Hugh dashed to the sitting room, to the phone, and he forced his wooden fingers to dial the operator. The connection took long, too long, but in time his father answered.
Father never rang or answered—Mother did the ringing and the staff the answering. “Hugh?” Father’s voice faltered. “Thank goodness. I’m afraid your mother is too distraught to come to the phone. Your Uncle Elliott—he’s dead.”
Hugh sank into a chair. “Dead?”
A hiccup filled the pause. “Murdered.”
Hugh gripped the arm of his chair, and that gaping black hole whirled.
13
HERTFORDSHIRE
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER27, 1940
“Instead of writing your appointments on scraps of paper, write them straightaway into your diary. It takes no more time.” Aleida sorted bits of paper tucked in Hugh’s diary. Dates without times, times without places ... how did he manage to get where he needed to be?
He hadn’t responded.
As the train chugged down the Buntingford Branch Line, Hugh stared out the window, atypically listless.
“Hugh?” she said in a soft voice.
“Hmm?” His gaze swam around before finding her, then he frowned at his diary. “I apologize. I’m a dreadful pupil and frightfully poor company.”
“Another time.” She hadn’t come to be entertained. In the week since Elliott Hastings’s death, Hugh had been distracted and restless, insisting that he wouldn’t attend the funeral, which made no sense. But grief often made no sense.
Then Aleida had mentioned that Buntingford was on her survey list. Could Hugh introduce her around? As a foreigner,she could use the help of a local. Hugh had invited her to stay at his parents’ home ... and realized she’d convinced him to attend the funeral.
“Here we are,” Hugh said. “Welcome to Buntingford.”
The train pulled into a red brick station with a steeped roof. As in all railway stations, the signs had been removed to confuse any invaders—but outsiders suffered as well.
Hugh retrieved their suitcases from the overhead rack and led Aleida to the platform. Along with a half dozen other passengers, they passed through the station building and turned left onto the main road into town, hemmed by greenery.
“I do thank you for coming.” Hugh frowned at the cloudy sky. “Itisonly proper that I attend the funeral, but I dread it, dread what people will say, especially my parents. Perhaps with a guest present, they will be kinder.”
A cool breeze played with the rim of her hat. “Why would they not be kind?”
“They blame me for my uncle's death. Well, not directly, but they blame the press.” His mouth twisted to one side. “And I—I blame myself.”
“Nonsense.” She studied his expression, shadowed by his fedora. “How could you possibly be to blame?”
He jerked his head to the side. “Everything’s a lark to me. Even a death threat is nothing but a bit of sport. If I had taken it seriously, I would have investigated, asked more questions.”
Aleida stopped to force him to turn to her. When he did, she leveled a sober gaze at him. “Don’t do this. The police took it seriously. They investigated and asked questions. And they couldn’t prevent it. Neither could you.”
Hugh mashed his lips together. “I have to find out who did this.”
“Very well.” Aleida resumed walking. “What do we know? He was shot on his estate grounds whilst hosting a house party.”
Hugh’s oxfords slapped the pavement. “At daybreak, UncleElliott went to survey the hunting grounds. They found him later that morning in the woods, shot with his own gun straight in the chest at close range.”
“They know it wasn’t an accident?”
“There were signs of a struggle, two sets of footprints, and there were no fingerprints on the gun, even though Uncle Elliott wasn’t wearing gloves.”
“So the killer wiped it clean.”
