“I fail to see any motive on your part,” Hugh said. “Why would you kill someone who wants to help the common man and take the toffs down a notch? Especially when he’s certain to be replaced by Algernon Bradshaw.”
“Bradshaw.” Fletcher spat out the name. “Simpering fool.”
Jouveau smirked. “Bradshaw was at the house party.”
“I interviewed him last week.” Gil rested his forearms on the table. “He’s far too pleased about his prospects in the coming by-election.”
Hugh pulled out the chair MacLeod had vacated. “Would you care to join us?”
Fletcher glanced around the table, scowled at Jouveau, relaxed looking at Gil and Louisa, then paused at Aleida.
Hugh nodded toward her. “Aleida, may I introduce my editor, Norman Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher, this is Aleida Martens with the Dutch Service of the BBC.”
Aleida’s gaze flew to Hugh, part incredulous, part amused, part chastising him for the naughty boy he was.
He liked each part, and he winked.
Amusement won, and she nodded to Fletcher. “I’m afraid I’m not with the Dutch Service, but I am pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too.” Fletcher sank into the empty chair.
Hugh sat and faced his editor. “Bradshaw.”
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” Fletcher said through gritted teeth. “Hastings was strong and healthy, and he’d never resign. How else could Bradshaw get his seat?”
Louisa shrugged. “Bradshaw’s a milquetoast. I can’t see the man getting in a scuffle. He might dirty his shoes.”
“How about Sutherland?” Gil said. “He wants the same seat.”
“Wrong party,” Hugh said. “He doesn’t stand a chance in that constituency.”
Fletcher pointed a finger at Hugh, and his eyes brightened. “Not against Hastings, but he might stand a chance against Bradshaw.”
“Good point, and if the war goes poorly and the people turn on the men in charge—”
“Sutherland’s a suspect in my book.” Fletcher slapped the table.
“The former Mrs. Hastings was at the party too, was she not?” Jouveau said.
“She divorced him years ago,” Hugh said. “The time to have murdered him would have been when they were still married.”
“Their children?” Fletcher said.
“They preferred my uncle to my aunt. Uncle Elliott had little virtue but much compassion. Aunt Rosamund has much virtue and no compassion. My cousins loved their father dearly, and William—the heir—was at sea, so—”
The air raid siren wailed its alert.
Hugh grinned at his friends and quoted a popular line from the BBC’s broadcasts for workers. “Good night and go to it.”
“Work at war speed.” Gil continued the quote in a sardonic tone as he donned his hat.
Mr. Irwin leaned into the room. “Hurry! Down to the shelter.”
Hugh pulled on his overcoat. “Your basement is the safest and most hospitable in London, but the news calls.”
The reporters spilled out of the room, but Aleida sipped her tea and glanced at Hugh over the rim of her cup. “Where are you going tonight?”
“I haven’t decided.” He buttoned his coat. “I’ll go to the roof of Broadcasting House to observe. Will you go to Irwin’s shelter?”
