“Not if the French voted.” Mr. Hastings winced. “I don’t blame them.”
“He’s received a death threat,” Hugh said to Aleida.
She gasped. “A death threat?”
Mr. Hastings related how he’d broadcast the departure date of a ship repatriating French soldiers—which had been sunk by the Germans. His face twisted with regret. “The police think the death threat came from a Frenchman, but I think it’s from the MoI.”
“M-O-I?” Aleida hadn’t heard that term.
“Ministry of Information,” Hugh said. “However, if it came from someone there, Jouveau would have been threatened too. Ridley blames him even more than he blames my uncle.” Hugh inclined his head toward Aleida. “Albert Ridley is a ministry advisor to the BBC.”
“I see.” Aleida’s mind spun with questions. “Who else would threaten you?”
Hugh’s mouth curved without parting, a most pleasant smile. “I’m afraid my dear uncle has more enemies than friends.”
A huff came from behind her, from Mr. Irwin, the owner of the Hart and Swan. “I’m not surprised.” He glared at Mr. Hastings and stomped away.
“This is why my tea is out.” Hugh lowered a pout to his cup. “Irwin thinks my uncle shouldn’t speak disparagingly of anyone in government. It isn’t patriotic.”
Aleida glanced behind her to make sure Irwin was gone, then she flicked a smile to the men. “Is Irwin a suspect?”
Mr. Hastings chuckled and raised his tumbler to Aleida. “Ah, she likes a mystery.”
“I do. It’s rather English of me, don’t you think?”
“Quite so,” the men said in unison.
Aleida did like a mystery, and she liked the company, and she liked how Hugh Collingwood looked at her with enjoyment and appreciation, as if she were unforgettable.
Her breath stopped. Charm. She knew better.
8
SATURDAY, AUGUST24, 1940
A live broadcast. Even more astounding, a roundup of eight live broadcasts from throughout London.
Tamping down his excitement, Hugh squatted at the rim of the circular antiaircraft gun emplacement and aimed a torch to help Tom Young and Gerald MacTavish feed down cable so Hugh could interview the crew on duty.
If only the British public could hear the half-hourLondon after Darkprogram, but it would be crossing the ocean to America on the Columbia Broadcasting System. EdwardR. Murrow of CBS had invited Hugh, along with correspondents from the BBC, CBS, and Canada’s CBC to participate.
“Leave this area clear, men.” The GPO—the Gun Position Officer—indicated an area to the rear of the gun.
“Yes, sir.” Hugh shifted his torchlight for Young. He’d arrived not long after sunset to learn how the battery and the crew worked so he could report knowledgeably and clearly.
London after Darkwas meant to give a slice of nighttime life in blacked-out London. Men were reporting from locations including the Hammersmith Palais dance hall, Euston Station,an Air Raid Precautions post, and Piccadilly Circus, to close with Big Ben tolling at midnight.
Young returned to the van and brought Hugh his headphones. “You go live at 11:40 p.m., and you’ll have exactly three minutes.”
“Thank you.” Hugh slipped down into the gun pit, turned off the torch to spare the precious battery, and put on his headphones. He’d be able to hear the other correspondents, plus the announcer back at Broadcasting House, where the live feeds would come together and be sent by shortwave to America.
A technological feat.
“Good evening, Hugh.” Albert Ridley’s large form stood silhouetted by moonlight low on the horizon.
Hugh wrestled back the grimace that might tighten his voice. Instead he propped up a smile for one of his brother’s oldest friends. “Bert—what a surprise to see you here.”
“Surprise? Surely not as great as my surprise upon seeing your name on Murrow’s list. After the censorship issues you had in Belgium.” Only six years of age separated them, but he managed to sound more disapproving than Hugh’s own parents.
