The bundle with her cot was secure under her feet, Dietmar’s knight resting in her pocket. They were her only possessions now besides her clothing. She wouldn’t go anywhere without both of them.
Frau Terrell spoke to the driver. “Are we almost there?”
“I’m trying to find the bridge across the river.”
“Eddie said the house was only an hour away.”
The driver snorted. “Eddie lied.”
It seemed they’d been driving forever now, following the cat’s eyes reflecting on the road. The same darkness. The same stench inside the car. If they passed villages, Brigitte couldn’t see them. Blackout curtains kept any light from trickling out, even to help motorcars find their way.
The driver stopped on the side of the road and examined his map in the light of his torch, shaded by his hand. Her eyes heavy, Brigitte curled up in a ball and leaned against the door. If only she could crawl under her cot to sleep.
How were she and Dietmar going to find each other now, so far away from where they’d parted? But she couldn’t give up hope. One day she’d return to Mulberry Lane and search for him.
When she woke, the sound of road under their tires had smoothed, and she realized they were crossing a bridge. In the morning light, she could see the river below, a blue thread woven through chalky white cliffs.
And then there was a small village ahead. A cluster of houses and shops. The man beside her slouched down in his seat as they passed through town, but her nose stayed pressed against the window. No one was on the street, but the houses filled her with a sense of gratefulness, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.
On the other side of town, the driver turned onto another road, and they crept back along a bumpy road that cut through a woodland. The trees grew thick on both sides of the car, spiky arms batting against the windows.
Brigitte closed her eyes, trying not to think about her and Dietmar’s flight through the trees. But she couldn’t stop the memories. Dietmar holding her hand, urging her forward, then stopping her when they neared a house so he could find them food. Dietmar making them beds of pine straw in the forest. Dietmar covering her with his coat while she pretended to sleep on the rugged floor.
She felt for the knight in her pocket.
How she missed her best friend.
The driver stopped. “There it is.”
When she opened her eyes, Brigitte saw a forlorn shack before them, a piece of wood dangling over the front door. The paint had long ago peeled off the sides and a garden of weeds grew tall in the gutter. Across the only front window spread a spiderweb.
The man beside her opened the door. “Willkommen zu Hause.”
Welcome home.
Frau Terrell began to cry.
CHAPTER 26
_____
On Friday morning Quenby packed a bag and took a direct train south to Newhaven. By early afternoon, she found herself in the hills overlooking the River Ouse. The wide river flowed through town, severing it into two pieces, and she could see the long breakwater that stretched out into the English Channel.
After securing a room and her luggage at a local inn, Quenby located Newhaven Library. The reference section contained a collection of ordnance maps, and she searched through the decades of maps until she found Kelmore Street listed on one from the 1940s. The short road was once north of the library, near the River Ouse.
The map in hand, she greeted the librarian at the reference desk—a woman named Annie—then pointed at the laminated paper. “I’m looking for this street.”
Annie lifted the horn-rimmed glasses dangling around her neck and studied it. “The Kelmore family used to own all that property.”
“Who owns it now?” she asked.
“It’s woodland.”
“Public woodland?”
“I believe so, though . . .” Annie examined the map again. “It looks like that road backed up to the Logans’ farm.”
Quenby snapped a picture of the map on her phone. “How far away is the farm?”
“About three or four miles north on Lewes Road.”
“Walkable miles?”
“If you like to play chicken with the traffic.” The librarian handed her a card. “Better off to ring for a cab.”
“Thank you.” She slid the card into her backpack. “Is there a mill near the river?”
Annie pointed to a blue stripe on the map, on the opposite side of the woodland. “Some of the buildings from Camford Mill are still there, but the operations closed down about a century ago.”
Quenby stepped out of the library and glanced at the time. There were still several hours of daylight. If she didn’t find Kelmore Street tonight, she would set out again to search in the morning.
The cab drove her north on Lewes Road and turned right, into the farm. No one answered her knock at the farmhouse, but a public footpath led through an empty field behind it. Quenby slipped through the turnstile and crossed the muddy land.