Clark chuckled. “I see you’re reluctant to leave. Found a bonny Scottish lass?”
Teasing a man when he was being fired didn’t seem sporting, and Hugh frowned. “No, sir.”
“Reluctant to leave your work, then. Excellent.” Clark’s deep-set eyes glinted. “We want you to do that same sort of work here in London.”
He wasn’t being fired? “Pardon?”
“You’re one of our most popular correspondents,” Clark said. “The letters from the listeners! You have it all—the patrician voice that lends authority to your reports, the common touch that connects with all classes, the reporter’s eagerness to get the tough stories, and the emotion appropriate for each situation.”
Hugh blinked over and over. Hewasn’tbeing fired. “Why, thank you, sir.”
Clark shook his head. “Sadly, many of those qualities are lacking in Mr. Gilbert.”
Fletcher winced, then nodded.
Hugh winced too—Fletcher considered Gil his protégé. “Mr. Gilbert tries very hard.” Too hard, and the strain of it stole all sincerity from his voice.
Clark tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. “We want you to do what you do best—talk to people. Talk to airmen and sailors and munitions workers. We’ve added more light mobile recording units, and we want you to use them.”
Precisely what Hugh wanted most—and what Fletcher wanted least. Hugh cut his gaze to his editor.
Fletcher’s mouth set in grim lines. “You know what’s necessary.”
He didn’t mention the Morris-Little affair, and more weight lifted from Hugh’s shoulders and his heart. “I do.”
“You start Monday,” Fletcher said. “Take the train back to Aberdeen tomorrow. Meet with Butler on Friday and show him the ropes.”
Clark stood to end the meeting. “I’m looking forward to your broadcasts, Mr. Collingwood.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hugh stood to leave, but Fletcher motioned for him to remain.
After Clark departed, Fletcher stacked papers. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to be closer to your family again.”
Not necessarily, but Hugh smiled as expected.
“Your family has had a rough run lately. What do they think about the police dropping the murder charges against Philippe Larue?”
Was it wise to discuss the case with a man Hugh hadn’t dismissed as a suspect? Or was this an opportunity? Hugh gathered raincoat and hat. “I’m afraid I haven’t spoken to them for a fortnight. What do you think?”
Fletcher grumbled. “They arrested the wrong man. I knowLarue wrote the death threat to Hastings, but every reporter’s instinct tells me Hastings’s murder has nothing to do with the French community.”
Hugh sorted his words with care as he donned his raincoat. “That’s what Jouveau believed as well.”
“Yet he insisted on pursuing the story.” Fletcher huffed. “I told him to drop it. I told him it was dangerous. He was badgering MPs and other prominent people and inquiring into their personal business.”
Hugh’s fingers coiled around the belt of his raincoat, and his heart seized. “Did he mention names? Give you any details?”
“No. He cared more about protecting his scoop than protecting his life. If he’d told me, his killer would be in prison by now.” Regret flickered in Fletcher’s eyes. “If only I’d insisted. If only I’d promised he could broadcast on the Home Service in exchange for the details.”
“You couldn’t have known, sir.”
“He was your friend.” Fletcher’s voice went husky, and he coughed. “He—he might have caused problems for me with Ridley, but I admired his work, his tenacity, his zeal. I argued his case with Ridley. The broadcasts of the European Services are a powerful weapon in the Allied arsenal. The MoI shouldn’t interfere.”
Hugh’s throat swelled. He forced out a thank-you and a goodbye, and he departed.
After dinner, Hugh sat in the armchair in his study with Lennox squeezed beside him, his front portion on Hugh’s thigh.
Hugh stroked Lennox’s fur as he recorded his conversation with Fletcher in a notebook. Fletcher had shed new light on Jouveau’s last day—and raised frustrating new questions as well.
