Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “Yes,” he agreed, his voice a bit clipped. “Much better.”

  Poor man, she thought, as she turned to gaze out the window; he hates the fact that I’m a witness to his troubles, since he’s one who wants no witnesses. He has little choice, though; I’m the one in bed beside him when the nightmares come. Hopefully, this visit to Trestles would help to alleviate his misery—Acton loved being at Trestles, not to mention that she’d a trick or two, up her sleeve. Fingers crossed that she could pull it off; after all, there’s no point in being a sorceress-of-sorts unless you could put it to good use.

  Chapter 21

  It was frustrating, because there was no time to waste. They’d lost two already, and he didn’t want to lose three.

  Into the silence, Doyle carefully sipped her soup, determined not to make any slurping sounds. They were having luncheon in the formal dining room at Trestles, and it was slow-going, conversation-wise.

  The room was still and hushed, with silk-lined walls and wood wainscoting in the best tradition that surrounded a table that could seat twenty uncrowded. Despite its size, Doyle had been rather surprised to discover that children were never included when the nobs congregated for a meal, and so Edward was out exploring the grounds with Mary and Gemma, who were not the sort of persons who attended formal meals, either—lucky them.

  All in all, it made for a very constrained atmosphere, and Doyle was grateful that Acton was perfectly content to feed himself at their kitchen table at home, looking out the windows and casually enjoying each other’s company.

  Small wonder, that they all dislike one another, Doyle reflected as she took another careful sip; I’d hate everyone too, after years and years of this.

  The Dowager said, “The nanny seems very capable.”

  “Mary is a great help,” Doyle agreed. Best not to mention they’d picked her up from the London projects—too much information, and Doyle tended to gabble when she was nervous.

  “Her child is a winsome little girl.”

  “Yes; Gemma is very sweet. She is very taken with Edward, ma’am.”

  Apparently, the time the Dowager had spent in Acton’s black book had worked a change, because it was evident the woman was doing her best to be polite—or as polite as she was able.

  “She rather reminds me of someone,” the Dowager noted, as she lifted her spoon at precisely the correct angle. “But I cannot quite place it.”

  Since Doyle was already aware that Gemma apparently bore a resemblance to the Duke of Grosvenor’s family—and the House of Grosvenor was directly related to the Romanovs—she hastily changed the subject. “Gemma’s cock a’ hoop, ma’am, to be havin’ such a runabout. I told Acton we’ll be hard-pressed to keep the boyo from scalin’ the shimmyin’-woods, when he’s a wee bit older.”

  Politely, the Dowager turned to Doyle. “I am not certain what you just said, my dear.”

  “There are excellent climbing trees, here,” Acton agreed.

  “It’s hard to imagine you climbin’ trees, Michael,” Doyle smiled, trying very hard to control her accent. “Did you have any favorites?”

  “There was a beautiful old elm by the kennels,” the Dowager offered. “Unfortunately, it did not survive the fire.”

  Wicked old harridan, thought Doyle, who quickly changed the subject yet again. “D’you think Edward resembles Acton, ma’am? When he was a baby, I mean.”

  “Perhaps,” the Dowager offered, making it clear she didn’t think so. “Acton was a very well-mannered child.” This, in reference to Edward’s being hungry upon their arrival, and having no compunction about letting everyone in the manor house hear about it.

  As though reminded by this reference to good manners, the older woman then addressed Acton. “Have you heard from the Comte d’Amberre lately, Acton? Such a charming man.”

  Doyle kept her gaze on her soup and dared not meet Acton’s eye. Philippe Savoie—the notorious French criminal—had hoodwinked the Dowager by posing as a distant relative, under best-be-forgotten circumstances.

  “I have not,” said Acton, which was the truth, being as the Frenchman had gone back to France to lay low, for the nonce.

  Into the small silence, Doyle offered, “His little boy—Emile—was Gemma’s playmate, last summer, and spent a bit of time at our flat.” Best not to mention that his father was in Wexton Prison at the time; faith, this making polite conversation was like picking one’s way through a minefield.

  The Dowager raised her thin brows. “Is that so? Does the nanny have a family connection to the d’Amberres, then?”

  “Not that I am aware,” Acton replied.

  “Well, I would like to take up a correspondence with the Comte’s mother, Acton. If you would be so good as to obtain her address, please.”

  “Certainly,” said Acton, without batting an eye.

  It’s like living in a time warp, thought Doyle with some bemusement, as she carefully lifted the damask napkin to her lips. Faith, no one writes letters anymore. Only old people, and aristocrats, and even at that, fewer and fewer—

  To her surprise, her scalp started prickling. Oh, she thought, pausing in bewilderment; oh—this is important, for some reason. Who else writes letters?

  Frowning, she tried to grasp hold of the elusive thought, but she was interrupted by the Dowager, who had signaled for the next course. “I have mentioned your visit to Sir Stephen, Acton. He would like to see Edward, and so perhaps we could meet for cocktails.”

  But Acton was not one to be constrained by good manners, and he said merely, “Sir Stephen is not welcome here, mother.”

  The older woman drew down the corners of her mouth in a tiny, impatient gesture. “Come, now; it is past time to let bygones be bygones.”

  But Acton replied, “Recall that he attempted to seize my title by illicit means, mother.” Unspoken was the addendum that the Dowager herself had no doubt been up to her elbows in the plot.

  “Blood is blood,” the elderly woman pronounced.

  “Indeed,” Acton agreed mildly, having spilled more than his share.

  Faith, thought Doyle as she listened uneasily to the by-play; Sir Stephen should thank God fastin’ that he still walks the earth—Acton was not exactly the forgive-and-forget type. Perhaps there is something to this blood-is-blood business, after all.

  The Dowager persisted, “You must invite him to the investiture, Acton. Only think how it would look.”

  What’s an investiture? thought Doyle.

  “I will consider it,” Acton lied.

  “It will be such a grand occasion,” the older woman pronounced with a self-satisfied little smile. “I will compose a list of invitees, to give to Hudson. And we should hold a fête, here at Trestles.”

  “Make sure to include the Comte,” Doyle reminded her.

  The woman raised her brows. “An excellent suggestion, my dear.”

  “Quite,” Acton agreed.

  Chapter 22

  Nothing. He’d heard nothing, and by now he should have. There may be a tactical reason for the delay, but he’d men at risk.

  They had thankfully come to the end of the luncheon, and Doyle accompanied her husband as they headed outside to join up with Mary and the children. Since the Dowager was not the sort of person who enjoyed a walkabout, she had returned to the Dower House, but not before giving Doyle some parting advice about the dangers inherent in becoming over-fond of one’s children.

  “You mustn’t cling to Edward like a wet-nurse, my dear; for good or for ill, you are Lady Acton, despite your unfortunate roots.” She’d pulled on her gloves, and added, “You must remember that any unseemly behavior will reflect badly upon our family.”

  “Aye, that,” Doyle had replied in her broadest accent, and then Hudson, the Steward, had hastily ushered the elderly woman out the door before matters escalated.

  Hudson had also provided Doyle with a fortifying flask of coffee for her walk—the Dowager did not approve of coffee during meals—and so Doyle sipped it gratefully a
s the gravel crunched beneath their feet and they walked the path toward the gardens. “Your mother was doin’ so well, Michael, but in the end, she just couldn’t help herself.”

  As was usual, Acton did not want to discuss his mother, and so he said only, “There has been some improvement, certainly.”

  Teasing, Doyle glanced up at him. “She’s not certain you’re Edward’s father, I think. I’m that tempted to hint that she has the right of it—I could start talkin’ about the handsome doorman at our buildin’, and how he’s got such lovely green eyes.”

  “Has he?”

  “I’ve no idea. He’s smitten with Munoz, though, and so I tried to encourage his suit, bein’ as he’d be a step-up from the kooks.”

  Although his demeanor did not change, she caught a flare of emotion emanating from her calmly-walking husband, and paused with her flask in mid-sip to eye him in surprise. “What?”

  “What, what?” he asked easily.

  “Nothin’,” she replied, going back to her coffee and deciding that she didn’t want to press him—not when he didn’t want to tell her whatever-it-was, and when they’d already weathered a tedious meal with his miserable mother. There was something there, though; he’d had an unguarded reaction to her comment about the kooks and Munoz.

  To change the subject, she asked, “What’s an in—; invest—” She paused, trying to remember the word.

  “Investiture,” he offered.

  “Am I invited?”

  “You are. Lord Aldwych is failing, and is confined to bed.”

  This was not a surprise to Doyle, who’d known, the last time she’d seen the elderly man, that he wasn’t long for this world. “They’re goin’ to hand over his title to you?” Although they’d been estranged for most of their lives, Acton was Lord Aldwych’s heir, being as the dying man was Acton’s great-grandfather. Acton already held a barony, but Lord Aldwych’s title—much to Reynold’s extreme delight—was to an earldom.

  Acton informed her, “There is a formal ceremony in Parliament, where the new holder of the title is introduced to the House of Lords and must take an Oath of Allegiance.”

  She stared at him in unmitigated horror. “Holy Mother of God, Michael—tell me you’re jokin’.”

  Acton pulled her to his side so as to kiss her temple. “I share the sentiment, believe me. If we didn’t have Edward, we’d keep it more private.”

  This was not exactly true, but Doyle allowed it to pass because she knew that Acton was actually intensely protective of all things House of Acton—the title, the estate, and the rich history that went with it. Ironic, it was, that the poor man had been compelled to marry an Irish shant by way of stealth and ambush—it just went to show that God had a mighty fine sense of humor.

  Fondly, she rested her hand in the crook of his arm as they walked along. “Well, it’s true that Edward’s a preener, and all important-like. Does he get to wear one of those little crowns with strawberry leaves?”

  Acton laughed aloud. “Now, how did you know about that?”

  “Reynolds, of course. Faith, Michael; Reynolds probably knows more about this aristocracy argle-bargle than you do.”

  “Then we will leave the details in his capable hands.”

  She made a wry mouth. “I don’t know as that’s wise, my friend. He’ll try to convince me to wear a tiara, or some such.”

  As Acton made no response, she looked over at him with renewed horror. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael; please don’t tell me—”

  “We shall see,” he temporized, and covered her hand where it rested on his arm.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes as the birds called to each other overhead, and privately, Doyle decided it was worth a dozen stupid tiaras just to hear Acton laugh again—he hadn’t, in a while. It was a crackin’ good idea to come here, she thought; good one, Doyle. Which only reminded her that it was past time she carried through with the whole reason for this visit—time to mentally gird her loins and quit being such a baby.

  “There they are,” said Acton, spotting the nanny with the children in the distance. “Right beside the shimmyin’-woods.”

  She made a derisive sound at his teasing. “I defy you to come up with a better description, what with all your puffy English-words.”

  “There is none,” he acknowledged. “Shimmyin’-woods it is. I shall have all the plat maps changed in the archives.”

  This seemed an ideal opening, and so she took it, squeezing his arm slightly. “Speakin’ of which, d’you mind if we stop by the archives on our way back to the rooms, Michael? I have to—I have to give my regards to someone.”

  Acton looked down at her with interest. “The knight?” He was aware that Doyle had communicated in the past with one of his ancestors, a previous Lord Acton from the fifteenth century.

  “It’s only polite,” she offered, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”

  She hoped an explanation wouldn’t be necessary, and it wasn’t; Acton was aware that she hated to speak about ghost-conversations, and so he didn’t press. “Certainly. Should you bring Edward in with you?”

  She made a face. “No—he’s not one for babies.”

  “I suppose that is not surprising.”

  If you only knew, thought Doyle.

  Mary spied them approaching and waved as she called to Gemma. Reminded, Doyle said, “Reynolds says he’s goin’ Russian Orthodox, because Colonel Kolchak wants him to go to church with Gemma.”

  “Is he? I suppose that is not surprising, either.”

  But Doyle could not help but feel a bit sorry for the nanny. “I can’t imagine Mary’s very happy about it, but I suppose she has little say in what’s to happen to Gemma. It’s a shame, but there it is.”

  “Yes,” he agreed a bit soberly. “Gemma is not an ordinary little girl, and so she is unlikely to have an ordinary life. Too much is at stake, and for too many people.”

  This seemed inarguable, and so as to lighten the mood, Doyle tugged playfully on his arm. “Promise me you’ll never tell your mother that Gemma’s a royal.”

  “It may provide for an unending source of amusement,” he observed with a small smile.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” she said with some firmness. “There’d be investingture-fêtes every flippin’ day, and I’d be hard-pressed not to push her into the duck pond.”

  “I would pay good money,” he observed.

  “No, you wouldn’t; you’d just say, ‘tut, tut,’ and look all askance.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “And you’d speak in backwards-speak, besides.”

  “Just so,” he agreed with a small smile.

  Chapter 23

  He’d no choice but to hold his position, but it wouldn’t hurt to plan another intel-drop.

  Doyle stood in the solarium, which was the oldest part of Trestles. It dated back to the Domesday Book, Acton had told her—whatever that meant; it didn’t sound very encouraging, when you thought about it.

  In truth, the wide variety of ghosts that inhabited Trestles could be found in nearly every room—jostling amongst the high-beamed rafters and intensely interested in whatever she and Acton were doing. Usually she did her best to ignore them, but on this occasion, she wanted to speak to the knight without being overheard, and so the solarium seemed the best place to make such an attempt.

  The circular room had thick, stone walls, and one entry door—Acton had told her it had been fortified for use as a safe place in the event of a siege. They’d even dug a well beneath the flooring so that the besieged could survive on whatever food they could store until help arrived—if it ever did.

  In some past century—she truly hadn’t been paying much attention, when Acton was telling her about it—apparently there were bloody sieges all the time, and Doyle could only be grateful that things had managed to settle themselves down at the family estate—aside from the occasional murder and arson-fire, of course, but that type of thing probably ha
ppened in past centuries, too.

  Currently, the solarium was being used to house the estate’s archives, but Doyle knew that it had started life as a chapel, which would explain why the ghosts seemed reluctant to congregate in its rafters, being as they’d have to behave with some decorum, for a change.

  “Hallo,” she said softly into the silence, feeling self-conscious. “I’ll be needin’ a favor, if you don’t mind.”

  She’d never attempted to contact a ghost—they always contacted her, instead—and it was a measure of her devotion to Acton that she was even willing to make the attempt; she was made acutely uncomfortable by the stupid ghosts, which was why, on the whole, she ignored them.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long; one moment she was alone, and the next moment she realized that the knight stood against the far wall, dressed in his usual rather grimy hauberk, and with his sword resting on his shoulder. The sword was still broken off at the tip, and Doyle had the impression that he was rather proud of this imperfection, as well he should be.

  After taking a fortifying breath, she began, “If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll be needin’ to speak with Dr. Harding. You remember him, I imagine.”

  Immediately, the knight scowled at her, his scar showing livid across his face. Dr. Harding had been Acton’s psychiatrist for a short and best-be-forgotten stint of therapy, and the man had been involved in the plot to bring down Acton, on that memorable night here at Trestles—The Hound of the Baskervilles night, Gabriel had called it.

  Harding wound up dead, for his sins, but as a ghost, he’d shown up in Doyle’s dreams to assist her—she’d the impression that it had been required as part of the man’s penance. Hopefully, she could convince the psychiatrist to give her another assist, if she could just get hold of his ear, somehow.

  As the knight didn’t seem convinced, she explained, “It’s for Acton, you see. I think Dr. Harding can help him.” Deciding there was little point in describing psychiatry to a medieval warlord, she simply offered, “It’s hard to explain, but you’ll have to trust me.”