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

by Anne Cleeland

  Before she could reply, Acton approached, leading a black horse, while Grady led another. “Here we go, Howard; a good excuse to clear our heads.”

  “Yes; an excellent excuse and I’m grateful indeed.”

  Grady came to take Doyle’s lead rope while the other men mounted up. She was then treated to the impressive sight of her husband mounted on a restive black horse, and could not find two thoughts to rub together. Faith, she thought a bit breathlessly; this is exactly why women read those romance novels.

  “We should return within the hour, Kathleen; I will see you after your lesson.”

  This directive apparently was given to ensure that she hung around the stables until they returned, but this would not be a hardship, as between the residents of the manor house and the bristling Grady, the stables seemed the lesser of the two evils. The two men rode away toward the expansive meadow-lands whilst Doyle watched and attempted to tamp down the lustful feelings thus engendered.

  “Would you like to try to take the reins, my lady?”

  Doyle was in no mood to be forced-polite, and neither was the stable hand, so she spared them both. “No thank you, Grady; mainly, I’d like to make a few calls—I’ve a case I should be checkin’ in on.”

  The Irishman was only too happy to help her down from the horse, and with no further ado, Doyle scrolled up Habib as Grady led the placid Buckle back to the stable.

  “DS Doyle.” Her supervisor’s clipped voice could barely be heard as there was a lot of ambient noise in the background.

  With a guilty start, Doyle remembered that it was the weekend; one tended to lose track of such mundane things as what day of the week it was, here in the elevated climes—maybe that was why Acton liked being here so much. “I’m sorry to be botherin’ you, sir, but I haven’t had a chance to check in on the latest park case, and I was wonderin’ if you could bring me up to speed, so to speak. I’m visitin’ my husband’s estate.” Hopefully, this would be considered a valid excuse for her dereliction of duty, and would also serve to remind him on which side his bread was buttered.

  Apparently it did, as Habib’s modulated voice registered his approval of this ceremonial milestone. “I see; I understand the estate is most impressive.”

  “Oh, it is, sir; they live like your maharajahs, and I’m a stranger in a strange land.”

  There was a pause. “You are confusing Pakistan with India, perhaps.”

  “Oh yes—sorry.” Now, there was an epic misstep—never make an attempt to joke around with Habib; mental note. She sped on to business so as to cover her lapse. “The victim is in the morgue?”

  “Indeed. A white male in his sixties who sustained a single gunshot wound to the back of the head while standing. He was formerly a member of the Health and Care Professions Council, supervising social workers.”

  “A do-gooder, then?” She was surprised enough to forget that she shouldn’t interrupt her superior officer when he was giving a report. This was a wrinkle; the other victims had all been unsavory types. It didn’t much sound as though this one was in keeping with the others.

  She was about to point this out when Habib continued, “It would seem. But his record indicates he was charged with a Section Five about eight years ago, and the charges were dismissed.”

  Doyle considered this in surprised silence for a moment; a Section Five was a pedophile, but the other park victims had been former murder suspects—this must be the twist that Williams had referred to. “It doesn’t quite fit the profile, then.”

  “No; but if it is the same killer, this difference may be significant.”

  “Yes; I suppose that’s true.” She chewed on her thumbnail and wished she was back in London, seeing to the follow-up for herself. “I’ll try to return later today; or tomorrow at the latest.”

  “I understand the chief inspector has asked DI Williams to do the groundwork in your absence. You may wish to coordinate with him.”

  “I will, sir; thank you.” Nothing for it; she’d have to speak with the traitorous Williams sooner or later, anyway. Mentally girding her loins, she rang him up and he answered immediately.

  “Where are you?”

  She cautiously decided there was no harm in telling him. “I’m at Trestles for the weekend.”

  “Christ, Kath; I was worried. I thought our French friend had coshed you, or something.”

  “He’s not goin’ to cosh me, and you mustn’t blaspheme, DI Williams.”

  “Have you heard from him lately?”

  “No.” Trust Williams to remind her of yet another unresolved crisis; Savoie was probably lurking around the next corner, after having figured out that the fair Doyle murdered his baby brother. “I told you, I’m at Trestles.”

  There was a pause. “Everything all right?”

  But she needed to cross that bridge when she was face-to-face with him, so she firmly turned the subject. “Never mind about all that; I just rang off with Habib and I want to hear about this latest victim. Do you think it’s the vigilante killer?”

  He was Williams, so naturally he was not going to leap to conclusions. “I think it’s a possibility, but it doesn’t look like there’s a cold case murder in the background, this time.”

  “There’s a murder, somewhere,” she replied, and was surprised to realize this was true. “Keep diggin’, please. Hopefully, I’ll be back on the case first thing Monday.”

  “All right; let me know when you get in.”

  “And don’t be talkin’ to Acton until you’ve talked to me. It’s very important.”

  But this request was met with resistance; she was coming to realize that Williams, despite his reserved nature, had a stubborn streak. “I think I can help, Kath. It’s a man-to-man thing.”

  “No, it’s not, and don’t you dare speak to him before I talk to you. I mean it, Thomas Williams.”

  “All right,” he agreed with reluctance. “It sounds like you are back to normal, at least.”

  She quirked her mouth at this equivocal compliment. “Meanin’ that I’m a shrew, I suppose.”

  “Meaning you’re back on your feet. It’s good to hear.”

  “Right, then; I’ll speak with you soon.” Thoughtfully, she rang off. He certainly didn’t sound like he was in the process of stabbing Acton in the back, but she needed to speak to him in person to be certain. In any event, he definitely had some explaining to do.

  She wandered around the stables, avoiding Grady and idly looking over the horses until she could hear the rhythm of approaching hoofbeats. Leaning over the stable’s Dutch door, she watched Acton and the Home Office gentleman sweep into the yard, their horses’ coats gleaming with damp exertion. “Michael,” she called out. “Might I have a word with you?”

  CHAPTER 36

  ACTON SLID OFF HIS HORSE AS GRADY MOVED IN TO TAKE HOLD of the bridles. “A moment, Howard.”

  “Of course.” As the other man dismounted, Acton strode over to the stable.

  Doyle was trying to decide how to explain to her husband that she was nearly melting with lust and was sick to death of celibacy, but Acton, bless him, needed no explanation, and took her arm to lead her into the tack room, where he shut the door and began mauling her about in the dim, dusty room.

  “Quickly,” he murmured against her mouth as he unfastened the button on her jeans, but she needed no encouragement as she ran her hands under his riding coat and across his back, which was slightly damp with perspiration. It was all a bit tricky, as her jeans were tight and he was impatient, but in a matter of moments she was being discreetly serviced against the bales of hay stacked against the wall, making soft sounds into her husband’s neck and mindlessly aware that this may not be the wisest course of action in the midst of all the various crises, but that they were both in need of this particular brand of reassurance and wasn’t he something, in his tall leather boots.

  In an impressively short amount of time, they were untangling limbs so that she could wriggle back into her jeans, all lustful fe
elings momentarily sated and all order momentarily restored in the world. As he leaned in for one last kiss, she noted, “Miles better than the last time I was locked in a tack room, I must say.”

  But he was not in a teasing mood, and said only, “Let me check you for straw. Stay close, now.”

  They emerged into the stable yard, where Howard was quietly discussing his horse’s finer points with Grady. Acton took her elbow and casually approached to join in the discussion, but Doyle could only listen without comment, blushing to the roots of her hair. Although he was hiding his amusement, their guest was clearly aware that his host had been rogering his wife in the tack room. “I’ve enjoyed this visit immensely,” he said when there was a pause in the conversation. “But I must return to London.”

  “Stay for luncheon?” offered Acton politely. “I can show you the Gainsborough.”

  “You tempt me, but another time.” He met Doyle’s eyes briefly, the glint of amusement still contained in his own as he said gravely, “Lady Acton; it was a pleasure to speak with you. Your husband is indeed a lucky man.”

  Doyle didn’t know where to look, but managed, “I count my own luck, sir.”

  Acton bent his head and ran a casual hand over his horse’s rump as Grady led the sleek animals away. “You will consider what I suggested?”

  “I will indeed. It is very sound advice.”

  Doyle brushed her hair from her forehead.

  Acton turned to face him, and the men formally shook hands. “Will you be available to meet again Monday? I can arrange for privacy.”

  “I’ll make myself available—pending events, of course.”

  They walked their guest to his car, and then stood on the gravel as he drove away and out of sight. Acton was preoccupied as he took her elbow to begin the walk back to the manor house, and so she remained silent, respecting his mood, until finally she could contain herself no longer, lifting an anxious face to his. “Howard is not what he seems, Michael.”

  “No,” he agreed absently, deep in thought.

  “No—no; it’s not what you’re thinkin’. He is not pampered, and—and spoiled. He’s brave; and—and true, I guess you’d say. Truly brave; not pretend-brave, like me.” She paused, struggling to put it into words so that he would understand and finding that she was having trouble controlling her emotions. “He’s a patriot. If he were Irish, he would be someone like Michael Collins at the Easter Risin’.” She drew a breath. “I think he’s in danger—his dog—” she paused, and decided to skip that part. “I’m worried he may not be alive much longer.”

  Acton watched her with a shuttered expression, but she could sense he was surprised. “I was going to arrest him Monday.”

  “Oh.” She was taken aback, and not certain what to say in response. “You mustn’t, Michael.”

  He stopped, and faced her, his unreadable gaze searching her face. “Why did he lie, then?”

  “I don’t know, Michael. I don’t think he trusts you much.”

  He lifted his head and contemplated the distance for a moment, thinking this over. “Is there any chance you are mistaken, Kathleen?”

  Doyle had a swift, unbidden memory of her night visitor with the bad teeth, and shook her head. “No, I am not mistaken.”

  He seemed to come to a decision. “Right, then; I must make a call; if you will excuse me?”

  He stepped away to scroll up his mobile, and she waited at a small distance, thinking over this latest development and wishing, for a moment, that she was back selling fish and not having to deal with ominous and shadowy events that had some unknown bearing on the fate of the kingdom. After he engaged in quiet conversation for a few minutes, he pocketed his mobile and fell into step beside her once again. He made no comment, and as they returned to the manor house through the formal gardens, she ventured, “Someone is runnin’ a rig on you? To frame Howard?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot discuss it.” With a fond arm, he pulled her against his shoulder, briefly. “I appreciate your help—I hope you don’t feel I am taking advantage of you.”

  “Advantage was taken, and mightily appreciated,” she teased wickedly.

  He smiled slightly, but warned, “You’ll have to tone it down a bit, please. No one will believe we are on the brink.”

  She sighed and subsided; reminded of the original crisis that had brought them here in the first place. “Aye, then; fun’s over.”

  “If you would, make it clear you are unhappy—the next few hours will be crucial.”

  “Should I stay in my room and sulk?” This said half-hopefully.

  But he squeezed her elbow in apology. “No; you must be present. Remember that she thrives on the intrigue. And you must signal if she tells an untruth.”

  “How ’bout if I pop her with a baton across the chops? Would that be signal enough?”

  But he had to reach for a responding smile as he opened the wrought-iron gates that led back to the main building, and it didn’t take someone with her perceptive abilities to sense that he had a great deal on his mind. In her best supportive-spouse manner, she offered, “Whist; not to worry, my friend—you’re a fine actor and Masterson is completely taken-in.”

  “Yes. Let us hope so.”

  There was something in his tone that made her eye him sidelong, but he gave nothing away, so she continued, “Speakin’ of which, have you had a chance to do any sleuthin’ amongst the staff? We should find out who’s the snake in the chicken coop.”

  He glanced at her. “Solonik’s source is Mrs. Wright.”

  She was so profoundly surprised that she stopped to stare at him. “Mrs. Wright? The cook? Are you certain, Michael?”

  He nodded his head. “Yes. In fact, you are the one who tipped me off—she warned you not to let Masterson steal me away, remember? Why would she even know that this was in the offing, at the time she spoke to you?”

  Thinking about it, Doyle could only concede what seemed like a very good point. “Oh. That never occurred to me, I’m afraid.” Faith, she was an idiot; after all, Acton had warned her to be on the lookout for someone trying to cultivate her. “But—it doesn’t make any sense, Michael; I know she was genuinely in my corner.”

  He explained patiently, “Indeed, she is. She doesn’t want Masterson to be swayed by me so as to disrupt their plan.”

  The light dawned. “Oh. That’s why she wanted me to fight for you—she was mad at her cohort for bein’ susceptible to your counter-plan.” Honestly; for a detective she was a dim bulb, sometimes.

  The manor house rose before them and Acton cautioned, “You must not give it away; not yet. Perhaps you should try to avoid Mrs. Wright—I’m afraid there is a good reason you were never put on undercover detail.”

  This was true, and she couldn’t even be offended; subterfuge was not her strong suit. “I suppose I can’t argue; you read my mind back at the stable, when I was dyin’ for a go.”

  “Only because I was thinking along the same lines, myself.”

  Playfully, she knocked his arm with her own. “You’d been thinkin’ along the same lines since the breakfast room, husband.”

  “True.”

  His smile was less abstracted and more genuine, and thus encouraged, she added, “Well, Howard found it all very amusin’—I can’t hide this blush under a barrel.”

  Acton made no further comment, but she could see that he was amused, himself, which was a good thing; he was on the verge of one of his black moods, and hopefully she could keep it at bay. His black moods tended to leave a lot of mayhem in their wake, with her fair self desperately trying to hold him back by the coat tails. “Any chance we can go home today?” With the Howard-who-was-not-what-he-seemed development, perhaps all plans had changed.

  His voice was apologetic as they approached the back door. “Probably not, I’m afraid. I must await events.”

  “I do like it here,” she lied diplomatically. “But I’m dyin’ to have a look at this latest vigilante victim. There’s a twist.”

&nbs
p; His interest sharpened, as it always did with the disclosure of a new crime. “What is it?”

  “Well, so far it’s a Section Five, but I imagine there’s a murder lurkin’ about somewhere.”

  He walked along in silence for a moment, and watching him, she ventured, “No? No murder, d’you think? Has the killer moved on to pedophiles?”

  But Acton replied slowly, “No—instead I wonder if it is an ABC murder.”

  “Oh—that’s what Habib thought, originally. You mean this was the intended target, all along, and he is trying to confuse the issue by killin’ the others?”

  They had come to the back door steps, and so he concluded by saying, “I will only suggest that you keep such a thought in mind.”

  “I will; I’ll fill you in when I know more.”

  He opened the back door for her, and with a mental sigh, she accompanied him indoors. Not only was she not a proper candidate for subterfuge, she was also not cut out for this miserable situation—where everyone was wearing a polite mask to cover their hatefulness and Acton’s flippin’ ancestors were eyeing her every move. Hold on to your temper, she cautioned herself, and trust Acton—although sometimes she had to save him from himself; he tended to rack up an impressive body count when he was in one of his black moods. She’d best cling to him like a barnacle, and hope that religious instruction was making a dent.

  “We’ll be back in time for the five o’clock mass tomorrow, I promise,” were his parting words to her, and she was yet again reminded that—to her husband, at least—she was as transparent as a pane of glass.

  CHAPTER 37

  DOYLE HID IN HER ROOMS LIKE A COWARD UNTIL MATHIS routed her out by knocking to announce that luncheon was being served. She then descended the stairs to discover that the other inhabitants were gathered together in the dining room, where the meal was arrayed informally, on a sideboard—which meant there was only one attentive servant instead of three. She looked around for Acton, but he wasn’t yet in evidence; instead Sir Stephen listened with a cynical expression as Masterson chatted up the dowager about her stupid research in the stupid archives, the reporter doggedly cheerful in the face of the older woman’s polite disinterest.