SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1940
Like all good pub tables, the reporters’ table at the Hart and Swan was a thick slab of oak, stained and polished and scratched and rubbed rich with color and age.
At the head of that table, Hugh set down his notebook and grinned at Jouveau. “Wait until you hear the story I’m working on.”
Jouveau wagged a finger at him. “No, my friend. Wait until you hear my story.” Then he flagged down Irwin and ordered a drink.
On Hugh’s other side, Aleida bent her pretty head over her little black diary and made tick marks. Yesterday’s page had eight entries, from appointments to train schedules.
“The precision of it all.” Hugh set his finger on the page. “It’s stunning.”
She gave him a sidelong look and capped her pen. “If you were willing to learn . . .”
“I do try.” He slid her diary closer and flipped a page. “I see you’re visiting two orphanages tomorrow morning. You’re not needed at the ministry?”
“On Saturday I worked in the country on the registry of evacuees, so I have a day off.”
Louisa Jones entered, bringing the scent of rain, and Aleida rose to greet her.
The ladies stood chatting. And stood. And chatted.
Hugh still had Aleida’s diary. He uncapped his pen and did his mischief.
“Well, look who’s still in town.” Barnaby Hillman filled the height and width of the doorway.
“Barn!” Hugh sprang up and shook the hand of the American reporter. “I heard you made the leap from the papers to the wireless. Mutual Broadcasting System?”
“Guilty as charged. And back in Old Blighty, as you fellows call it.” Barn opened his attaché case and dumped the contents onto the table. “Gifts from your rebellious former colonies.”
Packs of cigarettes littered the table, and most of the reporters exclaimed.
Hugh fought a grimace and settled back into his seat. In his opinion, the cigarette shortage was one of the few benefits of the war. How often had he cut evenings short when smoke aggravated his lungs?
Jouveau took a long drag from a cigarette. “Magnifique. Almost as magnifique as my story.” He gave Hugh a satisfied smile. “I believe I shall soon solve your uncle’s murder.”
“You shall?” Hugh’s heart hitched, and he sat forward. “Who is it?”
Jouveau blew out a leisurely lungful of smoke, adding to the growing haze. “Since our discussion the day we visited the Strand Palace Hotel, I’ve pursued a lead. Tonight I have an appointment that should answer my last questions.”
“Who did it?”
“No, my friend. This is my scoop.” Jouveau caressed his notebook on the table. “Today I told Fletcher how big this story will be. After the murderer is arrested, I want to broadcast on the BBC Home Service.”
“The Home Service?” MacLeod gave him an approving smile. “Big break for you.”
Jouveau scoffed. “It would be if Fletcher weren’t a fool.”
“I say.” Gil glared at him. “Is that quite necessary?”
“Quite.” Jouveau blew smoke through his nostrils. “He said the story would deserve no more than a line in the nine o’clock news.”
Hugh slumped back in his seat. With a war on, the murder of an MP was minor news, even if that murder greatly affected those who loved him.
Barn added more smoke to the haze. “I’ve never met this Fletcher fellow, but you give him a big enough story, and he’ll pounce on it.”
“Au contraire,” Jouveau said. “He ordered me to drop the story. Since I now know the murderer was not French, Fletcher says the case has nothing to do with me.”
What an odd thing to say, and Hugh frowned.
Jouveau poked a finger up into the sickly gray cloud. “The man is a fool!”
Gil yanked a cigarette from his mouth. “How dare you speak about him like that?”
“Because it’s true. I told him I’d come back tomorrow with the proof, and he said he’d refuse to see me. Fool!”
Gil’s face reddened. “He’s doing his job. You think you can dictate what the BBC broadcasts? Typical French arrogance.”
Jouveau cried out. “French arrogance? You English drip arrogance.”
Gil shoved back his chair and started to rise.
The men had never liked each other, but heat filled the room, as toxic as the tobacco smoke ringing their heads.
A diversion was needed.
Hugh grabbed Jouveau’s notebook and bolted from his seat. “What do we have here?” He opened the notebook with a flourish.
“Collie!” Jouveau stood, scraping chair legs over ancient floorboards, and he lunged after Hugh.
Laughing, Hugh circled behind his friends, keeping the table between him and Jouveau. A diary entry for 3 November at nine o’clock in the evening read, “JI-GB.”
Standing behind Aleida’s chair, Hugh squinted at the letters. “JI? GB? Great Britain?”
With a chuckle and a theatrical spread of his arms, Jouveau plunked back into his chair. “Do you think I’d give away my scoop so easily?”
Hugh’s heart and his smile sank. “I don’t want a scoop. I want to know who killed my uncle.”
Aleida glanced up over her shoulder at Hugh with a sympathetic frown.
Jouveau’s smug smile drifted down. “I understand, my friend. Soon I shall know. Then you will know. Come. Sit.”
The smoke was thicker up high, and it tickled his throat. He returned to his seat and set Jouveau’s notebook beside his own.
Lou lit a second cigarette. “Gil and Jouveau raise an interesting question. Who gets to decide what is worthy of news? The reporter? The editor? The paper or radio network? The government? Or the public? And if we agree it’s the public, who speaks for the public?”
“The government speaks for the public.” Gil’s complexion had returned to its usual pale tone. “And the BBC speaks for the government.”
Disgusted grunts circled the table, and Hugh shook his head. “The BBC Charter clearly states we are independent of the government.”
“In times of war, they have the right to take over the BBC,” Gil said. “They haven’t, but they could. They should.”
Hugh kept shaking his head, and his chest tightened. The smoke was too thick. He had to leave before he had an attack, but he couldn’t let words like that go unchallenged. Recently, the director-general of the Ministry of Information had proposed taking control of the BBC, but Duff Cooper, the Minister of Information, had refused, thank goodness.
Gil slapped the table. “The government should control the news for the good of the nation.”
With a cough, Hugh cleared smoke from his shriveling lungs. “For the good of the nation?”
Louisa lifted a sardonic smile. “What is the good of the nation?”
“To defeat Germany,” Gil said.
“We all agree on that.” Louisa raised one eyebrow.
Hugh followed her train of thought. “How does the news affect the war effort? We spread necessary information about blackouts and sheltering, about doing our bit by volunteering and taking factory work, yes?”
Everyone nodded and murmured agreement.
His airways clenched, and he coughed to loosen them. “What about war news? When Britain prevails, we all agree on truthful, detailed reporting.”
More nods, more murmurs of agreement.
“But when Britain suffers defeat, what then?” A whistle entered his voice. He needed to leave. But how? The conversation promised no lull.
Jouveau smashed the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray. “We should hold to the same standards in defeat as in victory.”
Hugh agreed, and the BBC agreed in principle. But on not too rare an occasion, the War Office, Admiralty, or Ministry of Information had interfered.
However, speaking would elicit an unmistakable wheeze.
“We cannot report defeats in such a way.” Gil made a slashing motion with his good hand. “People will lose heart and lose the will to fight.”
“Will they?” Aleida inclined her head. “London has been pummeled by bombs for fifty-seven nights in a row. Over ten thousand have died. Even more have lost their homes. But the will to fight is as strong as ever. Stronger, I believe.”
“Smart girl.” Lou nudged her friend with an elbow. “I, for one, want to know what’s really happening, even the hard stuff. No matter what, don’t lie to me.”
“Yes,” Aleida said. “When does glossing over the truth become lying?”
With each breath, Hugh’s lungs tightened more. But he needed an opening, an excuse. Why hadn’t he left as soon as Barn unloaded his stinking treasure?
MacLeod waved his cigarette in a circle. “Exactly. Sometimes being vague is necessary. For example, reporting where bombs fall would help the Luftwaffe improve navigation. But from what I’ve seen, the public is hungry for the truth.”
“I disagree.” Gil’s face blurred in the haze. “We must keep up morale.”
“Morale?” Jouveau wrinkled his nose. “Is that the sole purpose of our work? To create a happy and deluded populace? Or an educated populace, braced for action?”
Hugh couldn’t breathe. He needed his medication. By waiting too long, he’d forfeited the opportunity to leave without making a scene.
He shoved back his chair, grabbed his notebook, and fled into the night.