“What if the officers are delayed? I need to go. I need to warn her, protect her.”
Gil stood. “I’ll go with you.”
Hugh set his hand on the shoulder of his colleague—no, his friend. “Thank you.”
Leaving behind his top hat, cane, overcoat, and scarf, Hugh rushed out of the station with Gil beside him.
Then he took off running, faster than was wise with his asthma. But time was of the essence—he felt it in his bones.
Bombers rumbled overhead, answered by solid thumps of antiaircraft guns. The full moon and crisscrossing searchlight beams illuminated Hugh’s path. His shoes pounded the pavement, and he took even breaths.
“Collie, my leg,” Gil called from behind. “I’ll catch up. Don’t wait for me.”
Hugh sent his limping friend an acknowledging nod and resumed his pace. His path jogged to the left, then the right.
Each breath felt more constricted, and he groaned. Hewasn’t used to running so fast for so long. If he didn’t slow down, the exertion would lead to an asthmatic attack.
“Not now,” he muttered through gritted teeth. He had to reach Aleida.
She thought the murderer was motivated by opposition to aiding refugees, and she’d suspected Miss Sharma’s death was connected to the others. If Hugh had taken her theory more seriously, they might have solved the case earlier, might even have prevented Zielinski’s death.
No, he couldn’t think such things. Neither of them had suspected Beatrice, and suspecting her had been the key that unlocked the murders.
His breath whistled in his throat, but the hotel’s façade soon rose before him. A man in an ARP helmet patrolled in front.
“The police,” Hugh said to the warden. “They came a few minutes ago. Which way did they go?”
“Down to the shelter, sir.” The warden pointed to the main doors.
“Thank you.” Hugh barged inside and followed the signs to the shelter. He took the stairs two at a time, jolting his knees.
A belt of pain cinched his chest, but he’d arrived.
A trio of police officers, including the sergeant, stood talking to a portly guest with graying dark hair.
Where was Beatrice? Why didn’t they have her in custody?
“Excuse me, Sergeant.” A wheeze betrayed his condition. “Have you arrested Miss Granville?”
“She isn’t in the shelter,” the man in evening dress said. “I last saw her in the ballroom after the siren sounded, helping a lady who had tripped. No one has seen her since. It’s very curious.”
The pain in Hugh’s chest no longer mattered. He scanned the crowd for the lovely blonde. “Do you know Aleida Martens? Have you seen her?”
“Yes, I know her.” The man’s round cheeks lowered as he frowned. “She was the lady who tripped.”
Hugh gasped. The lady Beatrice was helping? “Where is she?”
“She hasn’t come to the shelter either.”
He felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. All the air rushed from his shrinking lungs. “Oh no.”
“Collie? What’s wrong?” Gil stood by his side, panting.
“Sergeant.” Hugh locked his gaze on the man and tried to catch his breath. “DI Clyde suspects Miss Granville—not only for Hastings’s murder but for the murders of two people found strangled in parks.”
“I say!” the portly gentleman said.
Hugh had no time for niceties, not even for avoiding potential slander. “Miss Granville might have Mrs. Martens with her. If she follows her previous pattern, she’ll lure her to a park.”
