“The Terrells, sir,” Lucas said, inching closer to the camera. “It seems as if they were helping the Nazis.”
Something flickered in his eyes, and Quenby wished she were on the other side of Mr. Knight’s desk instead of studying a screen. “I suspected as much, with those photographs in their house.”
“Mrs. Terrell moved to Newhaven to assist them during the war.”
“With Brigitte?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Sadness lingered on his face, and she guessed this was new information for him. Information she almost wished they hadn’t found, for his sake.
It was too late to redeem Brigitte’s life. Why dredge up this sadness when they had no influence on the outcome? Unfortunately, justice was too late in coming for people like Eddie and Olivia Terrell.
But then again, perhaps justice had already been served.
“I want you to keep searching,” Mr. Knight said.
“Of course.”
His eyes grew wide as if something had alarmed him. “But you must be careful, Brigitte.”
Confused, Quenby wasn’t certain how to respond.
Mr. Knight’s screen shook, his head bouncing up and down on their monitor. “They’ll try to stop you.”
Lucas leaned forward, stealing away Quenby’s view of the camera. “She didn’t forget you, Mr. Knight.”
There was a long pause before Mr. Knight responded. “I told her I would find her.”
“We know, sir.”
“And I will find her yet.”
Lucas inched away from the screen, and Quenby saw Mr. Knight again, the man’s hand pressed into his chin. “I pray God leads us to her, before it’s too late.”
Lucas ended their conversation, and then he disconnected the video chat.
Quenby turned toward him. “Too late for what?”
Lucas shrugged, closing the computer screen.
She scooted up on the upholstered seat. “Why wouldn’t you let me ask about the Mill House?”
“Mr. Knight was confused.”
“I’m confused! He called me Brigitte.”
“I don’t believe any of the past investigators came to Newhaven.”
“But he said—”
Lucas’s gaze trailed to the morning light that streamed through the window. “Sometimes his mind slips and takes him back to his youth. He’s trying to stay present.”
She paused. “How confused is he?”
“A little more each day. Some days there’s more absence in his mind than presence.”
“Hence the urgency,” she whispered.
Lucas nodded. “He wants to find her now, before he forgets that he was looking.”
“Poor man.”
“He’s a fighter, Quenby. Always has been.”
“But he can’t fight the battle against his brain.”
“He has a team of doctors, the best in the world, fighting alongside him. And he has people like us who’ll remember for him.”
“Perhaps it’s better for him to just remember the good.”
“The good isn’t what he usually remembers.” He slid the laptop into his black messenger bag. Then he checked his watch. “I have to leave for London before noon.”
“Can I catch a ride?” she joked.
He picked up his bag, and when their eyes met, a smile returned to his face. “Perhaps.”
She stood beside him. “Perhaps what?”
“If you’ll try driving again.”
Quenby followed him out of the library, stopping beside him at the bottom of the steps. “I might actually damage your car this time.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
Courageous or stupid—she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man standing in front of her. “I’ll drive—if you’ll let me take back roads.”
“As long as you stay on the pavement.”
She tilted her head. “All four tires?”
He nodded. “Preferably no mud or grass or men named Kyle today.”
“We’re going to be late.” Lucas glanced at the clock on his dashboard as they circled a roundabout in Lambeth, wedged into the crush of London traffic.
“Late for what?”
“The concert,” he said.
They’d traveled country roads most of the way up, stopping near Tonbridge so he could see the Terrells’ former cottage and in Westerham for lunch. He’d taken the wheel once they reached London proper, an hour ago. Until then she had managed to keep all four tires on the road and a fair distance from any other vehicles, though she couldn’t make any promises about mud or grass on the tires. Either way, she was quite proud of her feat. They’d had a good day together. Fun even.
“You should come with me to the concert,” he said as he turned left onto Westminster Bridge.
“No luck finding a real date?”
“I didn’t say that.”
They crossed over the Thames, the London Eye circling above the river on their right, Big Ben standing stalwart on their left.
She pondered his question, her mind wandering. What kind of woman would Lucas Hough ask out on a date? Someone like Gwyneth Paltrow or more like Princess Kate? Probably a woman who knew all the rules of British etiquette, dating back to King James.
After they passed Westminster Abbey, Lucas turned left and parked on a side street.
“Please, Quenby.” He flashed a puppy dog–esque look. One that was almost impossible for her to refuse.