Before the other woman could make a reply, Mathis herself appeared in the kitchen doorway. “My lady is asking for you, madam. She is in the drawing room and would like the tea to be brought in.”
Doyle rose immediately, looking self-conscious. “I must go—thank you, Mrs. Wright.” The cook allowed an eyelid to close in a slow wink, and then went to assemble the tea.
Upon her entrance to the drawing room, Doyle was met with the sight of Acton, the dowager, and Cassie Masterson, all seated around the low table whilst Masterson laughed vivaciously at something Acton had said. He was smiling, with one hand casually holding on to the back of Masterson’s chair, but looked up upon her arrival. “Hallo, Kathleen; allow me to introduce . . .”
“Oh—we’ve met. How are you, Ms. Masterson?”
Masterson stood and offered her hand in a friendly fashion. “Cassie—please. I am well, thank you. Have you had any luck with your microfiche search?”
“Some promisin’ leads,” Doyle replied, and was surprised to realize this was true. What leads? she thought, a bit bewildered. Mr. Moran and Morgan Percy? With an effort, she refocused. “I understand you are researchin’ the archives, here. Are you followin’ a story, then?”
“Cassie has an interest in historical estates,” offered Acton, a hint of warm pride in his voice. “She has agreed to archive the estate documents for the past hundred years, as the recent history has been neglected.” He bestowed his half-smile upon their visitor. “My fault, I’m afraid—I never seem to find the time.”
Whilst Doyle processed the daunting fact that the last hundred years would be considered “recent,” the dowager turned to ask her, “Did you find your rooms to your liking, my dear?”
“I did indeed—everythin’ is lovely.”
With friendly curiosity, Masterson asked, “Are you in the Georgian wing, or the Elizabethan?”
“The Georgian, I think,” said Doyle, who hadn’t a clue. “It overlooks the gardens.”
“Capability Brown,” pronounced Masterson.
“What’s that?” asked Doyle.
“Capability Brown redesigned the gardens. They were Tudor, originally,” Acton explained.
“Well then; that is excellent.” Doyle feared that she hadn’t completely erased the sarcasm from her voice; the brasser had studied up, apparently.
To cover the awkward moment, Acton suggested, “Shall we have our tea in the archives room? I can show Cassie how the documents are organized.” He looked up at Doyle and absently brought his hand to his chin. “Come, Kathleen; you should become familiar, also.”
Taking her cue from his signal, Doyle demurred. “Would you be mindin’ very much if I take a nap, instead? I promise I’ll catch up tomorrow.” Doyle did her best to appear guileless and unaware that she was making a major conjugal error, but noted that the dowager regarded her narrowly with her hooded gaze.
“I will see you again at dinner, then,” said Masterson, radiating glee mixed with anticipation.
She’s taken her measure of me and thinks this is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel, thought Doyle as she said her good-byes. Here’s hoping Acton knows what he’s about, and here’s hoping he can keep her at arm’s length in the dusty archives—I’d send Mathis to chaperone if I wasn’t worried Mathis would try to jump him herself.
As if on cue, the maid met her at the foot of the stairs. “Might I be of assistance, madam?”
“I’m going to my room for a rest, Mathis, but thank you.”
“May I bring you coffee? Lord Acton tells me you are quite fond.”
Unbidden, Doyle had a flashing memory of what it felt like to be poisoned, and barely managed to remain civil. “No. No, thank you.”
In an unhappy frame of mind, Doyle returned to her room and climbed up to sit on the bed, looking out at the fading light and wishing she could seek some comfort from Acton. He is working out some clever plan, she reminded herself firmly; stop being such a baby and try to help him, for heaven’s sake. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gleaned much, thus far. The dowager despised her, but this was to be expected, and it boggled the mind to think that she could be working hand-in-glove with Solonik—it would be beneath her dignity to fraternize with a foreigner. Mathis was annoying, but didn’t seem to be harboring any particular animosity toward her, and although Mrs. Wright had hinted that the maid was after Acton, Doyle did not garner that impression. Hudson, one would think, would sacrifice himself on the Acton family altar rather than betray them, and besides, Doyle had the impression that Acton trusted the steward, and Acton was not one to trust anyone. There weren’t many more on the list of potential suspects; the cook seemed inclined to prop her up, rather than invite her to betray Acton—oh, she thought suddenly, her scalp prickling—I’ve missed something. Closing her eyes, Doyle tried to concentrate; there was something Mrs. Wright said that was significant—now, what was it?
There was a soft knock on the door, and Doyle’s eyes flew open in hopeful anticipation—perhaps it was Acton. She opened the door to Hudson, however, who bowed his head gravely. “Lord Acton requests that you turn on your mobile, madam.”
“Oh—I forgot it was off. Thank you, Hudson.” The steward retreated, making no further comment, so Doyle shut the door after him and turned on her mobile. There were several text messages from Acton—the symbol he used to check in with her—and she smiled at the screen. Don’t fret, you knocker, she thought; I know it’s all a sham. She texted her symbol back, and added “Cereal?” Cereal was their code word for sex.
The reply came promptly: “No. Sorry.”
She texted her symbol again to show she understood. If he crept into her room tonight, all their playacting would be for naught. Fair enough; it would be harder on him than on her.
There was another text from Williams, and Doyle reluctantly opened it. “RU OK?” it said.
Wary, Doyle decided she’d best answer. “Yes. Need 2 talk.” She wondered if he knew that Masterson was here. She opened his first message—the one she’d ignored—and it said: “Call me?” Williams, she thought, feeling a pang of misery; if any of this is your doing I promise I will strangle you with my bare hands.
Whilst she held the mobile in her hands, Williams replied, “Now is OK—meet 4 coffee?” She stared at it thoughtfully. Apparently he didn’t know she was away. Or—he did and was pretending not to know. Couldn’t trust him until she found out. “Monday,” she texted.
She waited a few minutes and the reply came, “OK.”
You’d better hope it’s OK, she thought grimly. Or you’ll be left to Acton’s tender mercies and believe me, my friend; he’s neither tender nor merciful.
CHAPTER 31
DOYLE DESCENDED THE STAIRWAY JUST AT SEVEN, BECAUSE SHE imagined the dowager expected her dinner guests to be prompt. She was aware that as the current Lady Acton, she was not exactly a guest, but it was inconceivable that she would attempt to countermand the dowager, and so she was content to recede into the background and follow whatever lead Acton was willing to give her. She hoped she looked the part of the neglected bride; she wore the black cashmere sweater that Acton had selected, and she’d pulled back her hair with a black ribbon headband. The headband made her appear younger than her already-tender years, and so she applied some lip gloss as a counterbalance. Mathis had offered her assistance, but Doyle had declined, being as she really didn’t need any help putting on lip gloss and the last thing she needed was a misguided attempt to make her more presentable. Nevertheless, she duly noted that the maid lurked outside in the hallway, pretending to arrange flowers but with her ears on the stretch. Search my room, if you like, thought Doyle with some spite as she closed the door; nothing worth seeing, my friend.
She entered the drawing room to behold Acton, the dowager, and Masterson, as well as another gentleman, all in quiet conversation whilst a footman served cocktails. Acton approached, kissed her cheek perfunctorily, and then brought her over to the gentleman. “Allow me to introduce my cousin, Kathleen
; Sir Stephen Waite.”
So; here was the cousin and heir who Acton so disliked, and Doyle looked him over with interest. Sir Stephen was a head shorter than Acton and had light brown hair and eyes; not Acton’s dark eyes and coloring that he shared with his mother. A relative on his father’s side, presumably—which made sense if he was Acton’s current heir. Sir Stephen was scrutinizing her narrowly behind a benign expression, and Doyle had a brief impression of relief as he took her hand. “Lady Acton; your fame precedes you. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
“Why, what ‘fame’ is this?” The dowager raised her thin brows.
“You do not know of it? Lady Acton jumped off Greyfriars Bridge to rescue someone in the line of duty.”
The dowager looked as though she had never heard of anything so vulgar, and so Doyle was moved to demur, “It was nothin’, truly.”
“Oh, it was a brilliant story,” Masterson disagreed with a slight lift of her wine glass. “Three days coverage and an extra print run.”
“A nine days’ wonder,” the gentleman agreed with just a touch of condescension.
Doyle could feel the color flooding her face as Acton interjected smoothly, “Cassie has volunteered to update the archives, Stephen.”
Sir Stephen flicked Acton a speculative look, and then turned to Masterson. “Have you indeed? I commend you for taking on the task.”
The other woman smiled her confident smile. “It is no hardship, I assure you. I did a series a few years ago about the history of the great houses, and I find the subject fascinating.”
Doyle found this of great interest, as it indicated Acton had done his homework with this potential home-wrecker; Doyle would bet her teeth that this archives-sorting gambit was no chance assignment.
Very pleased to hold the floor, Masterson continued, “So far, I’ve sorted the documents into decades, but tomorrow I’ll go through them more thoroughly to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. It is completely fascinating; the details bring the storied past to life.” She cast a respectful glance at the dowager, who only pursed her mouth and made no return.
Trying to charm the old guard, thought Doyle. Good luck to her; Masterson would be just as unwelcome a daughter-in-law as the vulgar bridge-jumper. She briefly met Acton’s eye and noted that her husband was not happy that Sir Stephen had been patronizing to her—she knew the signs. Hopefully, they would refrain from fisticuffs in front of the newspaper reporter.
Sir Stephen could not share Masterson’s enthusiasm. “Perhaps not as fascinating as you might hope; Trestles managed the two world wars without incident. On the other hand, the seventeenth century was one long crisis.”
“Indeed,” agreed the dowager. “It took a great deal of courage and political maneuvering to see that Trestles was preserved.”
Masterson saw another opening to impress the dowager, and added, “It is extraordinary that it has prospered to such an extent—so many famous estates have fallen to the National Trust because the families were unable to keep them up.”
There was a small silence, and Doyle was surprised to feel crosscurrents of strong emotion between the others, but before she could sort it out, the front bell echoed.
“That will be dear Melinda,” announced the dowager to the room in general, and Doyle could sense Acton’s flare of irritation. Saints, she thought. Now what?
Melinda proved to be a slender, languid, and quintessentially aristocratic woman approximately Acton’s age who glided into the room in a negligent fashion. She immediately approached Acton, lifted on tiptoe to kiss him, then wiped her lipstick from his cheek with a thumb. “Acton, you devil. You, married! Which one is she?” She looked at Masterson and Doyle, then decided on Masterson as the more likely candidate, so that Acton was required to inform the newcomer that his bride was, in fact, the unlikely Doyle. Undaunted, Melinda embraced her and whispered loud enough for the others to hear, “We have a lot to talk about.”
Ah, thought Doyle; here is someone with carnal knowledge of Acton, no doubt invited by his mother to cause trouble before she was made aware that Masterson was already primed for the role. Just crackin’ grand.
Melinda deftly lifted a vodka tonic from the proffered tray, and revealed to Doyle and Masterson that she had been a neighbor until she married and moved away. “I traded my husband for a great deal of alimony,” she confided. “Better luck to you.” This was directed at Doyle, who wasn’t certain how to respond.
Melinda then turned to Masterson. “Are you here with Stephen?”
“No.” Masterson offered no further explanation, but had the look of someone relishing a delightful secret, which made Doyle long to draw her weapon and shoot her dead.
“Cassie is a newspaper reporter,” Sir Stephen offered. “She writes about the great houses.”
“As a sideline,” Masterson corrected with a smile. “Mainly, I cover major crimes in the Metropolitan area—that’s how I met Acton.”
“You must be busy, then.” Melinda waved a vague hand of disinterest.
“Yes—unfortunately London has no shortage of major crimes.”
“Deplorable; it is the foreign element, no doubt.” The dowager’s gaze rested briefly upon Doyle.
“Cassie does commendable work,” Acton offered. “The press is a necessary component of law enforcement.”
That this was an out-and-out falsehood came as no surprise to Doyle; Acton had no use for newspapers except for those rare occasions when he needed the public’s help with a crime.
“It is rewarding work,” agreed Masterson, her gaze resting thoughtfully on her wine glass. “But like most career women, I have sacrificed the personal for the professional. I would very much like to have a family, some day.” She carefully did not look at Acton, nor he at her, and Doyle would have rolled her eyes if she had not been so surprised—Masterson was lying. About what? Wanting a family? Having a family?
Doyle decided to test it out. “You’ve never married?” She realized it sounded as though she was trying to appear superior, but decided that it would fit the protocol if she were petty, and awaited an answer.
“No,” said Masterson, smiling sweetly. “I’d never met the right man.”
She used the past tense, of course, the brasser. Doyle could feel Acton’s gaze on her and knew he wanted her to drop it. Doyle complied, but not before she processed the interesting fact that Masterson was indeed lying.
The dowager took this opportunity to pronounce, “Marriage is the foundation of civilization; it must be the ultimate object of every woman.”
Doyle duly noted that she was lying, too.
Melinda tossed her head at Sir Stephen as she lifted another drink from the tray. “Listen to your aunt, Stephen; you must take your cue from Acton, and marry someone young and fecund.”
Doyle was not sure what “fecund” meant, but noted Stephen’s flare of carefully suppressed fury at Melinda’s baiting. I am going to be wrung out like a dishrag by the end of this evening, she thought with resignation, and then felt her mobile vibrate. “Excuse me.” She stepped aside to read the screen, which contained a message from Habib. “A murder,” it said. “Perhaps related.”
“My son may not have mentioned that mobile phones are not permitted at dinner.” The dowager’s tone was icy.
Doyle looked up. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Michael, may I speak to you for a moment?”
With palpable reluctance, Acton excused himself and stepped aside to confer with her.
“D’you have any ammo on you?” Doyle whispered. “Bein’ as I may not have enough to shoot them all with one clip.”
“Wait for my signal,” came his unruffled reply. “What was the call?”
“Habib. He thinks there’s another park murder.”
He met her eyes with regret. “We can’t leave, I’m afraid. Not until tomorrow evening at the earliest.”
“You’re killin’ me, here, my friend. Munoz is dyin’ to jump on this case.”
“Call Wil
liams and have him supervise the SOCOs. He’ll not miss anything.”
Doyle noted that to any observers, Acton’s attitude was one of suppressed annoyance, at odds with his words to her. “Would you mind callin’ Williams yourself? We’re quarrelin’.”
“I dare not leave you alone,” was the surprising reply, and he was dead serious.
“I’ll text him, then; although your mother may throw my mobile against the wall.”
“My mother,” he replied in a mild tone, “is no longer the mistress of Trestles.”
“I’ll mistress you one, I will,” she retorted crossly, scrolling for Williams’s number. “I’ve half a mind to throw myself into the nearest moat.”
Hudson bowed from the doorway. “Dinner is served.”
CHAPTER 32
THE GRAND DINING ROOM WAS DOMINATED BY A HUGE MAHOGANY table, centered between walls lined with red silk fabric and positioned beneath an impressive crystal chandelier. A painting with some mythological scene involving a bull—Doyle was not well-versed in things mythological—was prominently displayed on the wall across from her, and a confusing array of plates, glasses, and silverware glittered on the table. Acton was seated at the head with Doyle to his left, and Sir Stephen on her other side. Melinda and Masterson sat across from them, the dowager at the foot. Conversation was going to be difficult, as Doyle was naturally soft-voiced and the table could seat twenty. It seemed, however, that the now-tipsy Melinda was willing to take up the mantle as the footman ladled out the soup.
“Tell me about yourself, Kathleen; I know absolutely nothing about you.”
“I’m from Dublin, originally.” This seemed self-evident, but there wasn’t much else to recite. She couldn’t very well describe St. Brigid’s, or her first paying job at the fish market. Nothing like a job at the fish market to encourage one to enroll in the local police academy.
“Our stable hand is from Ireland,” offered the dowager. “You must meet him.”
Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3) Page 19
