40

SATURDAY, MAY 10, 1941

A full moon cast golden light on Hugh’s patent leather shoes as he strode up Regent Street in full evening dress.

Tonight would be crucial.

Most importantly, he’d help Aleida give voice to a cause she held dear. Through her nationwide appeal, perhaps good changes would come for the refugee children.

Hugh also intended to use the evening for romantic reconnaissance. Would Aleida be impressed with his finely tailored black tails and trousers, his crisp white tie and waistcoat? Would she let him twirl her around the dance floor? Would she melt in his embrace as she once had done?

He could no longer continue as mere friends. But if he told her of his love, he might destroy a friendship that meant a great deal to both of them.

Ahead of him, the door to the Hart and Swan swung open, and two men exited—Gil and MacLeod.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Hugh said.

Gil shined his torch at Hugh. “White tie? Where are you going?”

Hugh made a show of twirling his cane, doffing his top hat, and dipping a bow. “To the Dorchester Hotel to record a broadcast at a charity banquet.”

MacLeod choked back a laugh. “Another thrilling BBC broadcast.”

“It will be when Aleida Martens makes a touching appeal on behalf of refugee children.”

Gil buttoned his overcoat, his chin down. “I thought you and Aleida weren’t . . .”

Hugh swallowed hard. “We aren’t, but her story needs to be told. Fletcher agreed.”

“You should return to the papers,” MacLeod said. “That’s where the excitement is. Today I covered a murder.”

“Oh?” Hugh had rather lost his taste for murders.

“A communist agitator.” MacLeod pointed to the side with his thumb. “Strangled with his own scarf in a trench in Hyde Park near Speakers’ Corner.”

Hugh could still see the impassioned face, the red scarf . . . “Speakers’ Corner, you say? What was the man’s name?”

“Filip Zielinski.”

Hugh’s chest caved in. “Oh no. When was he murdered?”

“Last night. They found him this morning. Why? Do you know him?”

Hugh rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I saw him on Sunday. Albert Ridley attacked him.”

“Ridley?” Gil said with a gasp. “He attacked him?”

Hugh’s stomach and thoughts churned, and he clamped his hand to the back of his neck. “Ridley shook him, shoved him down, accused him of taking advantage of English liberty. He said Zielinski was guilty of high treason.”

“High treason?” MacLeod whipped out his notebook. “Gil, shine your torch this way.”

Gil complied. “The punishment for high treason—it’s death.”

“Do you think Ridley’s capable of murder?” MacLeod said.

“I don’t know.” Hugh’s fingers dug into the back of his neck. “I must admit, I suspected him in my uncle’s murder. He had rather public altercations with my uncle—with Jouveau too. But he was in London the day my uncle was murdered.”

“London?” The torchlight gave Gil’s frown a ghostly glow. “Hastings was killed that Friday morning, right?”

“Yes,” Hugh said. “Why?”

Gil shrugged. “Ridley might have been in London later that day, but in the morning he was in Hertfordshire, only a few miles from your uncle’s estate. Do you remember how Fletcher and I went to visit his family?”

“Of course.”

A smirk turned up one corner of Gil’s mouth. “We arrived on Thursday evening. When we got off the train at Braughing, we noticed Ridley disembarking from another carriage. A redhead greeted him with a passionate kiss. She’s not Ridley’s wife, according to Fletcher.”

“No.” A sick feeling twisted in Hugh’s stomach. Ridley’s wife was blond.

“They didn’t see us—they had eyes only for each other—but they went to an inn. And I saw them stroll past the cottage on Friday around noon. Ridley was most assuredly in Hertfordshire on Friday morning.”

Uncle Elliott had uncovered an affair. Was it Ridley’s affair? “Ridley doesn’t have an alibi after all. Gil, did you or Fletcher tell the police about this?”

“The police? No. I never saw him as a suspect.”

MacLeod scribbled fast. “If this is what Jouveau uncovered, I can see why he thought it a scoop—a man of Ridley’s prominence.”

JI-GB. Albert Ridley. It didn’t match, but everything else did. Ridley had ample reason to kill Jouveau. “Three murders?”

“Sensational,” MacLeod said. “Simply sensational.”

“I’m a witness.” Hugh blew out a hard breath. “I saw him attack Zielinski. I need to tell the police straightaway.”

He headed back south along Regent Street, then stopped in his tracks. “The charity banquet!”

The story he’d persuaded Fletcher to let him broadcast. How could he let Fletcher down? He’d tarnish the reputation he’d worked so hard to polish. Irresponsible worthless toff in his top hat and tails.

And Aleida? How could he simply not go? She’d think he’d forgotten her.

He turned back to Gil and MacLeod. Perhaps he could send Gil to the police. Except Hugh had witnessed the attack, heard the threatening words, knew about Uncle Elliott and the affair, and pieced together the case against Ridley for all three murders.

Telling the police took priority over his career, over his romance, over the approval of man.

A sour taste filled his mouth. “Gil, are you free tonight? Do you own white tie?”

“Yes.” Gil’s voice rose in excitement. “Would you like me to cover the story? With Aleida?”

“Yes, please.” Hugh pulled out his notebook and tore out the relevant pages. “Here are my notes. The banquet is at the Dorchester Hotel, in the ballroom. Tom Young is waiting at Broadcasting House with a light mobile recording unit. Go there first, tell him you need to change into evening dress. You’ll be late to the banquet, but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes. I’ll do that.” An eager smile lit up Gil’s face.

Would Gil cross Hugh with Fletcher as he’d done before? Would he cross him with Aleida as he twirled her around the dance floor?

Hugh clamped off a groan. “Please tell Aleida about Zielinski, about Ridley’s lack of alibi. She’ll want to know.”

“I will.”

“And please tell her how much I wanted to be there for her.” He turned away from all his lovely plans and ran down Regent Street toward the police station.

Aleida politely turned down a request to dance. Mrs. Collingwood’s dress hung half an inch too long, even with Aleida’s high-heeled shoes, and she had to hold herself tall and walk with care.

Perhaps she’d take a chance and dance when Hugh came.

If he came.

She frowned and continued her stroll around the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel. Although Hugh often ran late, he’d improved lately, especially when he cared.

Maybe he no longer cared, now that the romance was over. Maybe he’d forgotten her.

She huffed. If he was late, he had good reason. She trusted him.

Brilliant crystal chandeliers illuminated couples dancing in white tie or in elegant gowns. On the walls, crystal sconces hung on mirrors framed by blue-veined marble, while drapes flowed down the walls between the mirrors.

She knew no one in the room other than Beatrice Granville and Mr. Armbruster. Today, of all days, she could use a friend.

Aleida gripped her evening bag, and her grandmother’s sapphire ring glimmered.

A year ago today, the Nazis had invaded the Netherlands. A year ago today, she’d last seen Theo.

Three hundred sixty-five days.

With dizzying pain, her heart crumpled. She treasured Theo’s photographs, the images of how he’d looked a year before. How did he look now? Did his voice sound different?

A wail built inside, threatening to erupt, but she shoved it down. She’d made the right choice. Theo—Teddy—was happy. He’d be all right. In time, she would be too.

“Mrs. Martens.” Beatrice Granville approached in a long emerald gown, her hair swept up with diamond-encrusted combs. “How charming you look.”

“Thank you, Miss Granville. You look lovely.”

Beatrice dipped her chin, then rounded her eyes. “I want to apologize. I dismissed your report without due consideration. Upon reading it again, I see the welfare of the children transcends merely evacuating them from danger. We must address their deeper needs, and we must care for all the children, even those who aren’t English.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased to hear that.” Had the woman had a change of heart? Or was she maneuvering for favor, knowing Mr. Armbruster would address the problems Aleida had exposed?

Regardless, Aleida raised a sincere smile.

Beatrice tapped Aleida’s arm. “How did you arrive this evening? By taxi?”

“Well, yes.”

“That won’t do.” Beatrice clucked her tongue. “I have a car and a driver. I simply insist you ride with me.”

If only Hugh could accompany her home. She scanned the ballroom in vain. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A bright smile, and Beatrice sashayed away.

At the entrance to the ballroom, Mr. and Mrs. Armbruster welcomed some familiar faces—Guy Gilbert, Tom Young, and Gerald MacTavish.

Why was Gil here with the recording crew? Where was Hugh?

Mr. Armbruster peered around the dance floor and pointed Aleida out to Gil and the others. Gil smiled and waved.

Aleida did her best to return the gesture, and she met Gil halfway around the ballroom.

He bowed, sweeping back the tails of his coat. “Good evening, Aleida. You’re a vision of beauty.”

“Thank you.” She dropped a curtsy, but disappointment colored her words. “Is Hugh with you?”

“No.” His gaze darted to the side, and chandelier light shined on his slicked-back blond hair. “He asked me to come in his place.”

“Oh.” Hugh had sounded delighted with the story. Why would he give it to Gil? She worked up a smile. “I’m glad the story will still be broadcast. How good of you to come.”

Gil wrinkled his nose and sighed. “Collie does have good reason. A man was murdered last night—Filip Zielinski.”

“Oh no.” Aleida’s mouth fell open. “We saw him on Sunday at Speakers’ Corner.”

“His body was found nearby.” Gil lowered his voice. “In a trench in the park, strangled with his scarf.”

Strangled? In a trench? That was how Nilima died, and a chill raced up Aleida’s spine.

Gil leaned closer. “Collie went to the police station to report an altercation he witnessed between Mr. Zielinski and Albert Ridley.”

“We saw—”

“Yes. Collie is certain Ridley killed Zielinski, and he thinks Ridley also killed Hastings and Jouveau.”

“But Ridley has an alibi.”

Gil leaned still closer, his light blue eyes earnest. “No, he does not. Mr. Fletcher and I saw Ridley near the Hastings estate on the day of the murder. He was with a redhead—who was not his wife.”

An affair. Was that the affair Hastings threatened to expose?

With a redhead?

Aleida’s gaze swept the ballroom and found Beatrice Granville. A redhead. A friend of Albert Ridley’s. Ridley had visited the office, which had annoyed Beatrice. A visit from an old friend wouldn’t be cause for annoyance, but a visit from a married lover . . . ?

“Gil?” Aleida murmured. “Be very discreet. There’s a tall woman with red hair about twenty feet to your left.”

With a bored expression, Gil glanced around the ballroom and back to Aleida. His eyebrows rose. “In the green dress? That’s her. I saw her with Ridley.”

Aleida’s mind spun pieces into place. “Her name is Beatrice Granville. The police need to know. Go to the police station straightaway and tell them, tell Hugh. He’ll understand.”

“But the story, your speech.”

As much as she wanted this story on the BBC, she wanted the murderer caught far more. “Hugh is an eyewitness in the Zielinski case, but his theory about Hastings and Jouveau is speculation. You—you’re the witness who can verify Ridley’s lack of alibi. And Miss Granville—her father is an MP. It’s crucial to Ridley’s motive in the Hastings murder. Hugh will understand. You must tell him. You must tell the police.”

Gil blinked in a dazed way. “Yes. Yes, I’ll go straightaway.”

Aleida reached out and squeezed Gil’s hand. “Thank you.”

Gil glanced down at her hand, then raised eyes full of regret. “Collie—he also said to tell you how very much he wanted to be here tonight for you.”

Everything melted inside. She’d been more than satisfied with the excuse that he’d gone to the police to solve three murders. But Hugh had taken the time to send a message to her. And how thoughtful of Gil to relay the message, especially since he had a crush on her.

She squeezed the man’s hand once more. “You’re a good friend, Gil. Please tell Hugh I’m fine and I’m proud of him.”

“I will.” Gil took his leave, stopping to send Tom and Gerald home.

Once again, Aleida stood alone in a crowd, but now elation danced in time to the music. Tonight justice would be served.

And Hugh cared.