“You can’t see the house from here,” Aleida said. “Or the road.”
“No. The guests heard a shot and thought nothing of it. My mother said the police have dismissed the guests as suspects. All were down to breakfast.”
“Someone came from outside.”
In a partial clearing, Hugh pressed his hand to a tree trunk. “They found him here, under this tree.”
The roughness of his voice rubbed her heart raw. “I’m sorry. I know how fond you were of him.”
Hugh gave a jerky nod and traced an arc through the snow with his foot. “The leaves were shoved about, the earth dug up, indicating a struggle. They found two sets of footprints from wellies. One pair from my uncle, coming from the house. The other pair, about the same size, coming from the drive, the way we came.”
Aleida crossed her arms against the chill. “You can see the drive from here. Do you think the murderer was driving toward the house when he saw your uncle and confronted him?”
“I do.” Hugh puffed out a long, frosty breath. “Do you know what the detective inspector told my mother last week? They think Jouveau killed my uncle.”
Aleida gasped. “Jouveau?”
Hugh sank his gloved hands in the pockets of a new charcoal gray overcoat. “They think he was angry that Uncle Elliott’s slip of the tongue harmed his reputation as a reporter and led to the deaths of Frenchmen.”
“He never said anything like that.”
“No, he didn’t.” Hugh’s chin edged out. “They say he fled because he’s guilty. They think he returned to France somehow, as Gil insists.”
Aleida gave her head a shake, trying to disengage the nonsense. “If he were guilty, wouldn’t he have fled straightaway? Not after several weeks?”
“Over a month.” A vein of cynicism flowed in his words. “Convenient, is it not? Now they can declare the Hastings murder solved and ignore the case of the missing French refugee. Meanwhile, the murderer goes free, Jouveau is still missing, and no one cares.”
“You do.”
He lifted a sad smile and gestured toward the car. “Shall we go? Mother gave me three addresses of homes nearby.”
In the car, Aleida pulled out her notebook and wrote the addresses on a new page, numbered seventy-three. Not a good number. Perhaps she should have bundled them in a different way so it would be seventy-two—six times twelve.
She slapped her notebook shut. Or perhaps she should stop thinking such nonsense. Search, pray, and hope—that was all she could do.
Hugh pulled up a drive to a stately gray stone home. A servant led them into a sitting room hung with drapes of deep red. A couple in their forties greeted them, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Warwick, and they all sat on two facing sofas by the hearth.
Mrs. Warwick handed Aleida a piece of paper. “Mary Collingwood told us you’re collecting names for a registry with the Ministry of Health. Four mothers and six children are staying with us—all private arrangements. Here are their names, ages, and home addresses.”
“Thank you.” No four-year-old boys graced the list, and her heart sank a little, but not much. Disappointment had become routine.
She pressed on with her usual speech. “Have you heard of a four-year-old boy with blond hair and blue eyes, possibly a Dutch accent? He’s missing the fingers on his right hand.”
Mr. and Mrs. Warwick exchanged a frown, and Mrs. Warwick gave Aleida a curious look. “That sounds like Teddy Randolph.”
“Teddy?” The paper crinkled in her grip.
“A nickname for Theodore.” Hugh touched Aleida’s arm. “Please tell us more.”
Mr. Warwick’s close-set eyes widened. “Do you know him?”
“I think so,” Aleida said, her voice thin and warbling. “I hope so.”
Hugh sat forward. “Tell us everything you know about him.”
“Mrs. Randolph and Teddy stayed with us this summer,” Mrs. Warwick said. “He was a sweet boy, but he spoke only alittle English at first. He was shy around the other children, as if he’d never seen a child before.”
Aleida pressed her hand to her stomach, the paper fluttered to the carpet, and she fixed her gaze on Hugh. “Sebastiaan never allowed Theo to play with other children.”
