The street was deserted. With each step, Aleida kicked her skirt out with her toes to avoid tripping.
On the other hand, tripping would create a diversion.
Aleida slumped lower, letting the skirt touch the ground. Her toe snagged, and down she went, catching herself on outstretched hands, breaking Beatrice’s grip.
“What on earth?” That iron hand clamped Aleida’s arm again and jerked her to standing. Satin-encased steel rammed into her ribs. “Don’t you dare try that again. If you escape, I’ll shoot. I’m an excellent shot.”
Aleida stumbled forward, careful with her step again. Her heart rate skittered, and her fingers coiled, tapping on the heels of her hands. If she saw someone on the street, tripping might create the distraction she needed.
Aircraft engines rumbled louder, and to the east, bombs thudded to earth.
Ahead of them, toward the curved façade of the hotel’s main entrance, several shapes shifted in the light of the full moon. Men in warden’s helmets.
Holding her breath, Aleida marched forward. When close enough, she could scream and trip. Beatrice wouldn’t shoot her in front of witnesses.
“Oh no.” Beatrice ground to a stop and whirled Aleida around. “This way.”
Aleida winced. But a detour would lengthen their route and increase her chances of seeing someone. Perhaps she could reason with the woman. Aleida cleared her dry throat. “If youkill me, you’ll be the prime suspect, since you were the last person seen with me.”
Beatrice let out a sharp laugh. “No one will even notice you’re missing. You’re just a foreigner.”
“Like Miss Sharma?” Aleida’s voice hushed.
A loud huff. “Why can’t you people keep your noses out of our business? Miss Sharma had no right to interfere with the English way of life.”
Everything inside her recoiled. That wasn’t the England she knew. “If you kill me in the same manner you killed Nilima, the police will suspect you. We both worked with you at the Ministry and at the ARP. Mr. Armbruster knows my report angered you. He knows Nilima angered you. And tonight, you and I are the only guests who didn’t go to the shelter. It’s all over.”
“Poppycock. No one cares. The police barely investigated Miss Sharma’s death, and they won’t investigate yours. You’re just a dirty foreigner.” Beatrice turned north along a street running parallel to Park Lane.
Aleida scanned the street, looking for a place to slip away. Perhaps she could use the same move she’d used to break Sebastiaan’s grip on the road in Belgium, spinning backward and slamming into Beatrice’s arm from behind.
Except Sebastiaan hadn’t held a gun.
A rushing sound, the tinkling of hundreds of tiny incendiary bombs hitting roofs nearby. A dozen bounced harmlessly in the street before them.
Aleida clapped her free hand over her head for protection.
“You shouldn’t even be here.” Beatrice blew out a harsh breath. “Why couldn’t you stay on the continent where you belong? You and your wars and your communism and your greedy refugees—eating our rations and sleeping in our homes and wearing our clothes. Always demanding more. You foreigners disgust me.”
Keeping the woman talking would also distract her. With bombs falling along this street, ARP wardens would soon arrive, people who could help her.
Aleida sniffed. “Elliott Hastings wasn’t a foreigner.”
Beatrice gasped and dug her fingers into Aleida’s arm. “That was an accident! I didn’t mean to kill him.”
Her confession sank like a stone in Aleida’s stomach. “I understand. You only wanted to reason with him, ask him to drop his refugee bill, beg him not to expose your affair with Albert Ridley.”
“What?” Beatrice stopped in her tracks. “How did you know?”
Aleida didn’t want to add more names to the woman’s murder list. “You didn’t plan to kill Mr. Hastings, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. You pushed each other, and you snatched his gun from his hands.”
“It was propped against a tree.” Her voice shook, frantic and furious. “I only threatened him with it. I only wanted him to know I was serious and he shouldn’t cross me.”
“And the gun went off.”
“He rushed me, startled me. It was an accident.”
They crossed a street, and Aleida walked straight rather than turning left toward the park. “François Jouveau had the misfortune to figure it out.”
