Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6)

by Anne Cleeland

  The chairman took up his position on the dais, and immediately directed another friendly smile at Doyle. Doyle smiled back, and reflected that the man was surely too old to make an advance, which was just as well because she was not about to sacrifice her virtue on the altar of Acton’s stupid estate.

  Sir Stephen’s counsel rose. “The petitioner would like to call the dowager Lady Acton, my lord.”

  “Proceed.”

  The clerk opened the door to the hallway and called for Acton’s mother, who paused in entering the room to remove her gloves, her expression faintly bored. Looking about her with a full measure of discreet disdain, she then made her way toward the front table. Upon spotting Acton, she nodded to him in polite greeting. If she saw Doyle, she gave no indication.

  Doyle watched with grave uneasiness as the dowager was sworn in, since it was yet unclear whether Acton’s mother and Sir Stephen were in cahoots. It seemed unlikely that the dowager would willingly conspire to relinquish her own title—and the exalted standing that went along with it—but perhaps Sir Stephen had bribed her in some way, or had brought other pressure to bear.

  Sir Stephen’s counsel began asking questions, which the dowager answered in a tone that left no doubt as to the general inferiority of all persons present.

  “—and did your husband ever reference a discrepancy in the succession?”

  “My late husband,” the elderly woman declared in a frosty tone, “had a great many animadversions to report, most of which were directed toward his assorted relatives.”

  Not a clue as to what she just said, thought Doyle.

  “Yes, ma’am—but did he mention the succession?” counsel prompted.

  “He may have,” the dowager conceded. “I know he’d quarreled with his own father over the matter.”

  “So—you are aware there was some controversy?”

  There was a small pause. “I’m afraid I cannot say, one way or the other.” This was a lie.

  Counsel nodded, and then waited a few beats before asking, “Do you have any explanation as to what happened to your husband? Is there any chance he yet lives?”

  Acton’s counsel rose. “Objection, my lord; this matter has already been resolved by a High Court proceeding.”

  The chairman skewed his gaze to the examiner, who explained, “The prior proceeding did not touch upon the succession issue, my lord.”

  “I’ll allow a limited inquiry.” The chairman shifted in his chair as an excuse to shoot a covert glance at Doyle from beneath his bushy white brows.

  Sir Stephen’s counsel continued, “Is it possible, ma’am, that he was so distraught over the burden of knowing he was not the true titleholder that he killed himself?”

  “Objection—this is pure speculation.” Acton’s counsel stood with a show of extreme disapproval.

  “Sustained,” said the chairman, who leaned forward to admonish, “I’ll not give you any more leeway, if you’re only going to pull tricks.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. Nothing further.” Sir Stephen’s counsel withdrew in a chastised manner, but Doyle knew that he was nonetheless satisfied, because he’d gotten his point across.

  “Response?” The chairman turned to Acton’s counsel.

  “I’ve a few questions, my lord,” Acton’s counsel acknowledged.

  “Five minutes,” said the chairman, who then leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers.

  Saints, thought Doyle, as she watched with extreme foreboding. Here we go—I hope they know what they’re doing; she’s as much a viper as Sir Stephen, and God only knows what she’ll be willing to say.

  Acton’s counsel rose, and appeared to be deep in thought as he paused before the dowager for a moment, his head bent. But to Doyle’s surprise, he didn’t ask any further questions about Acton’s late father. Instead, he asked, “Ma’am, have you ever met a man associated with the d’Amberres, of France?”

  Doyle blinked. Now, this was out of the clear blue sky.

  She could sense that Sir Stephen’s counsel was suddenly wary, but he rose negligently to object, “I fail to see the relevance, my lord.”

  “I’ll allow,” said the chairman, who’d glanced up from trying to put the lead back into his mechanical pencil.

  The dowager knit her delicate brow. “Yes. I met a man, when he came to visit at Trestles—he was a comte, I believe. I cannot recall his name, just now.”

  “Was the gentleman’s name Philippe Savoie?”

  Doyle closed her eyes in acute dismay.

  Again, the dowager frowned slightly. “Perhaps. I cannot recall for certain.”

  Acton’s counsel turned to face the assembly as he asked the next question. “How are the d’Amberres related to your husband’s family, do you know?

  There was a sudden, still silence, and for the first time, the dowager seemed wary. “I believe the d’Amberres are distant cousins.”

  “Are you aware that Mr. Savoie—the gentleman whom you met at Trestles—has a claim in this matter?”

  Sir Stephen’s counsel shot to his feet. “Objection; my lord—”

  “Objection on what grounds?” asked Acton’s counsel, spreading his hands in mock-confusion.

  Flustered, Sir Stephen’s counsel amended, “May we be allowed a short break, my lord?”

  “Five minutes, stay in place,” intoned the chairman, who then leaned back in his chair so as to contemplate the ceiling.

  Holy Mother of God, thought Doyle, who slowly let out the breath she’d been holding. It looked as though they were indeed putting up Philippe Savoie—of all people—as the supposed true heir. Savoie was a Frenchman, and a criminal kingpin, to boot—not to mention a friend-of-sorts to the fair Doyle, based on past favors. Previously, she’d got the uneasy feeling that Savoie was somehow involved in the fight over Acton’s estate, but Acton had assured her that there was nothing to worry about. And now—incredible as it seemed—it appeared that she’d been right, and that Savoie was indeed involved. Only—only, it was clear that Sir Stephen’s people had been caught by surprise. Which left only one explanation—

  Whilst Sir Stephen could be seen whispering furiously to his counsel, Doyle let her astonished gaze rest on the back of her husband’s head. It was Acton; Acton must be the one who was putting up Savoie as the true heir. But that was completely ridiculous—surely Acton wasn’t going to hand the title over to Savoie, just to spite Sir Stephen. And besides, what Englishman in his right mind would hand over the ancient barony to a French blackleg like Savoie? For heaven’s sake, the man was a known criminal, and on the Watch List—it all made no sense, whatsoever.

  Sir Stephen’s counsel rose and said, “My lord, we’ve been taken by surprise, and would request a recess to research this matter. The fact that counsel has never mentioned the existence of this individual—”

  “Objection,” said Acton’s counsel, in dignified protest. “The lineage is no secret, and this committee is attempting to ascertain the identity of the true Lord Acton. My client would be as disadvantaged as Sir Stephen, if Mr. Savoie’s claim proves valid.”

  “Then we’ll hear from Mr. Savoie, and get to the bottom of this,” said the chairman, who shot an openly apologetic glance at Doyle. “Any further questions for this witness, or shall we adjourn?”

  “Only five minutes more, my lord,” said Sir Stephen’s counsel.

  The chairman sank back into his chair with unfeigned disappointment. “Proceed.”

  Doyle watched Sir Stephen’s counsel approach the dowager, and almost felt sorry for the man. Obviously, Acton had some plan afoot, and Sir Stephen had lost all control of the narrative, which now portrayed Acton as being more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger with his pesky cousin, and his pesky cousin looking like a first-class grifter, which—to be fair—he was. Not to mention it seemed evident that even if he won the case, Sir Stephen was slated to be second-in-line after Philippe flippin’ Savoie. Sir Stephen’s counsel had better come up with a game-changer—and fast—or all was lost.<
br />
  With a solemn expression, Sir Stephen’s counsel stood before the dowager. “Do you have any reason to believe that your son—” here, he turned to gesture toward Acton “—is not the true Lord Acton?”

  “I do not,” said the dowager, at her most regal.

  “Then, do you believe there are any impediments that would prevent his wife’s son from supplanting Sir Stephen as the heir to the barony?”

  “I do,” said the dowager.

  Astonished, Doyle slowly straightened in her seat, as a hush fell over the room.

  “And what is that impediment, if I may ask?” Counsel turned to face the assembled committee members, so as to draw attention to the answer.

  “I am not certain that my son is legally married to—to this young woman. It is unclear whether his first wife yet lives.”

  There was a stunned silence. Now, there’s an excellent game-changer, Doyle conceded, and wondered whether she should pretend to faint.

  5

  It was regrettable that the claim was so salacious, but the temporary unpleasantness would be well worth it. The more salacious the claim, the better.

  “So; I’m an adulteress,” remarked Doyle. “Didn’t see that one comin’.”

  Acton was driving them from Parliament to the morgue, and he took her hand with a small smile. “Come, now; you of all people know it is not true.”

  After having been re-called to testify about his supposed first marriage, Acton had categorically denied that he’d married the young woman in question, but was then presented with a record from Holy Trinity Clinic, supposedly showing that the young woman had given birth to a son, and had claimed to be married to Acton at the time.

  Doyle had not been alarmed; she knew—in the way that she knew things—that Acton was not the marrying kind, and indeed, his courtship of her fair self—if one could call it that—only supported this sure knowledge. Aloud, she said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to say it, though.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’ve never married anyone but you. I will never marry again.”

  “That about sums it up, I suppose.”

  “They’re hoping for the best,” he soothed. “I am certain it will amount to nothing.”

  But she eyed him sidelong, having put two and two together, and having come up with one wily husband. “Yes; they thought they had you stymied, what with this first-marriage business, but—in a truly amazin’ turnabout—Philippe Savoie shows up as the true heir from generations ago, and his claim would trump everyone else’s.”

  “Amazing, indeed,” Acton agreed.

  She turned to look out the window, trying to decide whether she should let him know that she was on to him—honestly; no one ever explained to you that marriage required so much in-house detective work. At the hearing, Sir Stephen’s counsel had explained that the record of birth had been recovered from the archives at the clinic, and that a verifying copy had also been found amongst the archives at Lord Aldwych’s estate—Aldwych being Acton’s great-grandfather.

  Doyle decided she may as well come down on the side of honesty—not that it ever seemed to do her much good—and noted, “If I’m rememberin’ things right, Savoie killed the records keeper at Holy Trinity Clinic, but was never prosecuted for it.”

  “Savoie had immunity,” Acton reminded her.

  “Then he’s a lucky man, I suppose. Considerin’ he also killed the archives-keeper at Lord Aldwych’s estate—the other place where a copy of this birth record was unearthed.”

  “An extraordinary coincidence,” he agreed, and it was a lie.

  “You don’t believe in coincidences,” she reminded him in a dry tone. “I wish you’d tell me what’s afoot, here, husband, and I wish I didn’t have to keep askin’ you to.”

  He glanced over at her. “I am afraid you are too honest.” He squeezed her hand in apology.

  “It’s a failin’,” she agreed.

  There was a small silence, and apparently he realized that a further explanation was required. “There is the possibility that you would be called upon to testify, and I dare not take the chance of telling you ahead of time what has been planned.”

  “Bein’ as I’ve a tendency to gabble in a panic.”

  He tilted his head. “Not at all; instead, you are refreshingly forthright.”

  Making a wry mouth, she looked out her window. “That’s because you’re supposed to tell the truth and shame the devil, Michael.”

  “I’m afraid this situation is a bit more nuanced.”

  Little point in pursuing this particular subject, even if she asked him what “nuanced” meant. “I thought a wife couldn’t testify against her husband.”

  “That’s only in criminal proceedings,” he explained. “And even in that case, there are exceptions.”

  She glanced over at him. “Then it’s lucky, we are, that no one’s thinkin’ about drummin’ up a criminal proceeding or two. It’s got to be fraud at the very least, for your grandfather to pretend he was not who he truly was, and take over the title.”

  There was a small silence. “I’m afraid it was not my decision.”

  Shaking her head slightly, she looked out her window again. “That won’t wash, husband; you’d have done the same thing—only instead of marryin’ an heiress, you’d have probably robbed the Bank of England, or somethin’.”

  “I wouldn’t have stood idly by,” he agreed.

  After shifting in the seat so that she was more comfortable, she decided that she didn’t want to hear another dose of Acton-law-breaking logic, just now—she was already flush to the gills. Aside from his side-trips into vigilante justice, she’d a strong suspicion that Acton was involved in some sort of illegal gun-smuggling rig, although she’d never confronted him about it. She’d seen hints—and knew there were illegal guns in the safe at their flat—but decided she’d leave it for now; his murdering-people problem seemed much more pressing than his gun-running problem, and one small step at a time. “Well, at least tell me whether your first wife is slated to make a dramatic appearance—or is that another thing you don’t want me to know ahead of time, so that I won’t have to do any play-actin’?”

  “No, the young woman they refer to is dead. She caught my interest, for a time, when I was at university.” He paused. “They are not aware that she is dead, however. I am certain they’ve attempted to find her—and any child she may have had—but have come up empty. Therefore, Sir Stephen hopes to remain my heir until I can obtain a divorce from my first wife—no simple thing for me to accomplish, since she is missing, and there is a title at stake.”

  Yet again, she eyed him with deep suspicion. “Lucky, it is, that Sir Stephen discovered these long-hidden birth documents—faith, both of them at once—and was given a good reason to bring this wretched claim.”

  Acton made no comment, but instead reached into his inner jacket pocket. “Would you like some dried apricots? I have a packet, here.”

  Thoroughly astonished that her husband would carry around a packet of dried apricots— much less offer them to her—she barely refrained from recoiling. “No, thanks—I’m not very hungry.”

  “They’re quite good,” he cajoled. “Just have a taste.”

  But she was too busy frowning out the windscreen, and thinking over these latest revelations. “Whatever happened to the pretend-first-wife, Michael? How can they know who she is, but not know that she’s dead?”

  There was a small pause. “I am not certain,” he said slowly, “that I wish to tell you.”

  Glancing at him in surprise, she caught a glimpse of black anger, quickly suppressed, and so said gently, “All right, Michael. But remember that it’s a hardy banner, I am.”

  “I am sorry,” he said suddenly, “to have to put you through all this.”

  “Never had a nicer time,” she assured him, and lifted a corner of her mouth. “And the chairman is smitten, I think—another notch on my belt. By an enormous stroke of luck, his dear departed wife was also redheaded. Fancy
that.”

  “We’re coming up to the morgue; have you discovered anything further about the Lambeth robbery-murder, and the missing shoes?”

  And—just like that—the subject is changed, she thought. “Gabriel phoned to say they got an ID straightaway because the girlfriend had called in, very worried. Of all things, the victim was a QC, from the Inner Temple.”

  “That,” said Acton slowly, “is of immense interest.” A Queen’s Counsel was a deserving and experienced barrister who’d been awarded the title for exceptional work. It meant the victim was an elite member of the judicial system, and explained his fine suit of clothes even as it didn’t explain what he’d been doing getting himself killed in a Lambeth alley.

  Watching her husband’s distracted reaction, Doyle ventured, “It opens up more questions than answers, I think. Seems a bit strange, that someone like him was knockin’ about in such a place.”

  Acton was silent for a moment, thinking, and she stayed quiet, respecting the process until they parked. “Are you thinkin’ the QC’s murder may be connected to the ACC’s corruption cases? That it’s a shadow murder, of some sort?” A shadow murder was one committed in the hope that law enforcement would think it was the work of another murderer.

  “It is an unusual victim, in an unusual place,” was all he offered, but she knew that his attention had been caught for some reason.

  A few minutes later, they were standing with the district coroner in his chilly morgue, looking over the remains of the John Doe that the SOCO had mentioned—the other victim who’d been found without his shoes.

  “Coshed. No ID, and no leads,” said the coroner. “In another two days, he’s set to be cremated—we got a judge’s order.”

  “He may be a traveler,” Doyle offered. “He looks to be in good shape, so he’s not homeless. If he’s a traveler, that might explain why no one has ID’d him.”

  “I believe,” said Acton, “that instead he is a pawnbroker, from Fremont.”