“Please, sir,” she said to the guard at the entrance to Broadcasting House. “If I could—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Compassion turned down the corners of his full gray mustache. “You can’t enter without a pass, and you can’t get a pass unless you have business with the BBC.”
Aleida edged aside to let people exit. “But Mr. Collingwood promised to broadcast my story, and it’s been a week, and he hasn’t contacted me.”
“You could write a letter.”
A scoffing sound came from behind Aleida. A matronly woman—one of the people who had just left—wore her wiry pewter hair swept high on her head, crowned by a tiny flat red hat. “With that golden voice, Collingwood must receive great heaps of mail. She won’t get through.”
The guard sighed. “I know, but—”
“I understand,” Aleida said. “No pass, no entry.”
The matron beckoned to Aleida with brisk motions of gloved fingers. “You want to speak to Collingwood. Why?”
Something about the woman prompted Aleida’s usual speech to tumble out, this time with an addition about her pressing need to find the BBC reporter.
“He promised to broadcast your story?” The woman tipped a red-lipped smirk. “Collie is a great many wonderful things, but organized isn’t one of them. I’m Louisa Jones,Chicago Tribune.”
A bit dazed, Aleida shook the American’s hand. “Aleida Martens. You know Mr. Collingwood?”
“Come with me, child.” Mrs. Jones strode down Portland Place with short, quick steps.
Aleida rushed to fall in beside her.
Mrs. Jones gestured ahead with one plump hand. “As we speak, Collie is holding court at the Hart and Swan, I’m sure of it. British reporters, Americans, French, everyone stops by. Collie is there most evenings. Poor child’s still single. Keeps turning down my marriage proposals, which, granted, is a sign of intelligence. Or character. Take your pick.”
Had Aleida ever met anyone like Mrs.—Miss Jones? “Are all Americans so...”
“Heavens, no. Most are quite tame.” She gave Aleida an appraising look with close-set green eyes. “Your English is good. Well educated?”
“My aunt married an Englishman. I went to boarding school here.”
“Pff. Boarding schools. Just enough education to make you sound cultured, but not enough to challenge a man. All posture and place settings and curtsying to the king.”
And not nearly enough mathematics. “I always wanted more.”
“Good girl.” Miss Jones grasped a fistful of air before her. “I grabbed hold of every morsel of learning. Oh, here we are.”
Miss Jones led Aleida through a dark green door, throughthe wood-paneled pub to a room in the back, where four men sat at a table, including Mr. Collingwood.
A man with slicked-back blond hair sat across from Mr. Collingwood. “You simply must do something about that uncle of yours. In times of peace, he’s merely an opinionated eccentric, but now he recklessly endangers our nation.”
Mr. Collingwood shook his head of wavy golden-brown hair and laughed with that golden voice. “Not one creature in God’s little green earth can sway the mind of Elliott Hastings.”
“Good evening, boys,” Miss Jones said.
All four men stood with cries of “Lou!”
Miss Jones guided Aleida to the table. “Collie, I believe you’ve met my new friend.”
Mr. Collingwood searched her face with a faint smile.
How could she expect him to remember her? “I’m Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Martens from the ARP.” He bounded forward with a radiant smile and grasped her hand. Then his smile dove deep into concern. “How are you? Any news on your little boy?”
“Little boy?” Miss Jones plopped her purse on the table. “The missing little boy you promised to broadcast about? And haven’t?”
