“You’d be surprised.” Hugh tilted his head toward the house. “Shall we go in for more tea, biscuits, and condolences?”
Aleida walked beside him up the slope. “Will you interview the suspects?”
“I wish I could, but it would be unforgivably crass.” Hugh nodded to the men and women ambling toward the stately gray stone manor. “That man in the bowler wanted Uncle Elliott’s seat in Parliament but could never win the by-election. Wrong party for this constituency, poor chap. That tall fellowwillbe elected and looks rather too pleased about it. Those three argued with him in the Commons, and I’m afraid he had liaisons with far too many of their wives. Most of them were at the house party.”
A breeze twirled a loose strand of Aleida’s hair, and she tucked it into the coil at the nape of her pretty neck. “The police interviewed them all?”
“Yes, but they’re convinced the murderer was a Frenchman.Jouveau disagrees. He says if the leak about the repatriation ship were the motive, he would have received a death threat as well. After all, Ridley places equal blame on Jouveau and Uncle Elliott.”
“Ridley—he’s with the Ministry of Information?” Aleida brushed one hand along the rim of the stone fountain. “Is he here?”
“No, he isn’t.” Frowning, Hugh climbed the steps to the terrace. “Rather odd, considering our family ties.”
“Is he a suspect?”
Hugh shrugged. “That would be most convenient. Murder solved, justice served, and the BBC would have one fewer impediment on the road to truth. But alas, he has an alibi. Besides, he’s a rather decent old chap, and I’d hate to see him sent to the gallows.”
“Very well, then. Who else?” Aleida stopped on the terrace. “Any suspects who aren’t here today?”
Hugh waved a hand to the south. “I don’t suspect them, but Fletcher and Gil were staying in Braughing, about two miles away. Both rather disliked my uncle.”
Aleida tapped the toe of her black pump on the stone terrace. “With Gil’s hand, could he fire a shotgun? My son can do many things with only one hand, but not all.”
Hugh’s eyebrows rose. Gil never talked about his condition, and Hugh had never seen him use his affected hand. “I don’t know.”
“And Fletcher? He had problems with your uncle?”
“They had many a row. Fletcher has quite a temper.”
“I hate to even suggest such a thing, but do you think Gil and Fletcher could have worked together?” Her blond eyebrows pinched together with the horror of it all.
Hugh pressed his lips tight. “That would take planning. Nothing about this murder feels premeditated.”
“He used your uncle’s gun.”
“Precisely.” Hugh gazed toward the woods where his uncle had died, and his chest clenched. “It’s as if they were arguing and started shoving, and in the heat of the moment...”
“Hugh?” Aleida’s voice fell low. “You don’t suspect Gil or Fletcher, do you?”
“I don’t.” He met her gaze and searched for the reason for his quick answer. “Gil’s a good sort, a man of principle. And Fletcher may have argued with Uncle Elliott, but only because my uncle wanted to use the BBC as his bully pulpit. But in his heart, I think Fletcher likes what my uncle is—was striving for.”
“Whilst we’re discussing improbable suspects, what about Irwin?” Mischief flickered in the corner of her mouth. “He didn’t like your uncle, and he was absent from the Hart and Swan that day without excuse.”
“Ah, Irwin.” Hugh almost laughed at the thought. “He was ill. He couldn’t ring, because his telephone line was out due to the Blitz. He may be a curmudgeon, but he’s a loveable one.”
“Dear Hugh. You think too well of people to be a detective.” Aleida’s eyes crinkled with amusement, with ... fondness? “It’s good that you are a correspondent.”
He had to guard his heart against false hope, but he returned her smile. If only Mother and Father agreed with her.
15
LONDON
SATURDAY, OCTOBER5, 1940
Outside Charing Cross Station, workmen removed rubble and carted building materials.
Aleida stepped around a wheelbarrow and crossed the pavement to an ornate monument topped by a cross.
