Keeping him to herself would be selfish, but she didn’t want him to leave yet. “Any news from the police about your uncle? You haven’t mentioned anything lately.”
Hugh huffed. “I haven’t heard anything lately. No arrests and no good suspects.”
“No one youwantto suspect.”
“Hmm?”
Aleida squeezed his arm. “A fortnight ago, you mentioned Mr. Fletcher had motive and opportunity. Then he marched into the Hart and Swan, enraged. Within two minutes, you’d calmed him down, eliminated him as a suspect, and would he please join you for a nice spot of tea?”
Hugh stopped and stared at her, agape.
She clucked her tongue at him. “You’re entirely too amiable to be a detective. All those pleasant traits make you an excellent reporter, but not a detective.”
“Is that so?” Amusement drew out his words.
“You always think the best of people, and when you think the best of someone, it’s impossible to think them capable of murder, yes?”
He laughed. “Yes, it is.”
Someone so amiable, who saw the best in people and brought out the best in people, who used his considerable charm for the good of others—why couldn’t she yet trust him with her heart?
18
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER3, 1940
Like all good pub tables, the reporters’ table at the Hart and Swan was a thick slab of oak, stained and polished and scratched and rubbed rich with color and age.
At the head of that table, Hugh set down his notebook and grinned at Jouveau. “Wait until you hear the story I’m working on.”
Jouveau wagged a finger at him. “No, my friend. Wait until you hearmystory.” Then he flagged down Irwin and ordered a drink.
On Hugh’s other side, Aleida bent her pretty head over her little black diary and made tick marks. Yesterday’s page had eight entries, from appointments to train schedules.
“The precision of it all.” Hugh set his finger on the page. “It’s stunning.”
She gave him a sidelong look and capped her pen. “If you were willing to learn...”
“I do try.” He slid her diary closer and flipped a page. “I see you’re visiting two orphanages tomorrow morning. You’re not needed at the ministry?”
“On Saturday I worked in the country on the registry of evacuees, so I have a day off.”
Louisa Jones entered, bringing the scent of rain, and Aleida rose to greet her.
The ladies stood chatting. And stood. And chatted.
Hugh still had Aleida’s diary. He uncapped his pen and did his mischief.
“Well, look who’s still in town.” Barnaby Hillman filled the height and width of the doorway.
“Barn!” Hugh sprang up and shook the hand of the American reporter. “I heard you made the leap from the papers to the wireless. Mutual Broadcasting System?”
“Guilty as charged. And back in Old Blighty, as you fellows call it.” Barn opened his attaché case and dumped the contents onto the table. “Gifts from your rebellious former colonies.”
Packs of cigarettes littered the table, and most of the reporters exclaimed.
Hugh fought a grimace and settled back into his seat. In his opinion, the cigarette shortage was one of the few benefits of the war. How often had he cut evenings short when smoke aggravated his lungs?
Jouveau took a long drag from a cigarette. “Magnifique. Almost as magnifique as my story.” He gave Hugh a satisfied smile. “I believe I shall soon solve your uncle’s murder.”
