“I’m afraid not,” William said. “Jouveau was rather giddy himself during our second meeting. He was convinced he knew the couple’s identity and said everything made sense.”
Hugh gripped the notebook hard. “Did he explain? Give names?”
“If only he had.” William blew out a loud breath. “Do be careful, Hugh. The murderer has already killed twice.”
“I know,” Hugh said. “Have you told the police about this?”
“I did, but they said without names, the information was useless.”
Hugh opened the notebook to the perplexing clue and handed it to William. “JI-GB. Does that give you any insight? Perhaps the initials of the man and the woman?”
As William studied the page, his mouth worked side to side. Then he shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but I’ll think on it.”
“Please do.” Hugh took back the notebook. “I’ll take this to the police now. I do hope they find something of use in here.”
“As do I.” William’s voice lowered to a grumble.
After appropriate inquiries into family and health, Hugh saw William and Aleida to the door.
Aleida lingered after William departed, and creases divided her once-smooth brow. “Might I walk with you to the station? I’ve finished my chores and have nothing to do at home.”
She didn’t have a Simmons or a Lennox to keep her company. An offer to fill her leisure time welled in his throat, but he swallowed. He’d gladly settle for an hour. “I’d be honored. Please have a seat while I make myself presentable.”
Hugh dashed up to the guest room, where he now slept, and exchanged corduroys and jumper for a suit.
Back in the sitting room, he found Aleida studying the notebook. She rose and handed it to him. “If the man caught in the affair is our suspect, that means the murderer is married.”
“Which officially eliminates Guy Gilbert.” Hugh led Aleida to the door. “Which officially pleases me.”
Aleida smiled and accepted Hugh’s help with her coat. “What about the others on your list? Is Mr. Fletcher married? Irwin?”
“Both are.” Hugh slipped on his own coat and put on a fedora. “Fletcher certainly opposed my uncle at every turn, but Irwin? Although he disliked my uncle, I wouldn’t call him an opponent.”
“Hmm.” After Hugh opened the door, Aleida stepped outside.“Yet you never seem to consider Mr. Fletcher a serious suspect.”
“No, I don’t.” Hugh trotted down the front steps. “Perhaps because I respect him as an editor and as a man. Perhaps because Jouveau wouldn’t have told his prime suspect he was about to solve the murder. Perhaps it’s my naïve refusal to think Fletcher capable of such crimes.”
“Or ...?”
A brisk breeze threatened to steal his hat, and he pulled it lower. “Or because my mind persists in picturing Bert Ridley as the murderer. He is, by the way, married. But he has an alibi. Why can’t I write him off as a suspect? I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Fletcher. He was my brother’s best friend. Surely I should give him as much grace as I do my editor.”
Aleida frowned at the sky, streaked with high clouds. “If none of those men fit, perhaps the murderer is someone outside your acquaintance.”
“That would explain all.” He rubbed his coat pocket containing Jouveau’s notebook. “I have to trust the police to do their work. I certainly don’t do it well.”
“That’s all right.” Aleida gave him a sweet smile. “You’re already one of the most beloved and respected correspondents on the BBC. You can’t do everything, Hugh Collingwood.”
He chuckled. “That wouldn’t be quite fair, would it?”
They strolled through Grosvenor Square past buildings under repair. The Mayfair area had been heavily damaged in the air raid on 16 April, the one Londoners simply called “The Wednesday.”
“Hugh?” Aleida’s mouth curled in a pensive way. “When you were in Scotland, a woman I worked with at the Ministry of Health was killed during an air raid.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Her name was Nilima Sharma. We volunteered together at the ARP.”
“Miss Sharma?” With tens of thousands of deaths since the Blitz began, why did each one feel like a horse kicking him in the chest? “I remember her. How dreadful.”
