TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1940
Drops splattered on the pavement as Hugh shook off his foot. In the blackout, he hadn’t seen the puddle. If only the rain clouds had remained over London. Clear skies and an almost-full “bomber’s moon” promised a heavy raid.
If the Germans kept to their usual schedule, Hugh had about an hour to enjoy the company of friends before being waylaid by the company of enemies.
Hugh opened the door of the Hart and Swan and shoved past the blackout curtain.
In the back room, Aleida sat with Lou, Gil, Jouveau, and MacLeod, and Hugh greeted everyone.
Gil and Louisa flanked Aleida, so he contented himself with the chair across from her as she resumed her conversation with Lou.
The two women couldn’t possibly have been more different, which only strengthened their friendship. Aleida needed a no-nonsense friend like Lou, and Lou needed Aleida’s moral compass.
Hugh asked MacLeod about the latest dealings in Parliament, but although he always found the older reporter insightful, he couldn’t concentrate as usual.
Aleida’s gentle voice rolled across the table to him, enticing his attention. Lamplight glowed on her golden hair and pink cheeks, and her laughter sang to him.
As if she knew he was watching, she met his gaze. A fond smile rose.
Hugh jerked his attention back to MacLeod and nodded at something about bills and votes.
He didn’t deserve Aleida’s fond smiles. He felt closer to her than ever after she’d shared her fears, and she apparently thought he’d opened the vault by sharing about Caroline.
He’d opened it only a sliver. As soon as he’d considered telling her about his own asthma, he’d slammed it shut.
This was why he’d never had a romance of any depth or length. He could be honest about everything except his infirmity, and women always sensed he held something back.
Across the table, Gil said something to Aleida, and she responded in a short but polite manner.
Gil was a good sort, far more deserving of the affections of a fair maiden than Hugh. Poor old sod.
MacLeod came to a natural lull in the conversation.
Hugh swung a grin to his colleague. “I say, Gil. Smashing story the other day about the black market.”
Gil’s blond eyebrows rose, and pleasure sparked in his blue eyes. Then a monologue commenced about how he’d researched and written that story.
Aleida listened, but that smile didn’t shift to Gil. It remained on Hugh and shone fonder than before.
It would fade when she realized he was concealing something.
MacLeod rose and pushed in his chair. “Good night, ladies and gentlemen.”
Hugh bid him farewell, then caught Aleida’s gaze. “When are you going home? It’s half past seven.”
“A few more minutes. I do want to go home before the bombers come.”
Gil ducked into her line of sight. “I’d be honored to walk you home.”
“Thank you, but I’ll decline.” As always, Aleida used a cool tone and made no excuse. But that never stopped Gil.
Stomping footsteps approached, and Norman Fletcher barged into the room.
Fletcher never came to the Hart and Swan, and Hugh rose to greet him.
“Do you know where I spent the last two hours?” Fletcher marched to Hugh, his face livid. “The police. They questioned me about your uncle’s murder.”
Hugh took half a step back, and his jaw drifted low. Although he’d pondered Fletcher as a suspect, he never thought the police would.
Fletcher flung his hand wide. “A posh house full of toffs, all of whom wanted Hastings dead—straight out of an Agatha Christie novel—and who do the police come after? The scholarship boy.” The more he talked, the more his northern accent asserted itself.
Hugh held up one soothing hand. “I’m sure the police don’t truly suspect you. After—”
“Is that so?” Fletcher closed the gap Hugh had created, and his grayish eyes burned like coal in the grate. “I was staying nearby. Gil went out for a stroll and my wife and daughters spent the morning in the garden, all so I could enjoy an extra four hours of sleep uninterrupted by the Nazis. And what is the price for those four hours? I have no alibi. But I do have motive, they say. And how—how is it they came to suspect me?”
“I can’t imagine . . .” A sickening feeling churned in Hugh’s belly. “You don’t think I—”
Fletcher jabbed Hugh in the chest with a long finger. “Who else knew I was in the country, knew of my arguments with Hastings, knew that Hastings pressed the BBC to fire me?”
“Fire you? Sir, I never knew.” Hugh drew back his chin. “And I would never have accused you.”
Seated at the table, Jouveau let out a scoffing noise. “Everyone knew of your rows with Hastings.”
Fletcher shot Jouveau an acidic glare.
“And, sir,” Hugh said, “your trip to the country was no secret. As for what Uncle Elliott did . . .”
Fletcher cussed under his breath and clapped his hand to the back of his neck. “Of course. A lot of people knew.”
Hugh assumed his calmest voice. “I’m sure the police will realize your innocence. You might have clashed with my uncle, but it was never about his policies. Other news simply had higher priority, and no MP has the power to dictate broadcasting priorities—or to dictate firing a highly esteemed editor.”
With a grunt, Fletcher tore off his homburg.
“I fail to see any motive on your part,” Hugh said. “Why would you kill someone who wants to help the common man and take the toffs down a notch? Especially when he’s certain to be replaced by Algernon Bradshaw.”
“Bradshaw.” Fletcher spat out the name. “Simpering fool.”
Jouveau smirked. “Bradshaw was at the house party.”
“I interviewed him last week.” Gil rested his forearms on the table. “He’s far too pleased about his prospects in the coming by-election.”
Hugh pulled out the chair MacLeod had vacated. “Would you care to join us?”
Fletcher glanced around the table, scowled at Jouveau, relaxed looking at Gil and Louisa, then paused at Aleida.
Hugh nodded toward her. “Aleida, may I introduce my editor, Norman Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher, this is Aleida Martens with the Dutch Service of the BBC.”
Aleida’s gaze flew to Hugh, part incredulous, part amused, part chastising him for the naughty boy he was.
He liked each part, and he winked.
Amusement won, and she nodded to Fletcher. “I’m afraid I’m not with the Dutch Service, but I am pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too.” Fletcher sank into the empty chair.
Hugh sat and faced his editor. “Bradshaw.”
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” Fletcher said through gritted teeth. “Hastings was strong and healthy, and he’d never resign. How else could Bradshaw get his seat?”
Louisa shrugged. “Bradshaw’s a milquetoast. I can’t see the man getting in a scuffle. He might dirty his shoes.”
“How about Sutherland?” Gil said. “He wants the same seat.”
“Wrong party,” Hugh said. “He doesn’t stand a chance in that constituency.”
Fletcher pointed a finger at Hugh, and his eyes brightened. “Not against Hastings, but he might stand a chance against Bradshaw.”
“Good point, and if the war goes poorly and the people turn on the men in charge—”
“Sutherland’s a suspect in my book.” Fletcher slapped the table.
“The former Mrs. Hastings was at the party too, was she not?” Jouveau said.
“She divorced him years ago,” Hugh said. “The time to have murdered him would have been when they were still married.”
“Their children?” Fletcher said.
“They preferred my uncle to my aunt. Uncle Elliott had little virtue but much compassion. Aunt Rosamund has much virtue and no compassion. My cousins loved their father dearly, and William—the heir—was at sea, so—”
The air raid siren wailed its alert.
Hugh grinned at his friends and quoted a popular line from the BBC’s broadcasts for workers. “Good night and go to it.”
“Work at war speed.” Gil continued the quote in a sardonic tone as he donned his hat.
Mr. Irwin leaned into the room. “Hurry! Down to the shelter.”
Hugh pulled on his overcoat. “Your basement is the safest and most hospitable in London, but the news calls.”
The reporters spilled out of the room, but Aleida sipped her tea and glanced at Hugh over the rim of her cup. “Where are you going tonight?”
“I haven’t decided.” He buttoned his coat. “I’ll go to the roof of Broadcasting House to observe. Will you go to Irwin’s shelter?”
She set down her cup and frowned at it. “I don’t mind Anderson shelters, but I don’t like basement shelters. I’ve seen too many rescue parties at work. May I come with you?”
He opened his mouth to tell her she’d be safer anywhere but with him, but she raised eyes filled with a strange mix of fear and bravery. He also had seen buildings collapse into their basements. He also preferred to be on top of buildings.
And she’d never reach her garden shelter before the bombers came.
“How can I argue with courage?” Hugh pulled her dark blue overcoat from a hook on the wall and held it out for her.
She slipped her slender arms through the sleeves, he settled the coat on her shoulders, and she faced him with all fear erased. Only courage remained and a spot of anticipation.
Hugh set his fedora on at an angle. “Come along, my intrepid friend.”
They dashed outside and up Regent Street. The siren had stopped wailing, and only footfalls broke the hush.
In the moonlight, Hugh didn’t need his torch to find his way, not when Broadcasting House towered before him.
At the entrance, Hugh tucked Aleida’s hand around his arm and flashed his card to the guard. “She’s with me.”
“Yes, Mr. Collingwood.” The older man let him in.
Hugh led Aleida across the Art Deco lobby to the lifts, past people coming and going to work.
In the basement, the news readers would be preparing for the nine o’clock news broadcast. Throughout the building, engineers and telephone operators and others worked around the clock. Although most BBC departments had evacuated from London at the outbreak of war, others remained, including the news department.
“It’s a beautiful building.” Aleida admired the sculpture of The Sower next to the lifts.
“It is,” Hugh said. “Sleek and modern and specially designed for broadcasting.”
The lift doors opened, and Hugh pressed the button for the eighth floor.
By the time the doors opened again and they’d climbed a flight of stairs to the roof, all had changed.
German engines grumbled above, steady and unrelenting. Bright beams sliced the night sky. Bombs thudded in the distance. Antiaircraft guns barked their reply.
Hugh went to the railing near the southern point of the building with Aleida beside him.
If this raid mimicked the others, waves of bombers would arrive throughout the night, dropping loads of death. At least the Luftwaffe had abandoned daylight raids for the past fortnight, granting Londoners a slight reprieve.
After six weeks in a row of nightly raids, Hugh was running out of fresh angles for stories. And how could he concentrate on the news with Aleida standing close to his side, the warmth of her radiating to him?
He squinted into the night. Fires arose to the south along the Thames.
“What was it like growing up here?” Aleida said. “Were you mostly in the country or in the city?”
Hugh stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and chewed on his lips. He’d spent his childhood watching through windows while Cecil played outside, healthy and hale. He’d squandered the early years of his education since no one expected him to live, including Hugh himself.
But Aleida’s eyes shone in the moonlight, and her coat sleeve brushed against his.
Hugh gave a vague response, then inquired about Aleida’s childhood.
To his relief, her stories spilled out with the slightest prompts. She loved and missed her parents, and she told of her cousins coming to England each summer and exploring her aunt and uncle’s estate, having out-of-doors adventures as children ought to do.
Hugh loved the cadence of her Dutch accent, the music of her laughter, and how her hands relaxed as she talked about family.
But the bombs fell closer. To the south near Victoria Station. To the northeast near St. Pancras Station. Closer, toward Oxford Street.
Aleida fell silent. Hugh gripped the railing.
Faintly through the rumbling bombers and thumping guns, Big Ben’s gong resounded. Once, twice, nine times.
A whistling overhead.
“Get down!” Aleida flung herself flat to the roof.
Hugh strained his gaze upward. Where were the bombs falling?
“Hugh!” Aleida tugged on the hem of his coat. “Get down!”
He blinked hard, then dropped to his knees.
A crash of metal and cement to the north, and the roof trembled, bucked beneath him.
Hugh threw himself down between Aleida and the crash.
Had Broadcasting House been hit?
Whistles rent the air, but softer, fading, the stick of bombs working its way west.
Aleida pushed up on her elbows, her hat askew. “Were we hit?”
Hugh had hugged her to his belly, and he released her. “So sorry. I—let me see.” He rose to his feet, and his knees wobbled.
Halfway up the length of the building, a cloud of dust rose from along Portland Place.
Hugh leaned over the railing for a better view. A jagged hole pierced the side of Broadcasting House around the seventh floor, and bits of masonry littered the ground.
“I heard the bomb hit.” Aleida stood back from the railing. “But I didn’t hear an explosion. Do you think it’s a UXB?”
Unexploded bombs created deadly work for the men who removed and detonated them. “Some bombs have time delays.”
“Oh no.”
Hugh backed up and groped for Aleida’s hand. “We—we should leave.”
He spun her around and ran for the stairs. He didn’t want to be trapped in a lift, have the cable severed.
Their feet pounded down the steps, they bumped sides as they whirled around landings, and her hand gripped his like a vise.
At each landing, more people joined them, but Aleida never released his hand.
Rumors floated down the stairs with them. The bomb had come to rest on the sixth floor, someone said. No, the fifth. Near the music library—a woman said she’d seen it with her own eyes.
Hugh guided Aleida through the lobby and out the main entrance. The guard stood aside and stared as dozens of people passed him.
Still, the Luftwaffe droned overhead. Beams searched in vain and antiaircraft fired in vain.
If the public knew how few bombers had been shot down by those guns, how even fewer bombers had been shot down by RAF night fighters . . . but that was a story he couldn’t tell. Wouldn’t tell.
Hugh and Aleida crossed Portland Place. Her hand felt small and taut and right in his, and he gave it the slightest squeeze. “May I interest you in sheltering in the Tube?”
“Yes, please.” Her voice came out thready.
He headed up Portland Place toward Regent’s Park Station. Oxford Circus Station was closer, but also lay closer to the bomb falls.
Noise ripped the air before them.
Glass and masonry spewed from the side of Broadcasting House, about five floors up.
“The bomb,” Aleida whispered.
If they’d remained in the building . . .
Without thinking, Hugh pulled Aleida to him.
She let him.