SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1940
Ancestral earth scattered across the top of Uncle Elliott’s coffin in the ancestral plot on the ancestral estate.
Hugh clenched his hat in his hands by the graveside. Dust to dust. All that was left of a life brilliant and bold, selfish and generous, reckless and caring.
William Hastings brushed the dirt from his hands. An officer in the Royal Navy, Uncle Elliott’s oldest son had been at sea when his father was killed.
Hugh bowed his head as the vicar pronounced the benediction.
After the amen, the mourners turned to talk amongst themselves under a sky streaked with shrouds of cloud.
Joan Collingwood, Cecil’s widow, had a comforting arm around Mother’s shoulders, and Hugh stood beside Father, silent and still.
Joan shook her head, making the black veil on her hat shiver. “If only Uncle Elliott hadn’t spoken so rashly to that French reporter.”
“Elliott was always rash, even as a child.” Mother dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “In a proper newspaper report, editors would have removed his rash statements. But live on the wireless? Why, the BBC is as much to blame for Elliott’s death as the man who pulled the trigger.”
Hugh winced and edged away. This was why he’d resisted coming home for the funeral. His profession had been put on trial at Collingwood Manor, convicted, and sentenced.
At least Aleida’s presence kept a cap on the malignant comments.
Where was she? She’d been right behind him.
There, near a copse of ash trees with leaves of bright autumnal yellow, Aleida stood talking with Beatrice Granville. Beatrice and William and Cecil and Ridley had been inseparable friends.
Wearing a black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat, Beatrice extended her hand to Hugh. “I do admit, I was surprised to see Mrs. Martens here. She tells me she’s your guest.” The way she said guest, she might as well have said fiancée or paramour.
Aleida’s wide eyes appeared dark blue against the dark blue of her hat and coat. “I told Miss Granville we’re friends, and I came to meet with the WVS in Buntingford.”
Beatrice’s smile tipped closer and closer to paramour. Aleida’s straightforward ways were misinterpreted in high society.
Hugh offered a rueful smile. “I admit I brought her for my dear mother. Knowing Mrs. Martens is a widow searching for her little boy—well, Mother’s filled Aleida with tea and biscuits. Having someone to comfort can serve as the best comfort of all.”
Aleida smiled as if he were actually rather wise. “She’s been most kind.”
“I offer my condolences on the loss of your uncle.” Beatrice shuddered and pressed her hand to her chest. “So soon after the loss of dear Cecil. Such a nasty business.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said. “It’s been quite hard on my mother.”
“Mr. Hastings could be a wrongheaded fool, and yet I was rather fond of him.” Beatrice frowned toward the grave. “If only I’d come to the party. I was invited. Perhaps . . .”
“You couldn’t have prevented it,” Hugh said.
“Thank you.” Beatrice patted his arm and excused herself.
Hugh gave Aleida his most contrite expression. “I apologize for making you the object of gossip.”
Aleida shrugged one narrow shoulder. “I’m to blame. I all but invited myself.”
“I’m glad you did. Think of the gossip if I’d stayed away.” Hugh affected a dowager voice. “How odd that Hugh didn’t attend his uncle’s funeral. You don’t suppose he might possibly be guilty of . . . murder?”
He winced. Once again, making sport, and at a most inappropriate time.
But Aleida chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. No one would suspect a jolly sort like you.”
“You’d be surprised.” Hugh tilted his head toward the house. “Shall we go in for more tea, biscuits, and condolences?”
Aleida walked beside him up the slope. “Will you interview the suspects?”
“I wish I could, but it would be unforgivably crass.” Hugh nodded to the men and women ambling toward the stately gray stone manor. “That man in the bowler wanted Uncle Elliott’s seat in Parliament but could never win the by-election. Wrong party for this constituency, poor chap. That tall fellow will be elected and looks rather too pleased about it. Those three argued with him in the Commons, and I’m afraid he had liaisons with far too many of their wives. Most of them were at the house party.”
A breeze twirled a loose strand of Aleida’s hair, and she tucked it into the coil at the nape of her pretty neck. “The police interviewed them all?”
“Yes, but they’re convinced the murderer was a Frenchman. Jouveau disagrees. He says if the leak about the repatriation ship were the motive, he would have received a death threat as well. After all, Ridley places equal blame on Jouveau and Uncle Elliott.”
“Ridley—he’s with the Ministry of Information?” Aleida brushed one hand along the rim of the stone fountain. “Is he here?”
“No, he isn’t.” Frowning, Hugh climbed the steps to the terrace. “Rather odd, considering our family ties.”
“Is he a suspect?”
Hugh shrugged. “That would be most convenient. Murder solved, justice served, and the BBC would have one fewer impediment on the road to truth. But alas, he has an alibi. Besides, he’s a rather decent old chap, and I’d hate to see him sent to the gallows.”
“Very well, then. Who else?” Aleida stopped on the terrace. “Any suspects who aren’t here today?”
Hugh waved a hand to the south. “I don’t suspect them, but Fletcher and Gil were staying in Braughing, about two miles away. Both rather disliked my uncle.”
Aleida tapped the toe of her black pump on the stone terrace. “With Gil’s hand, could he fire a shotgun? My son can do many things with only one hand, but not all.”
Hugh’s eyebrows rose. Gil never talked about his condition, and Hugh had never seen him use his affected hand. “I don’t know.”
“And Fletcher? He had problems with your uncle?”
“They had many a row. Fletcher has quite a temper.”
“I hate to even suggest such a thing, but do you think Gil and Fletcher could have worked together?” Her blond eyebrows pinched together with the horror of it all.
Hugh pressed his lips tight. “That would take planning. Nothing about this murder feels premeditated.”
“He used your uncle’s gun.”
“Precisely.” Hugh gazed toward the woods where his uncle had died, and his chest clenched. “It’s as if they were arguing and started shoving, and in the heat of the moment . . .”
“Hugh?” Aleida’s voice fell low. “You don’t suspect Gil or Fletcher, do you?”
“I don’t.” He met her gaze and searched for the reason for his quick answer. “Gil’s a good sort, a man of principle. And Fletcher may have argued with Uncle Elliott, but only because my uncle wanted to use the BBC as his bully pulpit. But in his heart, I think Fletcher likes what my uncle is—was striving for.”
“Whilst we’re discussing improbable suspects, what about Irwin?” Mischief flickered in the corner of her mouth. “He didn’t like your uncle, and he was absent from the Hart and Swan that day without excuse.”
“Ah, Irwin.” Hugh almost laughed at the thought. “He was ill. He couldn’t ring, because his telephone line was out due to the Blitz. He may be a curmudgeon, but he’s a loveable one.”
“Dear Hugh. You think too well of people to be a detective.” Aleida’s eyes crinkled with amusement, with . . . fondness? “It’s good that you are a correspondent.”
He had to guard his heart against false hope, but he returned her smile. If only Mother and Father agreed with her.