She folded her iPad over the keyboard. “Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“It’s meant to be a compliment, Quenby. If anyone could find Brigitte, I believe it would be you.”
She thought he was mocking her, but as she looked at him again, studying his face like he’d done to her, she saw strength in his brown eyes, a genuine smile on his lips.
And it seemed that this time he was telling the truth.
Chapter 23
Mulberry Lane, February 1941
“Hurry up,” Eddie urged, yanking open the drawers in their bedroom bureau, dumping Olivia’s blouses and knickers onto the bed. It wouldn’t be long before the two detectives up at the big house started knocking on the doors of cottages near the bomb site.
She folded several items of clothing into a suitcase as if the folding were critical. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”
He tossed a pile of clothes into her case and clasped it shut. “You must leave now!”
A wet trail streaked across the linoleum and carpet upstairs, starting from where he’d pulled her from her bath minutes ago, but still she didn’t seem to understand the urgency of their situation. This was no holiday. Nor was there time to coordinate outfits and such. The basics were all she needed.
She sniffled again, but there was no time for tears either. He’d left the big house twenty minutes ago, soon after two detectives from London arrived. The men were meeting with Lord Ricker, asking about a German parachute the Tonbridge police found after the fire yesterday, hidden in the shed by the greenhouse.
He hoped the officials over in Germany flayed whichever pilot dropped that bomb on Breydon Court. They were supposed to be diverting attention from this property by bombing down south, not marking the spot where their man had landed.
The parachutist was livid as well. He’d run through the snow last night to find a hiding place for himself, no time to stow his parachute.
Now Roger—the name on the man’s fake papers—was in Lady Ricker’s car, waiting under a canopy of trees with the chauffeur. They needed Olivia before they could leave.
Eddie peeled back the blackout curtain to look outside, but he couldn’t see anything unusual in the fading light. Then the telephone rang, and he swore into the receiver.
Olivia whirled toward him. “What is it?”
He hung up the phone. “One of the detectives is driving this way.”
“There’s no reason for him to stop here—”
“He’s planning to interview everyone on Mulberry Lane.”
Olivia blanched. “Where’s the girl?”
He raced across the landing and found her under the cot. “Get up!”
She actually listened this time, standing as he stuffed the small pile of clothing from her closet into a paper bag. Then he shoved it into her hands. She dropped the bag and bent over to fold the feet of the cot.
“Nein,” he said. “You won’t need that.”
He tried to pull her away, but she clung to the cot.
“Aus.” He pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
But the girl wouldn’t let go of her bed, and he had no time to fight.
“Fine,” he shouted, quickly collapsing the cot and rolling it up. “Take it with you.”
The doorbell rang below, and for the first time since he’d moved to Breydon Court, Eddie thought their jig was up. Perhaps he shouldn’t wait for the investigator. He could go to Newhaven with Olivia and the parachutist right now. Start over again in a new town.
He had already hidden the wireless transmitter, but his camera was still in the cellar, with film inside. He’d been careless, leaving the film, but he hadn’t thought someone would be searching his house.
If he ran, the detective would surely suspect him. And the images on his camera would seal his fate. Ultimately they’d discover that he and Lady Ricker were collaborating.
The doorbell rang again, and Olivia burst onto the landing. One suitcase was tucked under her arm, clothing trailing out both sides. The handle of another case was clasped in her hand.
He would stay here and face the investigator, feigning ignorance. Helpfulness, even, if he must. He would tell them that his former wife had been a photographer.
Olivia rushed down the stairs, and he grabbed the end of the girl’s cot and pulled her down the steps as well. Near the back door, his wife leaned to kiss him, but he pushed her outside with the girl. There was no time for sentiment when they were all in danger of being shot or hanged.
“Run!” he commanded them.
The doorbell rang for the third time, and he tugged at his collar. What a bally mess. Sweat poured off his forehead, down his neck, and he reached for a dish towel to wipe it off before he opened the door.
A wool topcoat did little to hide the rolls of flesh cushioning the detective’s frame. “I’m Inspector Hill.” The man tipped his black trilby hat. “Are you Eddie Terrell?”
“I am.”
The man looked over Eddie’s shoulder. “Does it always take you this long to answer your door?”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
The detective studied his face.