He released the trigger, the wand dropping to his side. “I’m not mad at you, Quenby. The guy is an idiot. He could have hurt both of us, fanning his tail like that to get your attention.”
She laughed at the image of Kyle as a peacock. “I’m glad there’s no damage, unless you count my pride.”
Then again, her pride had been compromised—completely decimated, actually—when she met Lucas at her door a week ago in ratty shorts and a T-shirt, void of any sort of plumage. Not to mention her bragging earlier in the forest, right before she tripped and landed in the mud.
“I still want to teach you how to drive,” he said, sliding the wand into its holder.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“But I ran your car off the road.”
“Much better than running into that guy, though I think he would have preferred you left a dent or two in his tractor. Then you’d have to contact him again.”
“I’m not the least bit interested in Kyle Logan.”
“Glad to hear it. You deserve a man who respects you.”
Her face warmed. “Thank you.”
He pointed toward the car. “Should we try for lunch again?”
“As long as you drive.”
“Fair enough.”
They found a café up on Castle Hill, overlooking the English Channel. Lucas ordered two egg and cress sandwiches along with a bottle of San Pellegrino to share. Quenby drank half the bottle of bubbly water before she started thinking clearly again.
Strange that Lucas would trust her to drive after she’d almost wrecked his vehicle. And even stranger that he’d been so ruffled by Kyle’s display of feathers this afternoon.
After they finished their sandwiches, and the server brought coffee, Quenby set the tin of letters on the wooden slats of the table. The proprietor had told them they could sit outside all afternoon if they wanted, and it might take them that long to translate the rest of Brigitte’s words.
She was anxious to find out what happened to Brigitte, of course, but the anxiety warred with a feeling of dread. What if the remaining letters were more dismal than the others? Their search could end here, in this café, at the base of this tin.
She took out the old wooden princess that Mr. Knight had given her and placed it on the table beside her, as if Brigitte were here with them as well. Then she opened the January 1942 letter again.
She and Lucas began to translate it together.
Hitler’s men only come when the weather cooperates, meaning that fog is heavy over the trees. The numbers in Lady Ricker’s letters correspond with the times our guests arrive, so I changed the number in the last letter, from nine to seven, and waited for a hazy night.
I didn’t know for certain how Hitler’s men arrived, but their trousers are usually soaked when Frau fetches them, their boots coated with mud. I snuck out the front door last night, trekking down to the river in the fog—so like the night Dietmar and I crossed the channel. Then I hid behind the bars of rush.
There was no sound of a motor, but the boat arrived suddenly, as if emerging from the deep. Like one of the undersea boats the German POWs talked about at Breydon Court.
In seconds, a man climbed over the rubber side, dressed like some of the others in a British uniform, his trousers rolled up high. A backpack was secured over his shoulders, and each of his hands clutched a boot as he waded through the shallow water, making him look like a duck flapping its wings.
When he stepped onto the bank, the boat vanished back in the fog. The man looked both ways, seemingly lost below the mill, before he sat down on a flat rock to tie his boots.
I made ticking noises from my fortress of reeds. Like a bush cricket. Then I couldn’t seem to help myself. A shriek escaped my lips. Wild and strong.
Startled, he stood up, patting his side for something that didn’t seem to be there.
I wailed again, loud and long like a banshee. Like a sea monster waiting to devour whoever dared wake him from his sleep.
Hitler’s man sprinted up the riverbank, swearing in our shared language.
I doubled over as he ran, in a vain attempt to stop my laughter. But I couldn’t help it. It felt good to yell and laugh. To watch Hitler’s man run the other way.
For the first time since Frau and I arrived, my voice chased evil away instead of inviting it through our front door.
Frau went to find the man at nine that night, but all she found was a pair of leather boots.
Quenby put down the letter, but her eyes didn’t wander from the writing. Not only was Brigitte’s story linked to Lady Ricker, but here was proof that linked Lady Ricker directly with the espionage mentioned in the National Archives file, her letters orchestrating the delivery of Nazi agents onto England’s shores.
Her fingers drummed on paper, itching to write the lead for a story piecing together in her head. If only Evan would let her write it, she could leave Brigitte’s name out of the story. Her sources would remain confidential, for Mr. Knight’s sake.
“You still with me?” Lucas asked.
Blinking, Quenby looked over at him.