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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Do you still have family in Ireland?” asked Masterson. She was no doubt thinking it would be nice to have Doyle out of the country, once she’d usurped the throne.

  “No—both my parents have been gathered up.” Best not to mention she left her father’s murder scene to go off and marry Acton; that would probably be considered more vulgar than the bridge-jumping incident. “I came to London to be a police constable, and then I enrolled in the Crime Academy to be a detective.”

  “And then you met Acton and none of us were invited to your wedding; shame on the both of you.”

  The last thing either of them would have wanted was extraneous people at their wedding, so Doyle offered diplomatically, “It was a bit spur-o’-the-moment, I’m afraid.” Understatement of the century.

  Melinda addressed Acton archly, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “Is that so? I never fancied you for a romantic.”

  “I have hidden depths,” was his reply, and Doyle was careful not to meet his eye.

  But Masterson was unhappy with this topic, and switched it back to one that would feature herself. “Is there any chance I can enlist your hidden depths to help with the archives tomorrow?”

  He smiled at her, sorry to disappoint. “I’m to ride in the morning with a friend.”

  This was true, and before Doyle could process this unexpected announcement, he added, “and I promised Kathleen I’d give her a riding lesson.”

  Doyle glanced up at him, a bit surprised, as this was news to the aforesaid Kathleen.

  “You haven’t ridden?” The dowager allowed her features to register well-bred dismay. “Ever?”

  “No, ma’am,” Doyle affirmed. And then, because she was unable to stop herself, “Although I have been hangin’ about the racecourse of late.”

  The dowager drew her brows together in disapproval. “Have you riding dress?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Doyle again. “I have not.”

  “There’s a pair of Fiona’s old boots in the stable,” offered Acton. “They should fit.”

  “A sad business,” said the dowager with a small shake of her head, and Doyle belatedly realized she was referring to the late Fiona, and not her own failings. “A ridiculous and dangerous job for a woman; small wonder she was murdered.”

  As Doyle also worked at the CID, and did not feel that Fiona in anyway deserved to be murdered, she made no comment. She noted, however, that Masterson had perked up. “I remember that story—did the Yard ever solve her murder, Acton?”

  He admitted with regret, “The trail went very cold.” That the trail went cold by his own contrivance remained unmentioned.

  Masterson shrugged slightly in an expression of understanding. “You can’t solve them all, of course. But there is hope; Lady Acton is currently trying to put some cold cases to bed.” She emphasized the title slightly; testing out the way it sounded when spoken aloud.

  “That I am,” acknowledged Doyle. “And it’s a tough row to hoe because the evidence is a bit sketchy. If the victim is not sympathetic—or if there are no relatives cryin’ out for justice—sometimes the detectives workin’ the case are not as thorough as they should be.”

  “It is fortunate there was press coverage, then,” offered Masterson with some complacency. “The microfiche records should help.”

  “There is a big difference between publicity and evidence, though.” Doyle brought to mind her conversation with Williams and Percy. “The publicity sometimes manipulates the evidence.”

  Masterson, however, did not care for this remark, and bristled a bit. “There is nothing more important to an investigative reporter than journalistic integrity, I assure you.”

  “You must admit,” Sir Stephen observed with a cynical twist of his mouth, “that oftentimes it appears the reporter is supporting an agenda.” Doyle noted that Sir Stephen had been awaiting an opportunity to needle Masterson—a first-class needler, he was.

  “I suppose that’s true,” Masterson conceded. “But then the reporter runs the risk of losing credibility. Above all, you can’t jeopardize your credibility—that’s the only thing you have, in this business.”

  “The same is true in our business.” Acton bestowed upon Masterson a half-smile of approval, and Doyle noted that one of his hands was out of sight beneath the table. With a mighty effort, she resisted an urge to pin it to the table with her fork to keep it within sight.

  The interminable dinner party continued through yet another course, this time fish in a white sauce. Doyle did not care for fish as a result of her stint at the fish market, and pushed it around with her fork, longing to fly away to London so as to take a gander at the latest corpse.

  “How does McGonigal, Acton?” The dowager shook her head in dignified sorrow. “A sad business about Caroline—I was quite fond of her.”

  Acton replied, “He does well, despite his loss. In fact, he has met a very nice woman.”

  “I will dine with him and meet her, the next time I am in town,” the dowager pronounced generously, and Doyle could not resist meeting Acton’s eye for a millisecond. She could only imagine the dowager’s reaction upon meeting Nanda, impoverished and fresh from Rwanda with a baby in tow.

  For Masterson’s benefit, the dowager explained, “Caroline and Timothy McGonigal are old friends of Acton’s from school. Regretfully, Caroline took her own life recently.”

  “Oh—I am sorry to hear it. Was it unexpected?”

  “Indeed,” said the dowager. “Wouldn’t you say so, Acton?”

  “Baffling,” agreed Acton, who’d shot Caroline dead.

  Melinda spoke up a little too loudly. “At the risk of speaking ill of the dead, I’ll admit I always found her annoying. And she didn’t like me at all.” Thinking about it, she then added fairly, “Timothy’s a good sort. Glad he’s happy; probably feels liberated, without the sister hanging about.”

  “Indeed,” said the dowager hastily, steering the conversation away from Melinda’s too-honest observations; “Timothy was always such a nice boy—Acton’s father was very fond of him. They shared an interest in music.”

  Doyle’s ears pricked up. She realized she’d never heard anyone speak of Acton’s father, including Acton. As she had been fatherless herself, she hadn’t really noticed but now, on reflection, it seemed a little odd; she had no idea how long Acton had held the title. Knowing instinctively that Acton would continue to avoid the subject, she debated whether or not to pursue it here, whilst she had a chance. Instead, Masterson did it for her.

  “Was your father a musician, then, Acton?”

  “Yes,” Acton said briefly, and Doyle’s antennae quivered.

  “He was renowned; wrote scores and won medals and such,” explained Melinda, making expansive gestures as people did when they drank too much. She leaned forward to conclude dramatically, “And then he disappeared.” She saw that this revelation was met with surprised silence by Doyle and Masterson, and so she lifted her glass to them and smiled. “No secrets among family, what?”

  Doyle wasn’t sure which was more startling; discovering that Acton’s father had disappeared, or having Melinda casually placing Masterson at the same familial level as herself.

  “Disappeared?” asked Masterson, like a hound to the scent.

  She realizes Acton doesn’t want to discuss it, but can’t help herself, thought Doyle; all that journalistic integrity and all. The atmosphere was strained, and as neither Acton nor the dowager made a response, Sir Stephen stepped into the awkward silence and replied briefly, “Yes, many years ago. He was eventually declared dead.”

  Doyle could sense Masterson’s avid interest, but it would be impossible to pursue the subject further, in light of the resounding silence coming from Acton and his mother. She dropped her gaze to her plate to hide her uneasiness; Masterson was absorbing disturbing information that could further Solonik’s schemes, if she were ever diverted from her current pursuit of Acton’s honors. For the hundredth time, Doyle hoped that Acton knew what
he was about; all it needed was for the drunk Melinda to start talking about what it was like to have sex with Acton, and her evening would be complete. While she worried, Acton touched her leg gently, and she was immediately comforted. He was more than a match for all of them, and she shouldn’t panic like a green recruit.

  Thankfully, Melinda had turned her languid attention to Masterson. “Do you cover the Royals?”

  “Heavens, no,” laughed Masterson. “I leave that to the tabloids; instead I serve the public.”

  Hearing the phrase that Kevin Maguire had once used, Doyle asked, “Have you worked with Kevin Maguire?”

  “I have,” Masterson said to her kindly, as if pleased a child had asked an intelligent question. “Maguire is an institution at the paper—larger-than-life.”

  “A very nice man,” remembered Doyle.

  “And very knowledgeable,” agreed Masterson. “He makes it his business to know everything about everyone.”

  Saints, thought Doyle in distress, sensing the woman’s smug satisfaction. Maguire has told Masterson everything he knows about Acton, which was probably quite a bit, since he’d been working on an exposé when Doyle had convinced him to drop it. Doyle didn’t like to think that Maguire would allow Masterson to use his information for blackmail, or revenge, or whatever Solonik’s purpose was; Maguire didn’t seem that sort.

  “Shall we play bridge after dinner?” The dowager turned to Doyle with a lifted brow. “You do play bridge, my dear?”

  Doyle felt Acton’s gaze upon her as he fingered his chin, and so she demurred, “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes; it may be too confusing for you. Instead, Acton will help you keep score.”

  Hatchet-faced gargoyle, thought Doyle, feeling her color rise as she fixed her eyes on her plate and pressed her lips together. Your poor husband probably fled in horror, and it’s a wonder your son didn’t shoot you long, long ago. He’s not one to hesitate.

  Acton turned to Masterson and suggested he partner her, and she happily agreed, giving him a glance that indicated she would be very happy to partner him in other ways, as well. The dowager and Sir Stephen made up the table, with Melinda content to freshen up her drink and join Doyle as an observer. “A shame about her,” Melinda offered in a sympathetic aside, her words slightly slurred. “I quite like you.”

  “No you don’t,” said Doyle, and it was true.

  CHAPTER 33

  AFTER A FEW HANDS OF BRIDGE, ACTON RESTED HIS CHIN ON his hand and so Doyle stood and announced with poor grace, “Well, I’m for bed.”

  As though reminded of his obligations, Acton solicitously escorted her to Mathis at the foot of the stairs, and asked the maid to see that she was ready for her ride in the morning. He then kissed Doyle’s forehead distractedly and headed back to Masterson. For Mathis’s benefit, Doyle watched him go and pretended to silently fume as she ascended the stairs.

  The maid offered no comment, and saw her to her room. “If you need anything, madam, please ring me—you have my cell programmed? I will knock in the morning to be certain that you are up.”

  Doyle clambered onto the feathery bed to lie awake and think about what she’d learned. She didn’t sleep well in a strange place, and on top of that, she hadn’t slept without Acton’s arms around her since the day after they were married, so she was reconciled to a restless night—hopefully it would be the only one, and they could leave for home tomorrow. She was very sensitive to atmosphere and it was thick as soup in this place, between the miserable assortment downstairs and the vague feeling of watchful generations, hovering about. Hurry Acton, she pleaded mentally; solve the problem. I need to get back and sort out a serial killer and a French kingpin, and not necessarily in that order.

  As for Acton’s problems, they didn’t seem any closer to a resolution, either. Doyle had duly noted that Mathis the maid was a bundle of suppressed wariness, despite her demure manner—but small wonder, with such a monumental scandal brewing for all to see. Doyle just couldn’t see the maid conniving with someone like Solonik, though; the slyness wasn’t there, although it was there in spades with Cousin Stephen—a likely villain if there ever was one. Doyle had also begun to wonder if the person leaking information from Trestles was even aware of Masterson’s role; Doyle hadn’t caught the feeling that any of them shared a secret with the reporter, which seemed strange. Acton was probably doing the same thing—watching for any significant interaction between Masterson and one of the others. She tried not to imagine what else Acton was willing to do for the cause, but it was best not to dwell on it; she could only hope that he would not run the risk of making the fair Doyle so unhappy again.

  Hard on this thought, the key turned in the lock and Acton himself came in, holding a cup between his hands as Mathis closed the door behind him. “If anyone asks, you sent a text asking me to bring up warm milk.”

  “Mother a’ mercy, I’m a pill.” She lifted her face for his kiss. “How goes your schemin’?”

  “I wanted to assure you that all is in train.” He leaned against the bed and lifted a palm to her cheek, still warm from the cup. “I am sorry it is so uncomfortable for you, Kathleen. If I could spare you this, I would.”

  Doyle thought it an opportune time to mention, “Mrs. Wright implied that you were diddlin’ the maid.”

  He bent his head for a moment to smile. “No, although I’ve been closeted with Mathis once or twice because she is working for me, assigned to keep an eye on you.”

  “Oh—oh, I see. Well, it’s irritatin’, is what it is. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Sometimes,” he explained in a diplomatic tone, “your thoughts are a little transparent.”

  This was unfortunately true, but didn’t mean that Doyle appreciated having it pointed out. “I’m that sorry—but I can’t hold a candle to your girlfriend, who acts like she owns the place already. That’s a dinner party I won’t be forgettin’ for a good while.”

  “A necessary evil,” he said only, and fingered her hands in his. “What else did Mrs. Wright have to say?”

  “Mainly, she was exhortin’ me to do battle with the pretender, and tryin’ to make me believe I had a fightin’ chance. She cooks up an excellent scone, by the by.”

  He was silent for a moment, and then shifted the subject. “You didn’t eat much, tonight.”

  “Can you be blamin’ me, husband? It’s a rare wonder I didn’t upend the table.”

  “Melinda—” he paused. “Melinda was a long time ago.”

  “Clearly. Your taste has improved by leaps and bounds, my friend.”

  He smiled at her tone. “My mother would be very content to drive you away.”

  “She can’t do it,” declared Doyle with some spirit. “And I doubt she’d be happier with nasty Cassie, anyway.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  He seemed lost in thought, and she respected his mood for a few moments, then steeled herself to say what needed to be said, remembering her visit with wretched Solonik in the wretched, wretched prison. “I want you to know, Michael, that if it came down to brass tacks and you had to do somethin’ desperate—like marry the brasser to keep her in check—I would understand.”

  Acton paused in fingering her hands, and lifted his head to stare at her. “What nonsense is this?”

  Calmly, she reiterated, “I just want you to know that if I had the choice of savin’ you by lettin’ you go, I’d rather do that.”

  “Not an option.”

  He was annoyed, and she tried to tease him. “I could be your mistress, for a switch; only think how it would horrify your mother.”

  “Kathleen, have done.”

  She subsided into silence. Touchy, he was.

  After a moment, he lifted her hand to kiss it. “I am sorry I snapped at you.”

  “It was not a good idea, perhaps.”

  “You should have more faith in me,” he said, gently chiding.

  “Then I’m sorry, too.” She hoped he wouldn’t forget what she’d
said, just in case.

  He took a breath and reluctantly relinquished her hands. “I should go; I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t let her climb onto your lap; that’s my territory.” This was a reference to a very satisfying session of lovemaking that had begun spontaneously the other day; best to remind her husband what-was-what.

  “Don’t worry; I will tell her that it is important not to jump the gun.”

  “Just as long as no one is jumpin’ your gun, my friend.”

  With a wry mouth, he gave her a look as he shut the door behind him.

  She sat for a moment with her gaze on the closed door, thinking. He’d not mentioned the horse-riding tomorrow, but it seemed unlikely it was a chance ride with a friend, as he’d said. And another thing; he hadn’t explained why he’d appointed Mathis as watchdog. He was a world-class fretter, of course, but perhaps the jury was still out with respect to the dowager-as-poisoner. Sir Stephen was a dirty dish, and there was no love lost between he and Acton—but it seemed unlikely he was a danger to her; she was a trained police officer, after all, and theoretically able to handle herself. Lying back into the soft pillows, she propped her arms behind her head. And tied up in this tangle was the strange fact that Acton’s father had disappeared, long ago. There was something there that made everyone uneasy—she wished the conversation at the table had continued for a few more minutes. Although the subject shouldn’t have been raised in the first place—nothing like airing the dirty linen before a news reporter; Melinda was a crackin’ idiot.

  She hadn’t realized that she drifted off to sleep until she dreamed a strange and uncomfortable dream; a figure stood before her—that of a middle-aged man, dressed in some sort of war gear. He had bad teeth, and his hand rested on the hilt of a sword.

  “Go ’way,” she said, annoyed. “I’ve nothin’ to do with any of this.”

  He made no reply, but she thought she heard a dog, howling mournfully in the distance.

  She tried again. “I’m naught but a shant, and a mackerel snapper, to boot. You have me confused wi’ the bridge-jumper.”