42

With papers from the evidence box laid out on his desk, Detective Inspector Clyde read aloud a transcription from Uncle Elliott’s journal. “‘How ironic that I, a man known for dalliances, should hold a dalliance against a man and a woman. In this case, I have no qualms, even though both parties are of long acquaintance.’”

“Both parties?” Hugh rapped his fingers on his knees. “The woman is in my family’s circle too?”

Clyde adjusted his reading glasses. “‘Since the young man has the nerve to call me “quite indiscreet,” has publicly treated me like an errant child in his quest to silence me, and—’”

“Ridley! He called my uncle ‘quite indiscreet.’” Hugh slapped the desk. “Uncle Elliott also said Ridley treated him like an errant child.”

The inspector took notes then lifted the transcription. “‘As for the young woman, her father opposes my bill in Parliament in the most underhanded manner, turning friends against me. This fool puts his daughter on the highest of pedestals, and he would do anything to keep her haughty nose out of the mud.’ That’s the end of that journal entry.”

“No names.” Hugh clamped his lips together. “But I have no doubt the man is Ridley.”

“And the woman?”

“Does it matter?” Yet the information sifted through his mind. A redhead. Of Uncle Elliott’s acquaintance. A daughter of an opponent in Parliament.

For some reason, Beatrice Granville’s face swam into focus. Hadn’t Aleida mentioned Ridley visiting her office?

To name her felt slanderous.

“Excuse me, Inspector.” Constable Bright stood in the doorway—with Guy Gilbert in evening dress.

Clyde leaned back in his chair. “Apparently I’m underdressed for the evening’s festivities.”

“Gil?” Hugh sprang to standing. “Why are you not at the banquet?”

“Aleida sent me.”

Clyde cleared his throat loudly.

Hugh turned to the inspector. “Detective Inspector Clyde, may I introduce Mr. Guy Gilbert, the man I mentioned earlier.”

“Ah yes.” Clyde leaned forward again. “Mr. Collingwood told me what you witnessed. I’ll need to take your statement.”

“I have further information.” Gil gripped his top hat in hand, and his gaze darted between Hugh and Clyde. “The woman I saw kissing Mr. Ridley was at the banquet. I recognized her. Aleida said her name is Beatrice Granville.”

It was her. Hugh felt no sense of victory, only displeasure and disappointment.

“Have a seat, Mr. Gilbert,” Clyde said.

After Hugh and Gil sat, Clyde took Gil’s statement.

As Gil was finishing, a sergeant entered the office, the sergeant who had been sent to bring in Ridley. “Excuse me, Inspector. Mr. Ridley isn’t at home. The butler said the family has been in Scotland since Wednesday. Mrs. Ridley’s grandmother passed away, and they went for the funeral.”

“Wednesday,” Hugh whispered. Zielinski had been murdered on Friday night.

“We need to verify that alibi,” Clyde said.

The sergeant set a folded newspaper on the desk and pointed to an article. “The funeral was Friday morning. Mr. Ridley is mentioned in the paper.”

Clyde released a long sigh. “Find out where he’s staying in Scotland and—”

“I already rang. I spoke to the host and to Ridley. He was there all day Friday and all day today.”

Another muttered curse from the inspector. “Ridley couldn’t have killed Zielinski.”

Hugh grabbed the paper and scanned the article. How could it be? “I was so certain.”

Clyde shrugged. “When Ridley returns from Scotland, I’ll still question him about the Hastings case.”

“If it isn’t Ridley, who is it?” Hugh slumped back in the chair.

Jouveau’s notebook peeked from halfway through the pile.

Hugh pointed to it. “May I?”

At the inspector’s nod, Hugh flipped through Jouveau’s list of appointments with MPs, ending 25 October with “Granville, Geoffrey.” Then his notation on 29 October about verifying meetings. Then 31 October—“Hastings, William,” 3 November—“Fletcher, Norman” and “JI-GB.”

Everything turned backward in his mind. “Jouveau recorded last name first. ‘JI’ might be ‘IJ,’ and ‘GB’ could be‘BG.’”

Oh no. Everything turned to ice inside.

Beatrice Granville?

“What is it?” DI Clyde asked.

“GB—could it be Granville, Beatrice?” He shook the notebook. “What if Uncle Elliott threatened to expose her affair with Ridley? Her father—Sir Geoffrey is a proud and stubborn man—he’d never agree to support the refugee bill. Beatrice knew that. What if she went to talk to my uncle? She knew of the party. She’d been invited. She told me so at the funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” Clyde said. “But we know Hastings’s murderer was a man from the size of the boot prints.”

“Beatrice is as tall as I, and she’s of sturdy build, a sportswoman.”

“All right, then.” Clyde’s eyes narrowed, and he made notes. “We know she was near the Hastings estate—with motive.”

Hugh riffled through the diary to discern the trail his friend had followed. “After Jouveau met with Sir Geoffrey, he didn’t interview other MPs. Why not? What if his investigation swerved in a new direction? What if Sir Geoffrey had a photograph of Beatrice in his office? Jouveau would have recognized her. He told me he’d seen Ridley flirting with the daughter of an MP at a reception. What if he then recalled William’s mention of the affair?”

Gil’s eyes went wide. “Then he would have suspected Ridley. He’d want to check his alibi.”

“Yes, yes. Verify the meetings.” Clyde’s pencil flew over the paper. “Not two days after he did so, he told William Hastings he knew the identity of the couple.”

Hugh jabbed at the initials in Jouveau’s writing. “GB—if he made an appointment with Beatrice to find more information about her lover, maybe trap her into revealing something incriminating, not suspecting her . . .”

Clyde scribbled rapidly. “This time it would be premeditated murder.”

“What about Zielinski?” Gil asked.

“Not so solid a case,” Clyde said, his pencil in motion. “Zielinski might have angered her lover, but this murder is different. To strangle a stranger in cold blood? It’s a huge leap from the previous murders, not to mention a different modus operandi.”

But the same modus operandi as Miss Sharma’s murder. Hugh’s stomach clenched. “What if . . .” His mouth felt sticky, and he swallowed. “What if there was an intermediate step? Another murder by strangulation—but of someone Beatrice knew? Nilima Sharma.”

Clyde’s nostrils flared, and he pulled in his chin. “The girl murdered in Green Park? What’s the relation?”

“I don’t know what the motive might be, but Miss Sharma worked in Beatrice’s department and they volunteered at the same ARP post.”

“I’d wondered if those murders were linked.” Clyde’s voice lowered. “Both foreigners, same method. But in the Sharma case, the murderer tried to make it look as if the victim died in an air raid. In the Zielinski case, the murderer didn’t even bother.”

“Sloppier,” Gil said. “Bolder.”

Overhead, the air raid siren screamed, and Hugh almost jumped from his chair.

“The siren’s mounted on the roof of the station.” Clyde stood and went to the door. “Don’t worry about the case. We work through air raids. Sergeant? Bring in Miss Beatrice Granville for questioning—”

“She isn’t at home.” Hugh’s stomach squeezed hard enough to threaten his last meal.

Gil stared at Hugh. “No, she’s at the Dorchester Hotel.”

With Aleida.

Aleida couldn’t breathe. A knee pressed her shoulder blades hard to the floor.

“Oh dear, Mrs. Martens. Let me help you up.” Beatrice fiddled with Aleida’s arm as if helping, but her knee ground hard.

Aleida fought to haul air into her lungs, to scream. Swishing skirts and black trouser legs receded before her and disappeared between tablecloths and chair legs. Soon no one would remain to help.

She squirmed, flailed her arms, kicked, hunched her shoulders, pulled in a breath.

The scent of fine perfume drew near, an emerald satin evening bag entered her vision to her right, and something hard pressed to her temple. “Not one sound,” Beatrice said in a low, fierce voice. “Or I’ll shoot you. I have a gun in my evening bag.”

Shallow breaths puffed in Aleida’s constricted lungs. Why would Beatrice bring a gun to a charity banquet? For the same reason she’d offered to give Aleida a ride home—because she’d already planned to kill her tonight.

Aleida grimaced. She had to get up, had to break free. But how?

“Everyone’s left now.” Beatrice eased the pressure with her knee. “You may stand up, but don’t make a sound.”

Aleida worked her hands and knees beneath her and pushed up to kneeling.

Beatrice gripped Aleida’s right arm with one hand. With her other hand, she pressed her evening bag into Aleida’s ribs—a drawstring pouch of green satin. The strings were drawn around Beatrice’s wrist, and inside, she held something hard.

Aleida caught her breath. “Is that the same gun you used to kill François Jouveau?”

Beatrice gasped. “How dare you! The impertinence.” She stood and yanked Aleida to her feet.

Not one soul remained in the ballroom. Screaming wouldn’t help and would only get her shot. Oh, why hadn’t Hugh come? He wouldn’t have left her alone.

“This way.” Beatrice tugged her arm and shoved her toward the back of the room, toward a service door. “Open the door.”

With shaky hands, Aleida fumbled with the handle. She had to think. Most likely, Beatrice would want to take her to a park, to a trench. The Dorchester Hotel overlooked Hyde Park.

Aleida had to stall her, fight her, distract her, find someone—anyone.

“Open the door.” Beatrice spat out the words.

The doorknob turned, and Beatrice pushed Aleida out into the cold night air. Searchlights sliced the sky, bombers droned in the distance, and antiaircraft guns boomed.

Beatrice all but dragged Aleida to a street that ran at a diagonal behind the hotel to Park Lane. Hyde Park lay on the far side of Park Lane.

The street was deserted. With each step, Aleida kicked her skirt out with her toes to avoid tripping.

On the other hand, tripping would create a diversion.

Aleida slumped lower, letting the skirt touch the ground. Her toe snagged, and down she went, catching herself on outstretched hands, breaking Beatrice’s grip.

“What on earth?” That iron hand clamped Aleida’s arm again and jerked her to standing. Satin-encased steel rammed into her ribs. “Don’t you dare try that again. If you escape, I’ll shoot. I’m an excellent shot.”

Aleida stumbled forward, careful with her step again. Her heart rate skittered, and her fingers coiled, tapping on the heels of her hands. If she saw someone on the street, tripping might create the distraction she needed.

Aircraft engines rumbled louder, and to the east, bombs thudded to earth.

Ahead of them, toward the curved façade of the hotel’s main entrance, several shapes shifted in the light of the full moon. Men in warden’s helmets.

Holding her breath, Aleida marched forward. When close enough, she could scream and trip. Beatrice wouldn’t shoot her in front of witnesses.

“Oh no.” Beatrice ground to a stop and whirled Aleida around. “This way.”

Aleida winced. But a detour would lengthen their route and increase her chances of seeing someone. Perhaps she could reason with the woman. Aleida cleared her dry throat. “If you kill me, you’ll be the prime suspect, since you were the last person seen with me.”

Beatrice let out a sharp laugh. “No one will even notice you’re missing. You’re just a foreigner.”

“Like Miss Sharma?” Aleida’s voice hushed.

A loud huff. “Why can’t you people keep your noses out of our business? Miss Sharma had no right to interfere with the English way of life.”

Everything inside her recoiled. That wasn’t the England she knew. “If you kill me in the same manner you killed Nilima, the police will suspect you. We both worked with you at the Ministry and at the ARP. Mr. Armbruster knows my report angered you. He knows Nilima angered you. And tonight, you and I are the only guests who didn’t go to the shelter. It’s all over.”

“Poppycock. No one cares. The police barely investigated Miss Sharma’s death, and they won’t investigate yours. You’re just a dirty foreigner.” Beatrice turned north along a street running parallel to Park Lane.

Aleida scanned the street, looking for a place to slip away. Perhaps she could use the same move she’d used to break Sebastiaan’s grip on the road in Belgium, spinning backward and slamming into Beatrice’s arm from behind.

Except Sebastiaan hadn’t held a gun.

A rushing sound, the tinkling of hundreds of tiny incendiary bombs hitting roofs nearby. A dozen bounced harmlessly in the street before them.

Aleida clapped her free hand over her head for protection.

“You shouldn’t even be here.” Beatrice blew out a harsh breath. “Why couldn’t you stay on the continent where you belong? You and your wars and your communism and your greedy refugees—eating our rations and sleeping in our homes and wearing our clothes. Always demanding more. You foreigners disgust me.”

Keeping the woman talking would also distract her. With bombs falling along this street, ARP wardens would soon arrive, people who could help her.

Aleida sniffed. “Elliott Hastings wasn’t a foreigner.”

Beatrice gasped and dug her fingers into Aleida’s arm. “That was an accident! I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Her confession sank like a stone in Aleida’s stomach. “I understand. You only wanted to reason with him, ask him to drop his refugee bill, beg him not to expose your affair with Albert Ridley.”

“What?” Beatrice stopped in her tracks. “How did you know?”

Aleida didn’t want to add more names to the woman’s murder list. “You didn’t plan to kill Mr. Hastings, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. You pushed each other, and you snatched his gun from his hands.”

“It was propped against a tree.” Her voice shook, frantic and furious. “I only threatened him with it. I only wanted him to know I was serious and he shouldn’t cross me.”

“And the gun went off.”

“He rushed me, startled me. It was an accident.”

They crossed a street, and Aleida walked straight rather than turning left toward the park. “François Jouveau had the misfortune to figure it out.”

“Hardly. The filthy Frenchman. He suspected my Bert.”

Aleida tried to follow Jouveau’s train of thought. “Jouveau must have known about the affair. He wanted to interview you, so you arranged a meeting in . . . ?”

“In Hyde Park at the Italian Gardens.” An element of pride entered her voice. “Late at night, so the air raid would ensure privacy. Instead, a rainstorm did so.”

Italian Gardens . . . in French, jardins italiens. JI?

“And you shot him.” The thought of it soured Aleida’s stomach.

“I had no choice. He knew Bert had no alibi. The police would have arrested him. They might have arrested me too.”

Jouveau’s smile, his laugh, his passion for refugees swam in Aleida’s mind. How could Beatrice be so callous? “And you dumped poor Jouveau into the Long Water.”

Beatrice lifted a cold smile. “I shot him so he fell over the railing into the water. I brought my wellies and a rope, and I waded in and tied his body to a rock. For weeks, no one found him. No one cared. They won’t care about you either.”

Flames erupted from a roof across the street, and Aleida slowed her pace as if watching the conflagration. Now she had even more reason to live—she’d heard Beatrice confess to three murders. Should she try for four?

“It became easy, didn’t it?” Aleida said. “An easy way to eliminate those who crossed you, like Miss Sharma. Like Filip Zielinski.”

“Oh!” Beatrice yanked Aleida’s arm so hard, she stumbled to the side. “How dare you!”

Aleida faced her and glared at her. “Why did you kill him? Because he was a foreigner? A communist? Because he argued with your lover? Because Ridley made a fool of himself in public over him?”

“He had no right, the disgusting little man.” Beatrice’s voice shook, and firelight flickered in her eyes. “And you have no right. No right to accuse me of such things. I am Beatrice Granville, daughter of Sir Geoffrey Granville. And you—you’re nobody. Nothing. All alone in this world, and no one—no one will care when you’re gone.”

Was this how Jouveau had felt in his final minutes? Nilima? Because Aleida had never felt more alone.