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

by Anne Cleeland

  With a small smile, he tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “We’ve no choice?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  She lay back down with a sigh. “It’ll be a rare crack, what with your girlfriend there, countin’ the silver.”

  He squeezed her against his side in mock-punishment. “Don’t say it.”

  “Ach, husband,” she pointed out fairly. “You’re the one with the girlfriend, after all. How vulgar can I be? Can I throw the crested crockery at you?”

  His response was delayed because he was feeling amorous again—faith, the man was on a hair-trigger—and he moved atop her, braced on his elbows so as not to crush her; although sometimes when he got carried away she did wind up a bit crushed. He murmured into her neck. “We may have to appear strained.”

  “No problem a’tall for me.”

  “Stop.” His mouth moved southward.

  Sighing with pleasure, she contemplated the ceiling. “I suppose I can pretend to be neglected, so long as you make it up to me at a later date.”

  “Done,” he said, although his voice was muffled.

  “Am I allowed to know the protocol?”

  The question was met with silence. “Michael—I don’t think you’re payin’ attention.”

  “Oh, I’m paying attention; believe me.”

  She giggled.

  He pulled himself up and rested his forehead against hers, smiling. “There. That’s much better.”

  She wound her arms around him before relaxing back into the pillows, closing her eyes. He lay atop her, and she could feel his scrutiny as he gently stroked back the hair at her temples. “Why were you so sad, Kathleen?”

  She kept her eyes closed. “I can’t be talkin’ about it; I’ll be sad again, and all your hard work for naught.”

  “Right, then.”

  He rested his cheek against hers—he hadn’t shaved recently, but there was something very comforting about the brush of masculine whiskers against her delicate skin. I will wait and think about everything over the weekend, she decided, breathing in his scent. It can all wait a day or two; I’ll decide what I will tell him then. Hopefully, my assorted friends and admirers won’t run amok in the meantime. And Masterson will be out of harm’s way at Trestles—although it didn’t seem that Savoie truly planned to kill her—not yet, leastways. “Well then; let’s get up and pack. Since Reynolds was given the boot, you are charged with choosin’ the proper outfit for a wronged wife.”

  “I like this one,” he said, running his hands down her body and kissing her neck.

  “No—this is the mistress’s outfit, Michael. You are mixed-up.”

  “There is no mixing the two of you.”

  “Then keep it to mind that I’m a Puritan—she just may suggest somethin’ along those lines and I’m not goin’ to share.”

  “Good God, no.”

  As he kissed her, she giggled again.

  CHAPTER 29

  DOYLE LEANED FORWARD TO PEER AT TRESTLES THROUGH THE Range Rover’s windscreen as they came up the long, graveled drive. She’d seen a picture on the Internet, and the reality was every bit as imposing; the massive oak trees that lined the drive revealed glimpses of an ancient edifice of soft-hued stone—expanded and remodeled during the Georgian era, the Web site had said—set in acres and acres of well-tended pastures and woodland. It could have been a generic illustration under “ancestral estate” in the dictionary, and Doyle was a stranger in a strange land. “It’s beautiful, Michael,” she said sincerely.

  “Yes.” She caught a glimpse of emotion from him—a deep satisfaction mixed with something else—exultation? It surprised her into silence for a moment; he feels as though it is a prize, she realized—as though he’d won it after a battle of some sort. Which seemed a little strange, as he had inherited it—he was the latest Lord Acton in a lengthy string of them.

  She wasn’t given time to ponder, because he was briskly back to business as their destination loomed before them. “If you would, try to stay quiet and follow my lead.”

  “Oh—Michael.” She turned to him in acute dismay. “Your plan is doomed if it’s countin’ on that.”

  He turned to give her his rare smile. “I have every confidence in you.”

  “Lead on, then.” She wished she had every confidence; best button her lip so as not to overturn all of Acton’s well-laid plans, whatever they were.

  “I’d like to agree on a signal if I’d prefer that you left the room.”

  She gave him a look. “You could take a turn at brushin’ your hair back, I suppose.”

  “Better that I appear annoyed. I will rub my chin, like this.”

  He demonstrated, and she nodded, hoping she’d remember. “Will it be safe to ring you up on my mobile, d’you think?”

  “Only use it to answer me, if you don’t mind.”

  This was not a problem; like a coward, she’d turned off her mobile that morning because there was a text from Williams. One crisis at a time.

  They came to a halt before the worn stone steps that led up to the massive carved-oak front door. The door opened just as Acton came around to help her out of the car, and a dignified silver-haired gentleman in a black suit stood in the entryway, directing a younger man to fetch the luggage from the boot. As they mounted the steps, the silver-haired gentleman bowed his head just enough to preserve his dignity. “Very good to see you, sir; madam.”

  “Kathleen, allow me to present our steward, Hudson. He will oversee our stay.”

  As Hudson acknowledged the introduction, Doyle admitted, “I believe we have spoken on the telephone, Hudson.”

  “Yes, madam; I remember the occasion.”

  Of course he did; she’d had a largely incoherent conversation with him because she was trying to track Acton down, but had been too intimidated to mention to him that she was Acton’s wife. Still and all, he did not seem aghast at having to condescend to meet her lowly self, and indeed, she had a quick flash of well-bred sympathy. So, she thought; even Hudson is aware I’m on Acton’s least-favored list.

  “The dowager Lady Acton is awaiting you in the drawing room; if you will follow me, please.” With a dignified step, the steward escorted them down the marble-floored entryway.

  Doyle almost stopped in her tracks at the sudden impression of curious watchfulness; she’d never been in a building that had housed so many generations, and she could feel a strong, fleeting sense of them, then it was gone. Surprised, she raised her gaze to the timbers in the high ceilings and so nearly ran into Hudson, who’d opened a wood-paneled door for her. “Lord and Lady Acton,” he announced, and stepped back.

  Doyle had a quick impression of wood walls and tasteful upholstery before she focused on the woman sitting ramrod straight on the settee. “Lady Acton,” she said, and thought her voice sounded overly-loud in the hushed room. She had forgotten to ask Acton if she was supposed to dip a curtsey or bow her head, so she walked forward and offered her hand, because it seemed the best compromise.

  The woman took it and said formally, “How pleasant to see you again, my dear.”

  This was, of course, not true, but came as no particular surprise; the only other time they’d met had resulted in an all-out donnybrook and Doyle had thrown the woman out of the flat. “Yes—thank you, ma’am,” she replied, and wondered what she was thanking her for.

  Acton came forward to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Mother.”

  “Please be seated; Hudson will arrange for refreshments and if you are not too fatigued from your journey, the staff would like to be presented.”

  Initially there was a small, strained silence whilst Hudson directed the footman to lay out the tea things, and so Doyle did what she did best when she was nervous, and started to talk. She extolled the virtues of the house and the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She recited the pertinent highlights of their journey and expressed her gratitude that the weather had cooperated. Acton sat silent
ly, looking slightly bored. Lady Acton’s cold gaze moved from Doyle to Acton with no hint of what she was thinking. I sound like a complete knocker, thought Doyle, but she could not seem to help herself; she was desperately trying to resist the urge to leap out the window and flee the scene. She felt a glimpse of approval from her silent husband, but her floundering performance was unfortunately no pretense.

  Finally, there was a discreet knock at the door and they turned to face Hudson, who ushered in the other members of the staff as the dowager introduced them. “Our housekeeper, Greta; Greta, this is Acton’s new wife, Lady Acton.” Doyle nodded from her seat as the woman dipped a curtsey, and the dowager added, “Greta is our dear Marta’s sister.”

  Doyle almost gasped aloud. Marta had been Acton’s housekeeper in London, and she had been a willing accomplice in the failed poisoning attempt on the fair Doyle. But Marta had wound up murdered—although it was staged as a suicide—and unfortunately, her death meant they were never to find out whether the dowager was a co-conspirator in the plot. “It is nice to meet you, Greta,” Doyle offered, trying not to think of the baby she’d lost. “I am sorry about your sister.” Sorry she was paying for her sins, that was; unlikely that a poisoner would find herself clasped to the bosom of Abraham.

  Greta nodded in sad acknowledgment. “Thank you, madam.” Doyle was then introduced to the cook, Mrs. Wright, who was plump and rosy-cheeked in the best tradition, and Mathis, the dark-haired upstairs maid who was assigned to assist Doyle. They said all that was proper, but Doyle was aware that both were making a covert assessment, the cook looking a little doubtful while the maid kept her thoughts to herself.

  After Doyle made the acquaintance of the valet and the footmen, Acton checked his watch and rose. “If you would like to get settled, Kathleen, I will be in my office.” He addressed Hudson, “I am expecting a visitor or two; please inform me of any new arrivals.”

  Doyle glanced at him with some foreboding. More than one visitor? Masterson and who else? Her better half, however, was already moving out the door, giving instruction to Hudson in a low voice. The dowager raised a thin hand toward the maidservant. “Mathis will show you to your rooms, my dear. I hope you find them to your satisfaction.” She rose. “We shall reconvene for tea at four.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Doyle was left to trail along behind Mathis, feeling as though she were a teenager who’d been sent to her room. As they mounted the stairway, she decided to put a few questions to the maid who—truth to tell—seemed much more self-possessed than the new Lady Acton. “Are you related to Greta and Marta, Mathis?”

  “No, madam. I am Mr. Hudson’s grand-niece.”

  “Oh—I see. Did you know Marta at all?”

  “Some, but she was mainly before my time; she went to live in London a few years ago.”

  Doyle feigned regret. “I feel so badly that I didn’t know how unhappy she was—did you have any idea why she killed herself?”

  “No, madam,” said Mathis, and it was the truth.

  “Did you hear anyone speak of it, here?”

  The girl turned to face Doyle for a moment from the stair above. “It saddened all of us; a terrible tragedy.”

  Girl’s a brick wall, thought Doyle a bit crossly. There’s little point in having a ladies’ maid unless she’s gossipy, for the love o’ Mike.

  “Here we are, madam.” The girl opened the entry door into a suite of rooms. “Please allow me to unpack your bag.”

  As the maid efficiently hung her clothes in a large armoire, Doyle admired the sumptuous suite, and tried not to feel as though she’d gone through the looking-glass. The furnishings were elegant, the rug thick and luxurious, and the four-poster bed so high she wondered if she’d have to take a running leap to land atop the feather bed. Mathis offered no further comment, and so Doyle, feeling self-conscious, wandered over to the many-paned windows and found herself looking out over beautifully laid-out formal gardens. Resisting the urge to press her face to the glass, she gazed in wonder at the precisely-trimmed hedges and the geometric flower beds, arranged in alternating, vibrant colors. It was breathtaking, and she couldn’t help but admire Acton’s strategy; no reward promised by a Russian mobster could match this view alone. There wasn’t an Englishwoman alive who hadn’t fantasized about being mistress of such an estate, and it suddenly occurred to Doyle that she was the mistress of this estate—down to every flower in the flowerbeds. It was a far cry from walking with her mother to buy a soup bone because it was the week the rent was due. How strange life was.

  She turned to the maid. “Such a pretty room, Mathis—but I don’t see my husband’s bag. Where will Lord Acton be stayin’?”

  “In the master’s chamber, madam.”

  “I see,” said Doyle, and she did.

  CHAPTER 30

  AFTER MATHIS LEFT, DOYLE WAITED IN HER ROOMS FOR A TIME, feeling out-of-place and half-hoping that Acton would come to find her, even though she knew it wouldn’t fit the protocol, which seemed to feature avoiding his neglected wife. As for her own protocol, she should probably shake her stumps and go do a little listening, since Acton thought someone here was leaking information to Masterson. At first she’d thought Greta a likely candidate, but on reflection, Greta’s sister, Marta, met her end because she was overly-loyal to the House of Acton, and willing to poison the red-headed usurper because of it. Based on the family history, then, it seemed unlikely that Greta had turned traitor. On the other hand, with her sister dead, Greta may be thinking of a warm retirement in the Bahamas, and thirty pieces of silver would certainly come in handy. One thing was certain; if this manor house was anything like St. Brigid’s School for Girls, the cook would have her finger squarely on the pulse of the place. With this in mind, Doyle made her way to the kitchens.

  Mrs. Wright was in the process of preparing the tea, and seemed genuinely pleased to behold Doyle, looking over the offerings. “I’m empty as a pocket,” Doyle confessed. “Don’t tell the dowager that I was here, scrimblin’ like a tinker.”

  With a conspiratorial chuckle, the cook served up a hot scone. “If I may say so, you don’t look like you’re one for cucumber sandwiches, my lady.”

  Doyle contemplated this remark as she pinched at the scone and then quickly withdrew her fingers from the hot steam that emerged. “Are the sandwiches truly made from cucumbers, or is it cucumbers between bread?”

  “Cucumbers between bread.” The cook indicated the silver tray on the far counter with a nod of her head.

  “Oh,” Doyle offered doubtfully. “Any chance that a slice of fried ham can be thrown atop?”

  The other woman smiled as she bent to check her breads. “Well, we’ll be having Cornish hens for dinner, as the master is very fond of them.”

  Mental note, thought Doyle. I’ll tell Reynolds about the Cornish hens—that is, if I am still married by the time this flippin’ weekend is over.

  The woman gave her a sidelong glance. “We’re to have guests for dinner.”

  This was said with an ominous undertone, and Doyle gladly took the bait. “Relatives, I suppose.” She sighed, and tried to look very put-upon. “What are they like?”

  But the conversation took an unexpected turn, as Mrs. Wright paused to clasp her hands beneath her apron and bestow a measuring gaze upon her guest. “I understand that your mother has passed on, so there’s none to offer a bit of advice, with you so young, and not knowing how to go on.”

  Very much surprised at being thus addressed, Doyle confessed, “It is true that I’m not very good at the goin’ on.”

  “Well, here’s a word to the wise, then. You’d best watch your husband.”

  Doyle met her eyes, genuinely startled by the woman’s candor, but the cook was unrepentant, and nodded. “Best take this chance to warn you, since I may not get another. Can’t beat about the bush—there’s a woman coming who’s got her eye on him.”

  Cautiously, Doyle pretended to consider this. “He’s always been somethin’ of a flirt.”


  “I don’t like the looks of this one,” the other declared bluntly. “She’ll have him, if she can, and it’s up to you to put a stop to it.”

  “I think,” ventured Doyle, “that you are over-estimatin’ my abilities, here.”

  “Nonsense,” the cook countered briskly. “You’re young and pretty; remember, he wanted to marry you—not another.”

  “That’s true.” And the story was a good one; it was almost a shame neither this cook nor anyone else would ever hear it.

  After assessing her for a moment, Mrs. Wright turned to address the tea, brewing in a large canister on the stovetop. “The master being who he is, there’ll always be women after him—like this one; or Mathis. You’d better find a way to keep his mind on you, if I may be saying so. But no sulking,” she added, and tapped the counter with a spoon to emphasize this last point. “There’s nothing that will drive a man away faster. Better to provide good food and plenty of sex; men are simple creatures.”

  As Acton was the farthest thing imaginable from a simple creature, Doyle made no comment, but nodded thoughtfully in response to this pragmatic advice, noting with interest that Mathis the maid had been included in the list of hazards. Saints, she thought; apparently the place is riddled with brassers, and as Munoz was wont to point out, everything is always about sex. Or perhaps Mathis is in league with Masterson, and is trying to seduce Acton’s secrets from him. But that theory made little sense; if that were the case, the maid could not be best-pleased to see Acton seducing Masterson, so to speak, and causing the reporter to stray from their stated goal. It was unlikely that the plan involved multiple seductions by all co-conspirators.

  Doyle’s train of thought was interrupted by the cook, who apparently felt it was necessary to steel Doyle’s spine. “Make a push for him, and don’t back down.” The woman eyed her a bit doubtfully. “Everyone says you’re very brave.”

  Doyle disclaimed, “It’s been made up to be more than it is,” and then wondered, yet again, why her scalp prickled whenever the bridge-jumping incident came up in conversation.