Aleida smiled to herself. Hugh had already learned that lesson well.
“Do you know what I dream at night?” Delight glistened in Jouveau’s brown eyes. “I dream of the police arresting Ridley for your uncle’s murder. Ridley hated Hastings, called him ‘quite indiscreet.’”
“So sorry to disappoint you.” Hugh flashed half a smile. “Ridley has an alibi.”
“Hugh says the police suspect a Frenchman,” Aleida said.
“The police are wrong.” Dark eyebrows drew together. “We French know Hastings’s mistake was an honest one. Hastings was our champion in Parliament. He worked with aid societies, and he was about to introduce a bill to increase funding for refugees. Sadly, that bill has died with him. He is much mourned by my countrymen.”
“Thank you.” Hugh’s voice sounded rough. “Ah, here we are.”
The entrance to the Strand Palace Hotel was an Art Deco wonder of glass and mirrors and polished steel. Inside the lobby, glass-and-steel columns and balustrades glowed with light from inside.
Jouveau led them through a mirrored revolving door and to a large restaurant, full of long tables to feed the hundreds of refugees at the hotel. The smell of potato soup filled the air.
Families huddled at the tables, their clothes drab, and muted voices in a dozen languages bounced off the mirrored walls.
Aleida’s chest seized. These people had neither money nor family in England. Without Sebastiaan’s gold or her aunt and uncle in Britain, this would have been her.
A woman passed, holding the hand of a brown-haired girl.
Aleida swept her gaze around the teeming dining hall, searching for little blond boys. How much had Theo grown in the last five months? No matter how he’d changed, she’d recognize him instantly.
“Come along,” Hugh said with a soft look in his eyes.
Aleida sucked in a breath and followed the men.
Speaking French, Jouveau greeted a middle-aged man,someone he obviously knew, and he asked where the Dutch refugees were. His friend led them across the dining hall.
The familiar sound of Dutch filled her ears, and a sweet pain flooded her chest.
A ruddy-cheeked man in his forties rose and shook Jouveau’s hand, and Jouveau introduced Aleida in French.
Aleida switched to Dutch, and her story poured out, her description of Theo. Her sorrow.
The gentleman introduced her to dozens of other Dutch men and women. Over and over, she told her story. Over and over, eyes widened at the horror of Aleida’s plight. Over and over, heads shook. They hadn’t seen Theo.
No one had.
At Hugh’s suggestion, she asked about other locations where Dutch refugees were billeted, and she wrote them in her notebook.
Her hand trembled. Her breath became erratic.
She smoothed the page once, twice, three times. She grimaced and added a fourth, but that only made her breath choppier.
“Is there anyone else she can talk to?” Hugh asked the Dutch gentleman in French.
“No, that is all of us.”
Aleida managed to slip her notebook into her purse, and she extended her hand to the Dutchman.“Heel erd bedankt.”
“Graaggedaan,”he said. “I hope you find your son.”
Aleida’s throat constricted, and she could only nod in reply.
“I’m sorry.” Hugh led Aleida and Jouveau out of the dining hall. “At least you have a few more places to search.”
She didn’t want more places to search. She wanted her son, and her breath wrapped around her vocal cords and strangled them.
