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Charity considered that and nodded.
“Of course,” she said and composed her thought. “There was a recent Luftwaffe bombing in London. A very dear friend has not been heard from since. I am trying to find her and coming here was one of my first leads.”
“She’s in recovery here?” Johnson said and pulled the clipboard from under his arm. “What’s her name?”
“Ann Chambers,” Charity said. “But I don’t think that she’s a patient.”
Christopher Johnson flipped through a few sheets on the clipboard and scanned the names, running an index finger down the listing.
“If she were,” Charity went on, “I believe we would have heard from her.”
“No,” Johnson said, still looking at the clipboard, “not a single Chambers listed here. Ann or otherwise.” He looked up, and Charity saw genuine empathy in his blue-gray eyes. “I’m very sorry, Lieutenant.”
Charity nodded. “Thank you. But, as I said, I did not exactly expect to find her here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “then I’m confused. What is it that you’re looking for?”
“My friend, Ann Chambers, she has met with Mrs. Higham. Written about her, actually.”
Charity reached into her pocket and brought out the clip of Ann’s article.
“Oh, yes,” Johnson said as he reviewed it. “I have seen this. We received quite a bit of favorable attention after it was published. Many boxes came, mostly from the States. Quite a few toys and stuffed animals for the children.”
Charity smiled.
Attagirl, Ann. You touched some hearts with that one.
“That’s delightful to hear,” Charity said. “To answer your question, what I’m looking for is the woman who was driving an ambulance to bring patients out here. Sara Spenser, she’s in the article. No one can seem to find her, either, and I was thinking that perhaps she had come out here. Maybe bringing in patients, maybe working for a period of time?”
Johnson was nodding his understanding.
“And if Sara was here,” Charity went on, “perhaps I could speak to her and she might have some idea where Ann might be. She and Ann, as I understand it, became quite friendly after the profile Ann had written about Sara and then the one on Mrs. Higham.”
Charity glanced at the steps to the covered porch of the house and saw an attractive, petite Englishwoman coming out of the main door of the house, then down the steps of the porch.
That has to be the Higham woman.
“Yes,” Christopher Johnson said. “I mean, no.”
Charity looked back to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t—”
“Sara is—” he began.
“Mr. Johnson,” the petite Englishwoman interrupted as she approached, “is there something?”
Christopher Johnson turned at her voice.
“Mrs. Higham,” he said courteously, then motioned with his left hand to Charity as he kept his balance while leaning on the crutch. “May I present Lieutenant…”
“Hoche,” Charity furnished, holding out her hand.
“Lieutenant,” Grace Higham said somewhat sharply, shaking her hand.
Grace Higham coldly eyed the well-endowed blonde who she thought was single-handedly giving credence to the British barb that the problem with Yanks was “they were overpaid, overfed, oversexed, and over here.”
“What brings you to Great Glen?” Grace Higham went on.
