“Not so solid a case,” Clyde said, his pencil in motion. “Zielinski might have angered her lover, but this murder is different. To strangle a stranger in cold blood? It’s a huge leap from the previous murders, not to mention a different modus operandi.”
But the same modus operandi as Miss Sharma’s murder.Hugh’s stomach clenched. “What if...” His mouth felt sticky, and he swallowed. “What if there was an intermediate step? Another murder by strangulation—but of someone Beatrice knew? Nilima Sharma.”
Clyde’s nostrils flared, and he pulled in his chin. “The girl murdered in Green Park? What’s the relation?”
“I don’t know what the motive might be, but Miss Sharma worked in Beatrice’s department and they volunteered at the same ARP post.”
“I’d wondered if those murders were linked.” Clyde’s voice lowered. “Both foreigners, same method. But in the Sharma case, the murderer tried to make it look as if the victim died in an air raid. In the Zielinski case, the murderer didn’t even bother.”
“Sloppier,” Gil said. “Bolder.”
Overhead, the air raid siren screamed, and Hugh almost jumped from his chair.
“The siren’s mounted on the roof of the station.” Clyde stood and went to the door. “Don’t worry about the case. We work through air raids. Sergeant? Bring in Miss Beatrice Granville for questioning—”
“She isn’t at home.” Hugh’s stomach squeezed hard enough to threaten his last meal.
Gil stared at Hugh. “No, she’s at the Dorchester Hotel.”
With Aleida.
Aleida couldn’t breathe. A knee pressed her shoulder blades hard to the floor.
“Oh dear, Mrs. Martens. Let me help you up.” Beatrice fiddled with Aleida’s arm as if helping, but her knee ground hard.
Aleida fought to haul air into her lungs, to scream. Swishing skirts and black trouser legs receded before her and disappeared between tablecloths and chair legs. Soon no one would remain to help.
She squirmed, flailed her arms, kicked, hunched her shoulders, pulled in a breath.
The scent of fine perfume drew near, an emerald satin evening bag entered her vision to her right, and something hard pressed to her temple. “Not one sound,” Beatrice said in a low, fierce voice. “Or I’ll shoot you. I have a gun in my evening bag.”
Shallow breaths puffed in Aleida’s constricted lungs. Why would Beatrice bring a gun to a charity banquet? For the same reason she’d offered to give Aleida a ride home—because she’d already planned to kill her tonight.
Aleida grimaced. She had to get up, had to break free. But how?
“Everyone’s left now.” Beatrice eased the pressure with her knee. “You may stand up, but don’t make a sound.”
Aleida worked her hands and knees beneath her and pushed up to kneeling.
Beatrice gripped Aleida’s right arm with one hand. With her other hand, she pressed her evening bag into Aleida’s ribs—a drawstring pouch of green satin. The strings were drawn around Beatrice’s wrist, and inside, she held something hard.
Aleida caught her breath. “Is that the same gun you used to kill François Jouveau?”
Beatrice gasped. “How dare you! The impertinence.” She stood and yanked Aleida to her feet.
Not one soul remained in the ballroom. Screaming wouldn’t help and would only get her shot. Oh, why hadn’t Hugh come? He wouldn’t have left her alone.
“This way.” Beatrice tugged her arm and shoved her toward the back of the room, toward a service door. “Open the door.”
With shaky hands, Aleida fumbled with the handle. She had to think. Most likely, Beatrice would want to take her to a park, to a trench. The Dorchester Hotel overlooked Hyde Park.
Aleida had to stall her, fight her, distract her, find someone—anyone.
“Open the door.” Beatrice spat out the words.
The doorknob turned, and Beatrice pushed Aleida out into the cold night air. Searchlights sliced the sky, bombers droned in the distance, and antiaircraft guns boomed.
Beatrice all but dragged Aleida to a street that ran at a diagonal behind the hotel to Park Lane. Hyde Park lay on the far side of Park Lane.
