“Hardly. The filthy Frenchman. He suspected my Bert.”
Aleida tried to follow Jouveau’s train of thought. “Jouveau must have known about the affair. He wanted to interview you, so you arranged a meeting in ...?”
“In Hyde Park at the Italian Gardens.” An element of pride entered her voice. “Late at night, so the air raid would ensure privacy. Instead, a rainstorm did so.”
Italian Gardens ... in French,jardins italiens. JI?
“And you shot him.” The thought of it soured Aleida’s stomach.
“I had no choice. He knew Bert had no alibi. The police would have arrested him. They might have arrested me too.”
Jouveau’s smile, his laugh, his passion for refugees swam in Aleida’s mind. How could Beatrice be so callous? “And you dumped poor Jouveau into the Long Water.”
Beatrice lifted a cold smile. “I shot him so he fell over the railing into the water. I brought my wellies and a rope, and I waded in and tied his body to a rock. For weeks, no one found him. No one cared. They won’t care about you either.”
Flames erupted from a roof across the street, and Aleida slowed her pace as if watching the conflagration. Now she had even more reason to live—she’d heard Beatrice confess to three murders. Should she try for four?
“It became easy, didn’t it?” Aleida said. “An easy way to eliminate those who crossed you, like Miss Sharma. Like Filip Zielinski.”
“Oh!” Beatrice yanked Aleida’s arm so hard, she stumbled to the side. “How dare you!”
Aleida faced her and glared at her. “Why did you kill him? Because he was a foreigner? A communist? Because he argued with your lover? Because Ridley made a fool of himself in public over him?”
“He had no right, the disgusting little man.” Beatrice’s voice shook, and firelight flickered in her eyes. “And you have no right. No right to accuse me of such things. I am Beatrice Granville, daughter of Sir Geoffrey Granville. And you—you’re nobody. Nothing. All alone in this world, and no one—no one will care when you’re gone.”
Was this how Jouveau had felt in his final minutes? Nilima? Because Aleida had never felt more alone.
43
Detective Inspector Clyde turned back to his sergeant. “Take officers to the Dorchester Hotel and bring in Beatrice Granville for questioning in regard to the death of Elliott Hastings.”
“What about the other three murders?” Hugh asked.
Still facing the sergeant, Clyde held up one hand to silence Hugh. “This is of utmost urgency, even higher priority than the air raid.”
“Yes, Inspector.” The sergeant left and called out orders to his men.
The inspector returned to stand by his desk. “We have ample reason to question her in the Hastings case. Once we have her in custody, we can build evidence for the other cases.”
“My friend—Aleida Martens. She’s at the banquet. Is she in danger?”
Clyde crossed his arms and shrugged. “At a large gathering, I doubt it. Does Miss Granville have any reason to harm her?”
Hugh turned to Gil. “Could anything have aroused her suspicion?”
Gil’s eyebrows knit together. “Miss Granville wasn’t looking our way when I identified her to Aleida.”
The sense of unease in Hugh’s stomach only intensified. “Aleida was to speak at the banquet about the problems faced by refugee children. Beatrice didn’t want her to speak. In fact, she tried to prevent Aleida from attending.”
Gil grumbled. “I don’t like it.”
Hugh bolted to standing. “Sir, may I please ride with your officers to the Dorchester?”
Clyde shook his head. “They will have left by now. Besides, you have no need for concern. My officers will have Miss Granville in custody within minutes.”
Hugh’s left heel bounced. The woman he loved was at a banquet, probably in an air raid shelter, with a murderer—a murderer she didn’t even suspect. “May I ring the hotel, warn my friend?”
“We must keep the telephone lines open during raids.”
