The air raid siren.
Mr. Armbruster edged Aleida to the side. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you are aware, the Dorchester Hotel is one of the safest structures in all of London. Please proceed to the shelter in the basement.”
No. No. Beatrice hadn’t yet been accused, detained, arrested.
That murderous vitriol latched on Aleida.
“Sir,” Aleida said. “I need to use the telephone at once.”
Mr. Armbruster took his wife’s arm and helped her off the platform. “Proceed to the shelter, Mrs. Martens.”
No. She had to ring the police.
The room was emptying, the Armbrusters merging into the crowd, Beatrice surging forward. “I’ll help Mrs. Martens find a telephone.”
The crowd was far safer. Aleida stepped off the platform, tripped—on her dress?
As the ground rushed up, a green-clad leg filled her vision. Beatrice—she’d tripped her.
Aleida cried out and hit the floor.
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.”
