Beatrice marched Aleida up the paved walkway in Hyde Park with her grip tight around Aleida’s right arm.
Soon that grip would be tight around Aleida’s throat.
She gagged from the imagined sensation.
Trees loomed over the pathway, but enough moonlight and firelight shined through so she couldn’t pretend to stumble in the dark. She couldn’t even trip on the hem of her dress anymore. The last time she’d done so, Beatrice had ordered her to hold her skirts high.
What other hope did she have? None.
Sebastiaan’s revenge was complete. In payment for her defiance, he’d stolen what she most treasured, her son. Now she’d die alone and forgotten.
Gray chiffon crumpled in her shivering grip. Gray as Oli.
Elephants never forget. “Olifanten vergeten nooit,” she murmured.
“What was that?” Beatrice said in a loud whisper.
Aleida shook her head. Even if her little boy no longer remembered her, even if the police ignored her death, God—God would never forget her.
“I told you.” Beatrice dug long fingernails into Aleida’s arm. “Not one sound.”
Aleida winced from the pain, but God remembered her. Even now. Even in the dark. Even with her footsteps drowned by the sounds of an air raid. Even as a foreigner in a foreign land.
He saw her. He remembered her. He loved her.
Just as the Lord held Theo in loving hands, he held her in his hands too.
He was with her. Live or die, she wasn’t alone.
Warm peace filled her, strengthened her. Live or die, yes—but she’d rather live.
Hugh—he wouldn’t forget her. If she died, he’d mourn the loss of another friend. Would he hold himself responsible for not coming to the banquet? Berate himself for not suspecting Beatrice earlier?
Would anyone even realize Beatrice was the killer? If Aleida lived, she could testify. She’d heard confessions to four murders. She had the duty to report them.
Somehow she had to break free.
Perhaps she could spin backward and break Beatrice’s grip. The woman would shoot, but if Aleida slipped through the trees, she might spoil her aim.
If only she could get the gun away from her.
Beatrice yanked Aleida between the trees and out into open lawn.
Toward the trenches.
Aleida’s heel sank into the grass, and she lurched to the side.
“Stop it.” Beatrice wrenched her closer.
Her heels . . . the grass . . . a delay . . . a diversion?
She’d have only one chance, and she tossed up a prayer.
Her heel sank into the grass again, and she let it, made a show of it. “My heels. The soil is too soft.”
“Take them off.”
Aleida’s mind whirred. She wanted both shoes off so she could run. And she wanted time to plan.
With her right arm in Beatrice’s grasp, Aleida leaned over, lifted her left foot, fumbled under her skirts, and removed her shoe.
Taller than Aleida, Beatrice had to lean over to keep the gun pressed to Aleida’s ribs, to maintain her grip on Aleida’s right arm.
Her heart hammering, Aleida planted her stockinged left foot in the damp, cold grass, and she lifted her right knee.
Ducking her chin to her chest, she could see the evening bag. The drawstrings had loosened, and the satin draped over Beatrice’s hand and gun.
Aleida worked off her shoe and took a slow breath.
With her knee still raised, she slid her left hand up between her knee and her stomach.
Now!
Aleida grabbed the gun, jerked it forward as hard as she could. Her hand slipped off the sleek fabric, and she plunged to a crouching position.
Beatrice cried out, tumbled forward, and braced her fall with both hands. Steel thumped on the ground.
Aleida scrambled to her feet, ran through the trees, back onto the pathway.
Fingernails tore at her arm, and Beatrice clamped her hand on Aleida’s wrist.
So hard, Aleida screamed.
“How dare you?” Beatrice yanked Aleida’s arm, spun her around. “Filthy little foreigner.”
One hand circled Aleida’s throat, then another.
Aleida gagged, gasped, tried to work her fingers in to Beatrice’s grip.
The woman bore down.
Aleida—she couldn’t breathe.
She stomped on Beatrice’s foot, pitiful, powerless.
Beatrice hovered over her, tall, strong, cruel, fury burning in her dark eyes in the dark night.
Embers of that fire danced in Aleida’s sight.
Her lungs swelled, her mind spun, woozy and woozier.
No! She couldn’t fall unconscious.
Her hands—her hands were free! She jammed them into Beatrice’s hair, pulled and tugged and scraped diamond-encrusted combs along Beatrice’s scalp.
Beatrice grunted in protest, loosened her grip, bore down again.
Aleida had been a younger sister, a younger cousin. She knew how to be annoying.
She gripped Beatrice’s cheek, dug her fingernails in hard, pulled out her lip, poked her nails deep into moist tissue, jammed a finger up her nose. The eyes! She clawed upward, aimed one fingernail—
Beatrice writhed, cried out, tried to break free.
Forgot about strangulation. Released her grip.
Aleida planted her hands on the woman’s chest and shoved with all her might.
Beatrice screamed and fell back. A thud as her head hit the path.
Aleida dropped to her knees beside her, scraping her palms on the pavement.
Gasping for breath, she scrabbled up to her feet, swayed.
Beatrice lay still. Was she dead? Injured? Or only momentarily dazed?
Aleida wouldn’t wait to find out. She turned to run, stopped herself.
The gun!
Not only did she need to keep it out of murderous hands, but it was evidence.
In the grass, steel glinted in the moonlight. Using her skirt to pick up the weapon, Aleida thrust the gun into Beatrice’s evening bag.
Her throat aching, her skirts held high, she ran across the path, out of the park, onto Park Lane. “Police!” she yelled, but her voice croaked, her windpipe throbbed.
Black smoke and orange flames erupted from buildings.
Despite the destruction, her heart soared. Civil defense workers would be out. They could help her.
Her stockinged feet slipped, and rough pavement pierced her soles.
She ran down Park Lane toward a bomb site. Firemen aimed arcs of glistening water at the flames, and a rescue party picked through the rubble, looking for survivors.
The incident officer—she had to find him—he could send a messenger to fetch the police.
Her breath came hard and her throat burned, but tears of relief dampened her eyes. Even if Beatrice came, she could no longer harm her.
“Thank you, Lord.” Her stinging feet ground to a stop by a fireman. “Excuse me. Where’s the incident officer?”
The man shrugged as he wrestled the snaking hose. “That way, I think.” He tilted his head to the right.
After Aleida checked behind her—no sign of Beatrice—she headed down the street, skirting workers and equipment and scanning for a police officer or ARP warden.
At the end of the building, Aleida stepped back onto the curb.
Around the corner, masonry lay in a shallow heap.
One hand and a man’s head peeked out from the rubble.
“Oh no!” Aleida turned back to Park Lane and waved her arms. “Rescue party! Stretcher party. One injured man around the corner, partly buried.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A rescuer nodded to her as he helped a man out from the debris.
Aleida needed to find the police, but the injured man’s life came first. Besides, now that she could name Beatrice Granville as the murderer, the police would eventually arrest her.
Around the corner she dropped to her knees. The injured man lay on his stomach toward the edge of the heap, only partly buried. He might stand a chance.
“I’m from the ARP, sir, and I’m here to help.” She rolled the largest chunk of masonry from the man’s back.
He groaned and turned his head to the side. “A . . . lei . . .”
She gasped and brushed dust and plaster from the man’s head, from wavy hair. It couldn’t be. “Hugh?”
Eyes opened, familiar and beloved and wracked with pain. “You’re . . . safe?”
“Yes. Yes.” She swept bits of stone from his shoulders. “What happened?”
“Came . . . fr’you.” His voice crackled, and he wheezed.
“Oh no. You’re having an asthmatic attack.”
One nod.
“Help! Stretcher party! At once!” Aleida yelled, scratching her throat. “Hugh, tell me where it hurts.”
A raspy moan. Surely he hurt everywhere.
She lifted masonry from his left hand, which lay with fingers twisted. “Oh no,” she whispered, and she cleared his back, his hips. “We’ll get you free, get you to the hospital.”
“Beatrice . . . murder.”
He’d figured it out too. “I know. She—she tried to kill me.”
“What? How dare . . .”
She stroked his hair. “I’m all right. I need to find the police, but first we need to help you.”
“P’lice . . . looking fr’her . . . fr’you.”
Aleida paused with her hand cupping the back of his head, his dusty hair. He’d come for her. He’d sent the police to find her. He hadn’t forgotten her for one moment.
She loved him so much, and she pressed a kiss to his temple, aching for him. Dare she tell him she loved him?
Two men rounded the corner with a stretcher, and Aleida eased out of the way. “His name is Hugh Collingwood. His left hand may be broken—be careful. He has asthma and he’s having a severe attack. He’ll need care immediately.”
Hugh groaned and nodded. Yes, the attack was severe. If he didn’t receive treatment soon, he’d die. Aleida pressed her hand to her churning stomach.
The stretcher party removed the last of the rubble and rolled Hugh onto the stretcher.
Encased in black tailcoat and white waistcoat, Hugh’s chest rose and fell visibly. With anguished eyes, he stretched one hand to her. “A . . . lei—”
The stretcher party hustled away with him.
Aleida picked up Beatrice’s evening bag and followed. The first aid post would have a telephone or a messenger, some means to summon the police.
One street away, the party entered a building and found a doctor. Aleida stood nearby to make sure the doctor was informed of the asthma.
The doctor pressed a stethoscope to Hugh’s chest. “Sister—epinephrine,” he said to a nursing sister, then craned his head toward a young lady sitting by a telephone. “Send for an ambulance.”
“Already here.” She pointed to the door.
“Thank goodness.” Aleida stepped aside.
First aid workers cut off the sleeves of Hugh’s evening jacket and his shirt.
The doctor took a syringe from the nurse, and he plunged the needle into Hugh’s vein. “All right, send him to the hospital.”
If only Aleida could ride with him. But the ambulance would be full, and they wouldn’t allow it.
“Hugh.” She stroked his arm as he passed, grasped for his good hand, missed. And he was gone.