would you do if you didn’t like it?”
“Spit it out.”
She scrunched her nose. “That’s disgusting.”
He laughed. “I’ve never spit out wine before.”
She tilted her glass toward him. “What do you taste?”
He took a sip, seeming to contemplate the flavors. “Black cherry. A hint of raspberry. This wine is from the Burgundy region of France.”
She chalked up the cherry taste in her mouth to the power of suggestion.
He placed his goblet back on the table. “Listen to that.”
An owl hooted from a nearby tree, the one that kept her up at night when she left her window open.
Standing, he stepped toward the railing. “It reminds me of visiting my mother’s parents in the summer. I’d spend my daylight hours exploring the forest behind their gardens.”
“I didn’t spend much time inside my grandmother’s house either when I stayed with her. Her neighbor had a boat and a daughter my age.”
He smiled as he returned to his seat. “Sounds extraordinary.”
“Grammy was my rock after my home fell apart.”
“My grandparents were more of the holiday sort,” he said.
“They liked to vacation?”
“No, I only saw them twice a year when I was a kid—a few days each summer and then during Christmas.” After another bite of food, he tapped the plate with his fork. “This is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted.”
“You’re lying.”
He sipped his wine. “I don’t lie, Quenby. At least not intentionally.”
She filled his plate again, and as they continued eating, she told him about her visits with Mrs. McMann and Mrs. Douglas.
“Mrs. Douglas’s mother knew the Terrells, and she confirmed that the Terrells housed an evacuee during the war. She also said Mrs. Terrell moved soon after the war began . . .” Her words trailed off.
Olivia—that was what Mrs. Douglas had called Mrs. Terrell.
Lucas set down his fork. “What’s wrong?”
She stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Inside her flat, she propped up her iPad and scrolled through the hundreds of pictures she’d taken at the National Archives. Memos, photographs, newspaper articles, official correspondence. The letter addressed from Lady Ricker to Olivia was among them.
She scanned the seemingly mundane note.
APRIL 1942
Dear Olivia,
You’ll be pleased to know the baby took his first steps this week. He seems anxious to move.
He’s eating better as well. Last night he woke me up at eleven to eat, but other than that, he is sleeping through the night.
I hope you’re enjoying my gift.
Yours truly,
Lady Ricker
The next image was a brown envelope. There was no name on it—of the sender or receiver—but there was an address. Mill House on Kelmore Street. In Newhaven.
Switching to Google, Quenby found the town of Newhaven south along the English Channel, not far from Brighton. An hour from Breydon Court via car.
Lucas was over her shoulder now, looking at her screen, but he didn’t interrupt as she searched for the street. There was no record of a Kelmore Street in Newhaven, at least not online. The house had probably been numbered in recent years, the road renamed.
She swiped the screen, moving back to the letter. “I think our Mrs. Terrell went to live in Newhaven after Mulberry Lane.”
He didn’t say anything in reply, examining her face instead. She brushed her long bangs away from her eyes. “What?”
He shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“Wise or not, this time I’m going to ask what you’re thinking.”
Another breath of silence before he responded. “I was thinking that perhaps Mr. Knight knew exactly what he was doing when he hired you.”