He’d opened it only a sliver. As soon as he’d considered telling her about his own asthma, he’d slammed it shut.
This was why he’d never had a romance of any depth or length. He could be honest about everything except his infirmity, and women always sensed he held something back.
Across the table, Gil said something to Aleida, and she responded in a short but polite manner.
Gil was a good sort, far more deserving of the affections of a fair maiden than Hugh. Poor old sod.
MacLeod came to a natural lull in the conversation.
Hugh swung a grin to his colleague. “I say, Gil. Smashing story the other day about the black market.”
Gil’s blond eyebrows rose, and pleasure sparked in his blue eyes. Then a monologue commenced about how he’d researched and written that story.
Aleida listened, but that smile didn’t shift to Gil. It remained on Hugh and shone fonder than before.
It would fade when she realized he was concealing something.
MacLeod rose and pushed in his chair. “Good night, ladies and gentlemen.”
Hugh bid him farewell, then caught Aleida’s gaze. “When are you going home? It’s half past seven.”
“A few more minutes. I do want to go home before the bombers come.”
Gil ducked into her line of sight. “I’d be honored to walk you home.”
“Thank you, but I’ll decline.” As always, Aleida used a cool tone and made no excuse. But that never stopped Gil.
Stomping footsteps approached, and Norman Fletcher barged into the room.
Fletcher never came to the Hart and Swan, and Hugh rose to greet him.
“Do you know where I spent the last two hours?” Fletcher marched to Hugh, his face livid. “The police. They questioned me about your uncle’s murder.”
Hugh took half a step back, and his jaw drifted low. Although he’d pondered Fletcher as a suspect, he never thought the police would.
Fletcher flung his hand wide. “A posh house full of toffs, all of whom wanted Hastings dead—straight out of an Agatha Christie novel—and who do the police come after? The scholarship boy.” The more he talked, the more his northern accent asserted itself.
Hugh held up one soothing hand. “I’m sure the police don’t truly suspect you. After—”
“Is that so?” Fletcher closed the gap Hugh had created, and his grayish eyes burned like coal in the grate. “I was staying nearby. Gil went out for a stroll and my wife and daughters spent the morning in the garden, all so I could enjoy an extra four hours of sleep uninterrupted by the Nazis. And what is the price for those four hours? I have no alibi. But I do have motive, they say. And how—how is it they came to suspect me?”
“I can’t imagine...” A sickening feeling churned in Hugh’s belly. “You don’t think I—”
Fletcher jabbed Hugh in the chest with a long finger. “Who else knew I was in the country, knew of my arguments with Hastings, knew that Hastings pressed the BBC to fire me?”
“Fire you? Sir, I never knew.” Hugh drew back his chin. “And I would never have accused you.”
Seated at the table, Jouveau let out a scoffing noise. “Everyone knew of your rows with Hastings.”
Fletcher shot Jouveau an acidic glare.
“And, sir,” Hugh said, “your trip to the country was no secret. As for what Uncle Elliott did ...”
Fletcher cussed under his breath and clapped his hand to the back of his neck. “Of course. A lot of people knew.”
Hugh assumed his calmest voice. “I’m sure the police will realize your innocence. You might have clashed with my uncle, but it was never about his policies. Other news simply had higher priority, and no MP has the power to dictate broadcasting priorities—or to dictate firing a highly esteemed editor.”
With a grunt, Fletcher tore off his homburg.
