Hugh’s eyes fluttered shut. Through negligence and infirmity, he’d destroyed the career he loved.
Fletcher groaned, strode behind his desk, and pounded it with his fist. “If I fire you, one of your posh school chums will hire you, probably in the Ministry of Information. Then you’ll have me ousted.”
“Sir, I would never—”
“No ... no...” He jammed his hand into his silvery hair. “I’m too short of staff. Everyone is joining up. I can’t afford to fire you.”
Some of the tension eased from Hugh’s shoulders, but why? Fletcher would fire him as soon as the situation allowed.
“No, I can’t fire you.” Fletcher aimed one finger at Hugh like a spear. “But I can watch you like a falcon over a mouse. No more outside broadcasts. You’ll record in the studio only. You’ll run every script past me first, and you’ll give me your notes as well. Then I’ll check the recordings against the script before broadcast. You will be allowed no deviations.”
How humiliating, but Hugh had forfeited any right to complain, so he nodded.
“As soon as I find someone to replace you...” Fletcher flung his hand toward the door. “Get out of my sight, you worthless toff.”
Hugh winced and left the office, left the building, and his fine and expensive shoes pounded the pavement. A worthless toff indeed.
Snowflakes prickled his cheeks. Reporting was the only profession he loved, the only one he excelled at, and he’d tossed it away through carelessness.
Hugh marched south. Away. He had to get away.
He passed the Hart and Swan. He crossed Oxford Circus. He kept marching as snow flurried around him and dusted the ground in a deathly pallor.
Boyle Street. Hugh stopped. He hadn’t checked with the West End Central Police Station about Jouveau for at least a week.
He charged down Boyle Street to Savile Row, where the modern concrete police station stood, blandly imposing.
The constable greeted him. “Mr. Collingwood—DI Clyde hoped you’d come by. He wants to speak with you.”
“Good. Thank you.” Hugh followed the constable to the detective inspector’s office.
DI Clyde shook Hugh’s hand. Although the inspector barely reached Hugh’s shoulders, he carried an imposing force about him.
After the constable left and the men took their seats, DI Clyde folded his hands on his desk. His forehead furrowed. “I’m sorry to inform you that on Friday we found the body of François Jouveau.”
All the air rushed out of Hugh’s lungs, and he sagged back in the chair. “Oh no.”
“He was shot, and his body was weighted down and dumped in the Long Water at Hyde Park near the Italian Gardens.” DI Clyde stared at his folded hands, and his cheeks agitated. “He had no papers, no identity card, but we identified the body based on the location of the scar you described.”
From when Jouveau was wounded at Dunkirk. Hugh gave a stiff nod. His friend. His bright, humorous, vigorous friend. Murdered. Dumped. Forgotten. No one deserved such a fate.
The inspector raised a folder. “Thanks to you, we’re aware of the connection between Mr. Jouveau and Mr. Hastings, and we believe their murders are related. This allows us to refine our investigation.”
“Thank goodness. I’m glad you realize censorship was the motive.”
DI Clyde tipped his square head and frowned. “Revenge was the motive. A Frenchman killed them in reprisal for the soldiers who died on that repatriation ship.”
Now Hugh tipped his head and frowned. “When I last saw Jouveau, he said he’d almost solved the murder of Elliott Hastings—and the culprit was definitely not French.”
“Who was it?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.” Why couldn’t Hugh find Jouveau’snotebook? It had to be in his study, but he’d searched every pile and drawer.
The inspector raised a smile bordering on condescending, and he stood, ending the meeting. “We appreciate all you’ve done for this investigation. We have solid leads and expect to make an arrest soon. Thank you for your assistance.”
Hugh gave him a respectful nod and departed. Uncle Elliott and Jouveau deserved justice. But how could justice be served when it bent in the wrong direction?
27
