WEDNESDAY, JANUARY8, 1941
In the back room of the Hart and Swan, surrounded by boisterous reporters, Aleida turned a page in her notebook. Smoothed it once, twice, thrice.
Why stop herself? Following rituals relaxed her. And what had she accomplished by sacrificing them? She’d found her son, only to have him ripped from her arms again.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Aleida blinked hard at the blank page. In some ways, her renewed search would be simpler. She no longer had to search orphanages and hostels. She only had to search among private evacuations. Granted, a more difficult search than for government evacuations.
One hope remained. If—when—she found where Theo was staying with Mrs. Randolph, her son would recognize her, convincing the Randolphs she was telling the truth.
She’d considered bringing Oli to Mr. Randolph, but she doubted it would serve as proof, and he might have her arrested as promised. If she sent Oli by post, the man might dispose of the toy. Then she’d lose her closest connection to her son.
Her pen pecked the notebook frenetically, a telegraphist sending a message into the void.
Each day she and Theo were separated, the likelihood that he’d remember her dribbled away.
Laughter erupted around the table, centered around Leonard Kensley, a young reporter with theDaily Express, and Louisa nudged Aleida. Although Aleida hadn’t heard the joke, she managed a smile.
Hugh entered the room to the usual refrain of “Collie,” but in the gentled, lengthened tones used with someone in mourning.
And he mourned threefold—for her dilemma, for Jouveau’s death, and for the embarrassing blow to his career.
Hugh raised a twitchy smile for his friends. Then his gaze landed on Aleida and softened, warmed, comforting and comforted all at once.
He sat beside her, squeezed her hand beneath the table, and murmured his greeting. Her heart strained to him. The early days of a romance ought to be sealed by laughter and kisses and overflowing joy. Not by grief.
“How were your interviews today?” she asked.
“Difficult.” Hugh swept his gaze around the table. “I talked to a dozen of Jouveau’s friends, colleagues, and neighbors. At first they didn’t trust me. Since the police are convinced the killer is a Frenchman, they’ve been interrogating Jouveau’s acquaintances.”
Aleida stroked her thumb over the back of his hand. “If anyone could earn their trust, you could.”
He ducked his head to the side. “I did convince them I only want the truth. Jouveau had a scoop about Uncle Elliott’s murder. He said it sparked from a conversation we had the day we went to the Strand Palace Hotel. We were visiting Dutch refugees, looking for Aleida’s son,” he said to the others.
Aleida’s recollection of the day’s conversation centered on the refugees forgotten in the rubble of the Blitz.
Hugh’s gaze sharpened. “Jouveau mentioned men in high positions who hated him for being outspoken. They wanted to censor him, as they wanted to censor my uncle. I believe someone killed both men to do so.”
MacLeod let out a wry chuckle and crossed thick arms over his potbelly. “That’s quite an accusation. It would have been a sensational scoop for Jouveau.”
Hugh patted the table. “Jouveau left a clue about his meeting on the day he disappeared—a set of initials in his diary—JI-GB.”
“Could it be the initials of the man he was meeting?” Aleida said. “Or the location?”
“Yes.” Hugh hunched his shoulders. “It could be in English or in French or in code.”
MacLeod frowned at the ceiling. “Jfor Jouveau? But why would he write his own name in his diary?”
“Ifor information, as in Ministry of Information?” Hugh said. “Perhaps he met a man whose last name starts withJ.”
Irwin swept in and set beers before Louisa and Kensley. “Ah, Collie. What can I get you?”
“Your hottest, strongest tea, please. And lots of it. That’s a good chap.”
Louisa raised her pint to the pub owner. “Thank you,Jerome.”
The man gave her a quizzical look and left.
