41
Slightly out of breath, Hugh followed the constable to the detective inspector’s office. Thank goodness DI Clyde was working late.
The inspector raised fatigued eyes and smirked. “Good evening, Mr. Collingwood. I’m afraid the gentlemen’s club is on the next street.”
Hugh smiled at the joke, and he hung his top hat, overcoat, and white scarf on the coatrack. “I have information on the murder of Filip Zielinski, and I believe we can connect it to the murders of Elliott Hastings and François Jouveau.”
DI Clyde closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Not every murder in London is related to the death of your uncle.”
“I regret that you must suffer yet more foolishness from this amateur sleuth.” Hugh took a seat in front of the inspector’s desk. “However, on Sunday last I witnessed an attack on Mr. Zielinski at Speakers’ Corner. The man who attacked him was Albert Ridley of the Ministry of Information. His family and mine are long acquainted.”
Slowly, DI Clyde’s light eyes opened. “An attack, you say?” He grabbed a pencil and a notepad.
In detail, Hugh described what he’d seen and what Ridley had said.
“‘Those who oppose the war effort deserve the severest punishment’—he said that?” Clyde puffed his cheeks with air. “That makes him a person of interest. We’ll question him, but we’ll need to be careful with a man of his prominence.”
Hugh rocked forward in his chair. “Please humor me a moment as I make my case.”
Clyde circled one hand in the air, as if flourishing a top hat, mocking Hugh’s highbrow attire. Nevertheless, he’d granted permission to proceed.
Hugh folded his hands on top of the desk. “Ridley and my uncle were political opponents. They almost came to blows in July.”
“Hastings had many political opponents.”
“Quite right, but he had information on Ridley and planned to use it against him. My cousin, William Hastings, said my uncle had discovered a man was having an affair.”
The inspector set down his pencil. “I read about the affair in William Hastings’s statement, but he didn’t mention Ridley.”
“No, but I believe Ridley was the man. This evening, I talked to my colleague Guy Gilbert. On the evening of 19 September, Gilbert saw Ridley in Braughing, kissing a woman who was not his wife. Gilbert also saw the couple around noon on 20 September, only a few hours after my uncle was murdered—and only a few miles from the Hastings estate.”
Clyde’s gaze locked on Hugh and flickered in thought. “Ridley was in the area at the time, with motive to kill Hastings—not only for political reasons, but to conceal his affair.”
Clyde sprang from his desk and leaned out the door. “Constable Bright—fetch me the evidence for the Hastings-Jouveau case. At once.”
Hugh waited until Clyde returned to his desk. “Mr. Gilbert can testify as to what he saw, as can his companion, Norman Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher was questioned earlier in the investigation.”
“Fletcher, yes.” Clyde scribbled notes. “He didn’t mention seeing Ridley.”
“I doubt he suspected him.” Hugh’s mouth went tight. “But I believe Jouveau did. In his diary he noted, ‘Verify the meetings on 20 September.’ Jouveau was with me when Ridley claimed he’d had meetings in London on that date. I think Jouveau checked Ridley’s alibi.”
Clyde’s chin and eyebrows elevated, and he resumed scribbling. “Quite possibly.”
“Ridley had ample motive in Jouveau’s case. They often argued about Jouveau’s broadcasts to France. And when Jouveau interviewed my cousin, William told Jouveau his father had uncovered an affair.”
Tapping his pencil to his square chin, Clyde frowned. “What were those initials in Jouveau’s diary again?”
“JI-GB.” Hugh shrugged. “No, it doesn’t help.”
Clyde cursed under his breath, then shook his head. “Regardless, we have reason to bring Ridley in for questioning.”
Hugh relaxed back in his seat. A good start.
After Clyde rushed to the door again, he beckoned to a sergeant. “Bring in Mr. Albert Ridley for questioning about the murder of that refugee in Hyde Park—Filip Zielinski.”
Then he turned back to Hugh. “If you wouldn’t mind, please stay. I’ll help Bright fetch the evidence.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clyde marched away.
Hugh’s left leg bounced. Zielinski was a refugee.
Aleida thought the refugee cause linked the murders. She also thought . . .
Miss Sharma.
Hugh sucked in a breath. Strangled in a park in a trench. The same modus operandi.
Was Miss Sharma’s death connected to the others? But how? Did she know Ridley?
He stood and paced. If only he could talk to Aleida. He missed the second half of his brain.
The second half of his heart.
“It’s time for your speech.” Mr. Armbruster escorted Aleida to a platform at the rear of the ballroom. “I do apologize for running late.”
Standing by the platform, Mrs. Armbruster kissed Aleida’s cheek. “You’ll be marvelous, my dear.”
“Thank you again for this opportunity,” Aleida said.
Mrs. Armbruster’s plump cheeks dimpled with suppressed laughter. “I’m afraid my darling husband has ulterior motives. He has great hopes to resurrect Elliott Hastings’s bill to aid refugees. Some of the key supporters—and opponents—are in this room.”
Mr. Armbruster smoothed his gray-streaked brown hair. “I hope that by calling attention to the plight of refugee children, you’ll awaken compassion for all refugees.”
“Thank you, sir. I would like to help.”
“That was clear in your report,” he said.
A warm smile rose. “I’m glad Miss Granville gave it to you.”
Mr. and Mrs. Armbruster glanced at each other and chuckled.
“Miss Granville?” Mr. Armbruster smirked. “She didn’t give me the report.”
“She didn’t?”
“No, that Indian girl brought it to me, with a brave speech about defying Miss Granville and rescuing the report from the scrap bin for the sake of the children.”
A sick feeling descended into Aleida’s belly. Beatrice had lied about giving Mr. Armbruster the report. But why? “Miss Sharma? Nilima Sharma did this?”
“Delightful young lady. I was sorry to hear she’d passed away.”
“Yes.” Aleida forced out the word.
The police said Nilima had no enemies. They were wrong. Beatrice wouldn’t stand for being defied by a foreigner, for being humiliated in front of her boss—over an issue she opposed. But was it enough of a motive to commit murder?
Mr. Armbruster leaned closer with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Miss Granville was livid when I confronted her about the matter. I’m surprised she didn’t fire Miss Sharma on the spot.”
“Hush, Howard.” Mrs. Armbruster gave her head a decided tilt.
Aleida followed the tilt.
Beatrice Granville stood behind her, not three feet away, where she could have heard every word.
Chilled furor radiated from Beatrice’s brown eyes.
She had indeed heard.
Could she have killed Nilima?
Beatrice hadn’t been on ARP duty the night Nilima died. But what if she’d shown up in uniform? What if she’d told Nilima of some incident in Green Park? Led her to the trench?
Aleida’s gaze froze in that chilled furor.
Why had Beatrice lied about the report? To deflect attention from her anger at Nilima. From her motive.
Once before, Aleida had noted that Beatrice wasn’t a woman to be crossed.
Aleida sucked in a breath.
Something snapped in Beatrice’s gaze.
She knew.
She knew that Aleida knew.
With every ounce of effort, Aleida composed herself and turned back to her host. She needed to ring the police at once. “Excuse me. I need to use a telephone.”
“Of course. I’ll help you find one after your speech.”
“No, now,” Aleida said in her lowest voice. “It’s quite urgent.”
“We’re already running late, and you’ll be finished in ten minutes.” Mr. Armbruster strode to the podium and clapped his hands.
Aleida gripped her notes so hard they crinkled. It couldn’t wait. She’d already incurred Beatrice’s wrath. But to speak out for refugee children would double that wrath.
Mr. Armbruster thanked his glittering guests at their glittering tables. Thanked them for attending, for their generosity, for their compassion.
At the table directly in front of Aleida, Beatrice sat with rigid posture and a rigid smile, with her evening bag in her lap.
Aleida’s insides squirmed in familiar terror, a terror she’d known too often living with Sebastiaan. Speak her mind and take a beating. Or be silent and protect herself.
Her finger tapped her notes, and the words swam before her. Why had she even come tonight?
Mr. Armbruster read Aleida’s introduction and lifted an arm to her, an invitation.
Aleida dragged her feet toward the podium. Her toe caught in the hem of the too-long dress, and she gasped, braced herself on the podium, and dropped her notes.
Dozens of expectant faces stared back at her.
“Why am I here?” The words tumbled out.
Silence trembled in the opulent space.
Mrs. Armbruster gathered Aleida’s notes and held them out to her.
Aleida ignored the offer. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. A year ago today, I fled the Netherlands. Due to my husband’s cruelty, I was separated from my young son. After my husband’s death, I came to London to find my child. I searched in orphanages and hospitals, and I took a position at the Ministry of Health so I could search for him amongst the evacuees.”
She directed her gaze past Beatrice, seeking souls who cared, finding them. “I saw the plight of the children, and I recorded their stories, the idyllic stories of children thriving in loving homes and fresh country air, and the horrific stories—far less common but not to be overlooked—the children neglected or mistreated.”
Men gave grim nods. Ladies pulled handkerchiefs from evening bags.
“One day,” Aleida said, “a billeting officer took me to a hostel, one of fifty hostels and camps established for children who are difficult to place in homes. Some of the children need medical care. Some have delinquency problems. Some have emotional problems. And some are refugees. The hostels are clean and comfortable and safe. The staff care for the children well. But a hostel is a poor substitute for a home.”
A woman at a table to Aleida’s left grumbled and nodded.
Aleida rubbed the polished wood podium. She’d been asked to discuss the needs of the refugee children, but another topic bubbled to the top of her mind. How disorganized to veer from her plan. How spontaneous. How like Hugh.
And how right. “Something curious arose. A billeting officer informed me—and others confirmed—that when the ladies of the Women’s Voluntary Service escorted children to the country, they often told the billeting officers to take the refugee children straight to a hostel. The billeting officers were perplexed—many foster families are willing to take children from foreign lands. The WVS ladies were just as perplexed and bothered, but said they’d been informed it was Ministry of Health policy.”
Sitting to Aleida’s side on the platform, Mr. Armbruster gasped.
Those conversations had occurred after Aleida wrote her report. “The WVS ladies had been told foster homes were reserved for English children.” She glanced to Mr. Armbruster.
His mouth hung open, and he shook his head.
Certainty and decisiveness coursed through her veins. “It was not—it is not—Ministry of Health policy. Rather it is the opinion of one person, passed along as policy.”
That one person’s eyes burned with vitriol. Murderous vitriol?
Aleida wrenched her gaze from Beatrice to the MPs and officials who made policy. “For the children of Britain’s allies to be treated negligently is beneath the honorable character of this great nation, a nation known throughout the world for her courage, tenacity, and compassion.”
A year ago, a coiled spring had burst inside her in the face of cruelty, leading her to break away from Sebastiaan and to freedom.
Now came that same crack and release and sense of rightness. “But there are those who fight against such virtues, those who are willing to neglect refugee children to prevent more refugees from coming. Perhaps even willing to kill.”
Gasps circled the ballroom.
Aleida locked her gaze with Beatrice. She’d do it. She’d name Beatrice Granville as the person who had strangled Nilima Sharma in a trench.
The same way Filip Zielinski had been killed. Could she have murdered him too? He was a foreigner, a refugee, a communist, a man who had crossed her lover.
A love affair Elliott Hastings had been willing to expose.
An affair François Jouveau had discovered.
All four? Had Beatrice Granville killed four people?
Sickness churned in her stomach, green as Beatrice’s dress, vile and hateful as her glare.
Tonight it would end. Aleida opened her mouth.
A wail rose—but not Aleida’s.
She frowned.
All around, people sighed, rose, gathered evening bags.
Mr. Armbruster edged Aleida to the side. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you are aware, the Dorchester Hotel is one of the safest structures in all of London. Please proceed to the shelter in the basement.”
No. No. Beatrice hadn’t yet been accused, detained, arrested.
That murderous vitriol latched on Aleida.
“Sir,” Aleida said. “I need to use the telephone at once.”
Mr. Armbruster took his wife’s arm and helped her off the platform. “Proceed to the shelter, Mrs. Martens.”
No. She had to ring the police.
The room was emptying, the Armbrusters merging into the crowd, Beatrice surging forward. “I’ll help Mrs. Martens find a telephone.”
The crowd was far safer. Aleida stepped off the platform, tripped—on her dress?
As the ground rushed up, a green-clad leg filled her vision. Beatrice—she’d tripped her.
Aleida cried out and hit the floor.