Aleida turned a stricken gaze to him. “She was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Strangled with the strap on her warden’s helmet. She was found in Green Park, in a collapsed trench. It was supposed to look as if she’d been killed by a bomb blast.”
His arm itched to encircle Aleida’s slight shoulders, which had already borne more than they should. “Perfectly dreadful. Do the police have any leads?”
“None. Nilima had no enemies at work or in her neighborhood or at our post. She hadn’t been robbed or—or violated. The police dropped the investigation.”
Did Aleida think ...? He dipped his voice low in respect. “Are you wondering if she was having an affair with a married man?”
“I doubt it. But...” She tucked her lips between her teeth, then released them. “Nilima was a foreigner. Jouveau was a foreigner who spoke up for refugees. Your uncle was working on a bill to aid refugees. I can’t help but wonder.”
“All right.” He turned south on Bond Street. “Let’s give this some thought. Was Nilima acquainted with my uncle or Jouveau or any of our current suspects?”
Aleida let out a long sigh. “Not that I know. One day she did mention the refugee bill, but she couldn’t remember the name of the MP behind it. It isn’t much, I know.”
It wasn’t, and he lifted one shoulder.
Her hair twirled in the wind, and she clapped her hand to the dancing strands. “All along, you’ve thought the case was about censorship. But what if the murderer wasn’t concerned about thefactthat the victims spoke up, but about whom the victims spoke upfor?”
“Refugees.”
“Yes.”
“It’s worthy of consideration.” But darkness twisted inside. “However, in the case of your friend, we have to remember there are monsters in this world who kill for the sheer sport of it.”
Aleida shuddered, and she leaned closer until her arm brushed his.
Briefly.
Hugh firmed his chin. How could he bear being only a friend when she needed more than a friend’s comfort? When he longed to give her that comfort?
He breathed out a prayer for help. This was far more difficult than he’d imagined.
39
THURSDAY, MAY1, 1941
Aleida flipped through the filing cabinet. “The cards are filed by county alphabetically. Within each county, by town alphabetically. Within each town, by the child’s last name.”
“I see.” Miss Winthrop, who had taken Nilima’s position, pursed pink lips in her porcelain face as she studied a card in her hand. “Child’s name, date of birth, names and addresses of the parents and of the foster family.”
“We make notes on the back if necessary.” Aleida took the card from Miss Winthrop and pointed to an address crossed through. “If the billeting officer tells us of a change in address, we note it here. And if the child returns to London or another evacuation area—”
“We throw the card away.”
“Never.” Aleida opened another drawer. “We move the card to this file. See—Liverpool, London...”
“Ah yes. We don’t want to lose a child.”
“No.” Pain crushed her chest, but each day the pain crushed a bit less.
Even though she’d lost Theo, at least she had his image. She’d framed his photographs and hung them in her bedroom.The photograph of Sebastiaan, however, she’d burned without ceremony.
How kind of Hugh to bring her the pictures. If only...
He’d insisted he didn’t want to win her back, and he seemed satisfied with half of what they’d had before. He acted comfortable and friendly with her, with none of the longing looks he’d given her before they’d first kissed.
