Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3)

by Anne Cleeland

  He grimaced. “I was compelled to drink some rum concoction.”

  “Oh—oh, Michael.” She couldn’t help laughing. “How dare someone force you to drink rum—quick, where’s the trusty scotch?”

  “God, no—I can’t mix the two.” He closed the fridge, and briefly opened the oven door to look inside.

  “Did the rum concoction have a paper umbrella?” Abruptly, she turned back to her laptop. “No—no, don’t tell me; I don’t think I could ever look upon you in the same light.”

  There was a long pause. “You are extraordinary. I am so sorry, Kathleen.”

  She looked up at him, standing quietly in the kitchen—he probably didn’t want her to catch the scent of cigarette smoke, which was a forlorn hope—and took pity on him. “I am jokin’ so I won’t start throwin’ things, is all. Bring your rum-soaked self over here, and we will speak of somethin’ else.”

  “How does your research go?” She could feel his relief as he came to stand behind her, leaning in to review her screen.

  “Williams is takin’ me to one of the Inns tomorrow—one of the chambers was involved in two of the original non-convictions, so I thought I’d flash my warrant card and rattle the cage a bit.”

  “Doubtful they will rattle,” he remarked, reading her notes. “They have an excellent reputation.”

  “There’s no attorney-client privilege, anymore, since the client is dead,” Doyle insisted. “Mainly I just want to get them talkin’.” Acton would know why this was, and he leaned in with his hands on the table on either side of her, reading thoughtfully. Doyle caught the faint scent of the brasser’s perfume and resisted an urge to pull him over to the sink by his tie and thoroughly douse his head under the spigot.

  He remained doubtful, and straightened up. “They won’t want to speak of the old case, you know—even if they were not involved in these killings. The fact that a killer got off doesn’t make them look good.”

  “I think there’s somethin’ there,” she persevered, her brow knit. “It’s one of those feelin’s.”

  “Then by all means.”

  She leaned her head back so as to look up at him. “How goes your case-that-must-not-be-spoken-of?”

  “I believe the people who have given me the assignment may not wish me to succeed.”

  As was his usual, he delivered this rather shocking assessment in a matter-of-fact tone, and she turned in the chair to face him, thoroughly alarmed. She was aware that “the people” who had given him this assignment were high up in the government. “Then what’s the purpose, for heaven’s sake? Why send you on a sleeveless errand?”

  But he continued buttoned-up, and would not elaborate. “It may be an attempt to contain a scandal. I’m afraid I can say no more.”

  “Do you need me to listen to someone?”

  He crossed his arms, and she had the impression that he’d already considered this idea. “It is a delicate political situation. It would be helpful to have you listen in, but I am not certain how I can bring it about.”

  “I could be disguised as a maid,” she suggested. “I could wear one of those very short skirts, and have a feather duster.”

  With a smile, he leaned to kiss her brow. “I would pay good money.”

  She pulled on his tie, hand over hand, and brought his mouth to hers. “Come to the shower and I’ll give you an eyeful, then.”

  “Done,” he said, and gathered her up.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE NEXT MORNING DOYLE OVERSLEPT. ACTON’S CONTRITION tour had included several extremely satisfying lovemaking sessions, along with a visit to the kitchen after midnight to fetch some ice cream for sustenance. After a groggy look at the time, she reached for her mobile and texted Williams. “B there in a few.”

  Acton was preparing to leave and speaking to his assistant on his mobile as he packed up. Teasing, she sat up and dropped the covers to flash him, which inspired a smile and a warning glance toward the kitchen, where Reynolds presumably lurked. He rang off, and came over to rest his hands on the bed to kiss her. “We’ll pack for Trestles tonight—it will be chilly.”

  “Of course it will. Are there gargoyles?”

  There was a pause. “It is quite a nice place, actually.”

  Her wretched, wretched tongue. “I’m sorry, Michael—I truly look forward to seein’ it.”

  But he met her eyes in understanding as he straightened up. “We’ll make the best of it; I do have some fond memories.”

  This was true, and made her smile, to think of him wandering around his ancestral estate, doing whatever it was the aristocracy did—pheasant hunts, or some such. “I’ll manage, never fear.”

  He leaned to kiss her on the top of her tousled head with a great deal of feeling. “There’s my girl; call me if you find anything of interest.”

  Fondly, she watched him go, and wondered if Masterson was busily packing as they spoke—packing and gleefully calculating Acton’s net worth; Doyle herself had no idea.

  She dressed, and thanked Reynolds when he handed her a coffee in the kitchen. “Wish me luck, Reynolds; we travel to Trestles tomorrow.”

  The servant stilled. “Is that so, madam?”

  Faith, she’d blundered again, but she’d best break the bad news. “I don’t think you’re to come—not this time.” Definitely not; the fewer witnesses to this little psychodrama, the better.

  But the servant had already regained his composure and said evenly, “No, no—certainly not; the staff might be put out.”

  Doyle hadn’t considered this aspect, and it was her turn to be still. “Saints, Reynolds; do you suppose there are ‘staff’?” Perhaps her hope for few witnesses was a forlorn one.

  Diffidently, Reynolds wiped the counter with a tail of the kitchen towel. “Oh yes—an estate that size would have a full regimen. It is said to be very well-run.”

  His desire to take a gander at the storied pile was almost palpable, and so she cautioned, “I can’t imagine how they manage to keep anyone; his mother is a crackin’ harridan.”

  “Has the dowager Lady Acton visited here?” He seemed surprised and small blame to him; the woman’s name was never mentioned within these less-storied walls.

  Doyle quirked her mouth. “You’d be horrified, Reynolds. I fought with her tooth and nail like the low-country guttersnipe I am.”

  “I will be at hand, next time,” he assured her. “I know just how to handle such a lady.”

  “You are a prize, Reynolds.” As she packed up her electronics, she was cautiously optimistic that there would, in fact, be a next time, and that she would still hold sway here after the coming weekend. Last night it certainly seemed that Acton still considered Doyle the best of all potential baronesses, and hopefully she’d come out of today’s prison visit with a whole skin.

  Her mobile pinged; it was Williams, and so she hurriedly bade Reynolds good-bye and made her way downstairs, where Williams was waiting at the curb. As the doorman shut the door behind her, she explained, “Sorry—I overslept.” Best not attempt a euphemism with Williams, he was sensitive on the subject of sex and she’d learned that lesson the hard way. So with no smart remarks of any stripe, she gave him the address and explained her reasons for wanting to visit.

  Williams, however, expressed the same skepticism as Acton had. “Unlikely they’ll be impressed by the warrant card, Kath. And they’ll not be interested in speaking of their failures.”

  “Their successes, you mean; they got them off, after all.”

  But he shook his head as they wound their way through the traffic. “I can’t imagine a barrister takes any pleasure in getting someone off who goes on to kill again.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t do it—defend someone I know is guilty.”

  “No—me neither, but that’s who we are and what we do. Their point of view is that no one really knows for certain about guilt, and they work to keep the system honest.”

  Diplomatically, Doyle made no response, as she was uniquely situated to k
now a defendant’s guilt for certain, and Williams had already demonstrated that he was willing to skirt the supposedly honest system. In fact, that was why a justice system that was generally perceived as too lenient was dangerous; vigilantes tended to spring up, and no matter how imperfect the system, it was miles better than allowing everyone to dispense their own brand of Wild West justice. Much struck, it suddenly occurred to her that—because of her abilities—she was the perfect vigilante; she could have no qualms about dispatching a killer who had escaped justice, because she’d know for certain that he had, in fact, escaped justice. But she would never do such a thing because of her faith; she believed in an ultimate justice, and—as she repeatedly cautioned Acton—you can’t just go about killing people. Aside from its being a mortal sin, it showed that, in the end, you didn’t trust God to sort it all out. Perhaps the freed killer was slated to perform some unknown task that was important in the grand scheme of things; it was best not to take the chance you were muckin’ it all up. Hard on the heels of this thought, her scalp tingled. Frowning, she tried to catch hold of the elusive thread—what was it? Thinking aloud, she said, “He—or she—feels utterly wretched and hates it, but believes there would be no justice, otherwise.”

  Williams glanced at her. “What was that?”

  Thoughtfully gazing out her window, she explained, “I was thinkin’ about this vigilante’s motivation.”

  Williams shrugged. “I doubt he hates it, Kath. He wouldn’t do it if he hated it; no doubt it assuages his guilt.”

  She guessed at what “assuages” meant, and disagreed in a thoughtful tone. “I think he does hate it.” No doubt Williams had felt nothing but satisfaction when he dispatched his uncle, or when he helped Acton usher other villains from this mortal coil; unlikely he could relate to this particular killer. “I think he’s miserable. Or she—it may be a woman, if she’s so repulsed by it all.” Her scalped tingled again, and she knew she was on the right track. Or perhaps not; her intuition acted like a bucket boy to the fire bell whenever she thought about how she was forever to be known as the bridge-jumper, but why this was important completely escaped her. It all made little sense.

  Williams, apparently, had avoided the more pressing topic as long as he was able, and asked in an even tone, “Have you discussed the French problem with Acton?”

  “No,” she teased, “Have you?”

  He replied a bit grimly, “Not as yet; I don’t fancy having my skin flayed off.”

  She shouldn’t tease him; she knew he was worried and was practicing a restraint that was much appreciated. “Look, Thomas; I know it’s a bit alarmin’,”—her companion made a strangled, derisive sound that she ignored—“but I promise, he’s bein’ helpful.” She paused, debating what to say, but decided she’d have to tell him something. “It’s to Acton’s benefit, but I cannot say more.”

  Williams was silent for a few moments, no doubt thinking of the photographs that Savoie had given her. “Why do you think he is a friend?”

  “I told you; he saved my life.”

  He glanced at her. “Literally?”

  “Literally.”

  He suggested carefully, “Is it possible—think, Kath; is it possible the situation was contrived to obtain your trust?”

  “Not a chance.”

  He subsided, aware she wasn’t going to offer anything more. “Will you at least not meet him again unless I am with you?”

  “No; he doesn’t like you.”

  Williams looked over to her, equal parts shocked and outraged.

  She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s probably just as well; you don’t want someone like him tryin’ to lure you away from the CID. You’d have to go live in Eastern Europe and wear flashy clothes.”

  Heavily, he replied, “Kath, it’s not a joking matter; he’s a very dangerous player. I wish you’d tell Acton.”

  She sobered, thinking of Savoie and the impression she’d gained—that he was quite cold at the core. “Yes, I am aware he is dangerous, and I’m bein’ very careful.” Reaching over, she placed a hand on his on the steering wheel and said sincerely, “I think he is very soon to scuttle back to his lair, and you won’t have to worry about it another minute.” She withdrew her hand and smiled. “And your guilt will be assuenged.”

  “Assuaged,” he corrected, distracted.

  There’s another reason I’m married to Acton, she thought; he wouldn’t correct me, and would probably misuse the word the rest of his life so as not to hurt my feelings. As Williams showed his ID to the gate man, she smiled out her window. Love that man, I do; hopefully I can save him from whatever Solonik’s got cooked up.

  CHAPTER 23

  THEY ASCENDED THE ANCIENT STONE STAIRS TO THE PRESTIGIOUS chambers devoted to the representation of criminal defendants since medieval times. In keeping with police officers everywhere, Doyle was more scornful than impressed. “A bunch o’ blacklegs,” she pronounced as they crossed the threshold.

  “Behave yourself,” Williams cautioned in an aside. “Remember, you want a favor.”

  “Right you are; I’ll be as subtle as a serpent.” She couldn’t very well tell Williams that mainly, she wanted to ask a few questions of those involved in the early cases, and see what there was to see—if someone on the premises was a walking mass of guilt and misery, perhaps she’d be able to spot it.

  They approached the receptionist and identified themselves, Doyle explaining that they were investigating the murder of a former client. The receptionist seemed unimpressed by her warrant card, but advised them she’d see if Mr. Moran could give them a few minutes. Moran was a senior barrister with a storied career, and had handled the trial for Mrs. Bennet’s daughter, when the boyfriend had been killed. While they waited, Doyle looked around the sumptuous offices and remarked, “How come we’re the good guys, yet we work in cubicles under fluorescent lights?”

  But Williams seemed unaffected by this gross injustice. “Because we serve the public, that’s why. These people can charge as much as they like, and—given their clientele—money is probably no object. I imagine you’ve noticed that crime pays.”

  Doyle decided she should turn the conversation, as she had a very good suspicion that crime was paying off for Acton in spades, but before she could think of a safer topic, they were interrupted by the receptionist’s return. “I’m afraid Mr. Moran is occupied at present, and unable to entertain visitors, but his junior will meet with you.” With a nod, she led them down the hall and opened the door to a wood-paneled office, ushering them in.

  The barrister’s junior was a very self-possessed young woman dressed in a dark, tailored suit that nevertheless showed her figure to advantage. She introduced herself as Morgan Percy and her eyes lingered on Williams for a moment longer than necessary, despite her businesslike attitude.

  Doyle shook hands and began, “We are investigatin’ the homicide of one of your former clients—well, two of the chambers’ former clients, actually; we are tryin’ to determine if the murders are related.”

  As Doyle named the victims, the woman pulled her gaze away from Williams, a hint of skepticism contained therein. “And you think we will be able to cast some light on who killed a former client?”

  “We’re trying to pursue all leads,” offered Williams. “We were hoping you would allow us to review your old files to look for any connections to the recent homicides.”

  Percy raised a brow at him. “I’m surprised the CID is concerned enough to turn over this particular stone. Aren’t there other crimes with more appealing victims to consider?”

  Faith, she’s a little defensive for this early in the day, thought Doyle, but Williams fired right back.

  “Are you conceding your former clients deserved to be killed, then?”

  “Of course not,” Percy protested, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk. “But you must admit this is unusual—wouldn’t it be more efficient to follow up with known associates?”

  Doyle explained carefully, “There is
a—a concern—that this killer may be lookin’ for similar victims.”

  This came as a surprise, and the other girl stared. “Similar victims? Other clients, do you mean?”

  “Something like that, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” Couldn’t very well tell her that all the chambers’ employees and the renowned barrister himself were potential suspects; they’d be ushered out the door with no further ado.

  It may have been this somber revelation, or it may have been that Williams was a fine specimen, but for whatever reason, Percy decided to cooperate. “Very well. What is it you’d like to know?”

  “Could we have a look at the two files?” asked Williams.

  Doyle put in, “Or—is there anyone here who would remember workin’ the cases? I’d like to ask a few questions, if I may.”

  Percy consulted her laptop and entered the names. “The Bennet file has been shredded as part of the routine purging, but we still have the other one.” Lifting her phone, she asked a file clerk to pull it from storage. As they waited, she glanced over at Williams. “How long have you been doing homicides, Detective Sergeant?”

  “He’ll be a detective inspector soon,” Doyle offered, thinking to boost his stock. “The youngest since Wensley.” Doyle was not certain who Wensley was, but it sounded impressive.

  Percy smiled at him. “You must be good at it.”

  “I do my best. It is interesting work.”

  “Indeed it is.” They regarded each other for a long moment and Doyle was careful to hold her tongue—one needn’t be over-perceptive to feel the chemistry in the room.

  The clerk came in with a two-volume file, and Percy removed the ribbon tied around it and began to read the log. “Oh yes—I remember Mr. Moran talking about this one; the client was charged with killing his tutor.” She looked up to explain. “He was enrolled in a social program to help disadvantaged youth, and a tutor was provided free of charge to help him pass the trade exam.” Flipping through the pages, she displayed the mug shot. “Client was poor and black, victim was white, newspapers found it impossible to believe that the accused would compromise such an opportunity; a witness came forward with a shaky alibi, and a plea deal for probation was the end result.” She paused and added honestly, “The prosecutors were nervous about black on white crime; at the time there was a lot of unrest in the black community.”