“He did.” Hugh’s jaw edged forward. “This was no accident.”
“Who are the suspects?”
“His guests were friends and colleagues, but many had motive.” Hugh crossed a lane running beside a gray stone church. “Uncle Elliott made political enemies and professional enemies—he had several rows with my editor, for example. And he was known for his ... romantic entanglements. My aunt divorced him several years ago. A lot of people didn’t like him even if they pretended to.”
Aleida sighed. “I liked him.”
“As did I.” He raised a melancholy smile.
Even sad, Hugh radiated charm. But a safe charm.
Aleida walked beside him past buildings of white and gray. He hadn’t asked her out to dinner since the first night of the Blitz. Completely understandable. Everyone was exhausted by endless days and nights of bombs, and Hugh was busier than ever on the job and now mourning his uncle.
She’d been forgotten, and for the better. She had no business starting a romance when she had a son to find.
They passed a red brick church, and a market square opened up. “Market Hill, St. Peter’s Church, the Crown.” Hugh nodded toward a red brick pub with cobalt blue trim.
He led her into the next building of creamy stone. Upstairs, they entered an office.
An attractive brunette in the smart bottle-green uniform of the Women’s Voluntary Service rose from behind the desk.“Hugh.” She stretched out his name with fondness. “How good to see you.”
“Cathy.” He set down the suitcases, took both her hands, and appraised her. “You look marvelous. I see John is taking excellent care of you.”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” A tilt of her head, and she released Hugh’s hands.
“Cathy, may I introduce Mrs. Martens with the Ministry of Health? Mrs. Martens, this is Mrs. John Fielding.”
“How do you do?” Aleida shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“I don’t see why this is necessary.” Mrs. Fielding’s smile cooled, and she waved Hugh and Aleida toward two chairs before her desk and settled into her own chair. “As the billeting officer in Buntingford, I ensure our evacuees are happy and healthy.”
“We are most thankful.” Aleida crossed her hands on top of her purse. “By interviewing evacuees and foster families, we hope to convince the mothers of London of that fact. Far too many are reluctant to send their children away, even with bombs falling. Even with children ... dying.” Aleida’s throat clamped at the thought of little Nellie lying in the rubble.
Cathy’s eyelashes fluttered. “In that case, I can help. I’ll ring some families and make appointments for you. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, please,” Hugh said.
After the funeral. Aleida gave him a soft smile.
“Very well.” Cathy stood and offered her hand. “I assure you, you’ll find nothing amiss in Buntingford.”
“Indeed.” Aleida stood too. “One more thing—have you seen a little boy among the evacuees, three and a half years old, with blond hair and blue eyes? He may have a Dutch accent. He’s missing all the fingers on his right hand.”
“Oh dear.” Cathy’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose high. “The poor little chap. No, I haven’t seen such a child.”
“Thank you anyway.” Aleida’s smile wobbled. She looped her purse over her shoulder, shook Cathy’s hand, and left the office with Hugh.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thank you, but at least I can check one more town off my list.” Her hands found each other.
Aleida ripped them apart and clutched her purse strap, her fingers coiling and flexing, coiling and flexing, aching to tap, tap, tap her into false comfort.
“Here.” Hugh set down the suitcases, took her free hand, and tapped her knuckles.
In the wrong order.
His eyes twinkled between warm brown and mischievous green. “Does that help?”
