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

by Anne Cleeland

  They greeted Doyle, Masterson overly-kind; no need to be uncivil to the poor wife, who was soon to be given the boot. Thinking of boots, Doyle was reminded of the torrid session in the tack room and managed to maintain her equilibrium—although she remembered to be sulky, which wasn’t difficult when Masterson sat beside her at the table and began enthusing about the beauty that was Trestles.

  Into this happy scene, Acton appeared to survey the lunch offerings. Doyle noted that the servant made some innocuous comment, to which Acton made an equally innocuous reply. Since this was very unlike the Acton she knew, she decided that this fellow must be, like Mathis, loyal to him and making some sort of report. She was reminded that they were not certain whether the dowager had been behind the poisoning episode, and wondered if the servant had been keeping a sharp eye on the bisque. Contemplating the contents of the porcelain soup bowl before her, Doyle decided that she was truly not very hungry.

  “And how was your ride, Acton?” asked the dowager, and Doyle couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t been asked.

  “Kathleen did very well for a first outing,” offered Acton in a tactful tone. He had the choice of sitting beside Doyle or sitting beside Masterson, and he chose Masterson, smiling at her warmly. “Are you covered in ancient dust, Cassie?”

  Delighted, the woman laughed and threw back her head. “I did have to shower.” She glanced at him under her lashes and paused so that he could use his imagination. “I will say that I’ve gone through most of the twentieth century, and everything is now a bit more Bristol-shape.”

  Acton settled in to eat, apparently having no suspicions about the bisque, which made Doyle relent and take a few tentative spoonfuls, herself. He asked, “Did you come across anything startling?”

  Masterson laid a casual hand on his arm. “Not at all—I positively long for the thrilling eighteenth century.”

  “Seventeenth century,” corrected Sir Stephen in a sour tone. “That’s when things were dicey.”

  But Doyle wasn’t listening to him, as she was too busy brushing her hair off her forehead. Masterson was lying yet again; it seemed one couldn’t find an honest home-wrecker, nowadays.

  “I can help you finish it up this afternoon—perhaps we can unearth a scandal or two.” Acton gave the other woman a meaningful glance and Doyle felt her color rise. Honestly; they might as well have at it right here on the mahogany table—no need to retreat to the drafty archives.

  While Doyle struggled with holding on to her temper, Sir Stephen stepped into the charged silence. “I believe the twentieth century was remarkably scandal-free. Trestles was too isolated to be bombed during the Second World War, and I don’t believe any children were evacuated here from London.”

  “No,” said Masterson, shaking her head so that her hair tumbled around her shoulders while Acton watched, fascinated. “Nothing of interest—Trestles remained largely unaffected, except for the rationing, of course.”

  Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead again, trying but failing to find a reason for these falsehoods, which seemed to have no particular point. Was Masterson trying to downplay the damage actually sustained during the wars?

  “Will you create some sort of synopsis?” continued Sir Stephen, who was observing the open foreplay on display with a cynical twist to his mouth.

  Masterson dragged her gaze away from Acton’s. “Yes, I’ll add a synopsis to the ones already written—going all the way back to the Conquest and the Domesday Book. Future generations will then add to mine; it’s humbling, really.” This said in a pious manner that actually hid a surge of exultation.

  Doyle carefully unclenched her jaw and kept her gaze downcast. The reminder of the estate’s storied past—and Acton’s affection for it—served to suppress her natural inclination to say something she’d regret. All this misery was worth it, if Acton could divert Masterson from Solonik’s revenge-wreaking plan. Not to mention Acton would not do well in prison, although she was fast coming to the conclusion he’d probably take it over from within, or mastermind some spectacular escape. Therefore, when Acton rested his chin on his hand, she willingly played her role, and stood rather abruptly. “I’ll be needin’ to go have a lie-down; if you’ll excuse me.”

  As though reminded of his duties, Acton dragged his attention away from Masterson to display a touch of concern. “Are you unwell, Kathleen?”

  “Just a bit of a headache,” she explained with a mulish mouth that made it clear this was naught but an excuse. “I’ll be fine.” She pronounced it “foine,” just to show how upset she supposedly was.

  The dowager rose also. “Allow me to call for Mathis, my dear.”

  “No need, ma’am.” Abruptly, Doyle turned on her heel and stalked out of the room without another glance toward her wayward husband. As she ascended the staircase toward her rooms, she was congratulating herself on making a believable contribution to this stupid holy show when Mathis appeared before her in the hallway, meeting her eyes and then glancing with emphasis behind her.

  Now what? thought Doyle with annoyance, and turned to discover that the dowager was making her stately way down the hallway in pursuit of her. With an inward sigh of resignation she waited, deciding that since she was supposed to be in a temper, there was no need to be conciliatory to the old battle-axe. “What is it you’re wantin’, ma’am?”

  The other woman gazed at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “May I come in?”

  Deciding she really had no choice, Doyle opened her door and replied in a less-than-welcoming tone, “If you wish.”

  The older woman followed, and then dismissed the servant with a nod. “That will be all, Mathis.”

  “Yes, madam.” The girl shut the door behind them, her meek gaze downcast.

  There was a small silence whilst Doyle stood her ground and fought the urge to start talking—she had a shrewd suspicion that the dowager was trying to intimidate her into saying something she oughtn’t. Best to follow Acton’s advice and say little—and anyway, by all appearances, she was soon to be cast out from this place, never to darken its doors again. Perhaps this little visit to the hated daughter-in-law was an attempt to buy her silence, or something. If this was the case, Doyle decided she’d pocket the old harridan’s money without a qualm, and happily confess to Father John.

  The older woman’s words, however, were not at all what she’d expected. Instead, with icy precision, she was asked, “What is the meaning of this ridiculous charade?”

  Doyle stared at her in confusion. “And which charade is that, ma’am?”

  “Pretending you are at odds with my son.”

  Doyle hid her surprise; apparently the cold face masked a keen insight, and caution was advised so that Acton’s well-laid plan—whatever it was—would not be disrupted. “My relationship with my husband is my own business, thank you very much.”

  If it was possible, the woman stiffened even more, and pronounced with thinly-veiled distaste, “Come; I will know what you are about—this is my home.”

  “Technically,” Doyle pointed out, “it is mine.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the other woman flinched. Good one, Doyle.

  But the blow did only momentary damage, as the dowager’s thin brows rose in well-bred disbelief. “You dare speak to me in such a manner!”

  Doyle found that she was warming to her theme. “Oh, you would be amazed at the extent of the brass, your ladyship. Now, if you have nothin’ further to say, you may leave the pre-mites.”

  “Premises,” the other corrected her with full scorn. “And I will not be ordered about by an ignorant upstart like you.”

  A defiant retort was regretfully swallowed; Doyle could not lose her temper and start throwing her weight around, not with Acton in the process of throwing her over downstairs. Stymied, she offered stiffly, “If you’d prefer Miss Masterson, you are welcome to her.”

  But the other woman lifted a corner of her mouth in a grim smile. “Nonsense; any fool can see that my son is be
sotted with you.”

  This was edging far too close to the truth, and Doyle decided that drastic measures were necessary as she tried to match the other Lady Acton in frosty scorn. “I am not goin’ to discuss my husband with you. Will I be needin’ to throw you out, yet again?”

  The dowager gazed at her, her gaze incredulous. “He is not a normal man. Surely you are aware of this?”

  If Doyle was in a temper before, now she was furious, and wished she had a sword at the ready, like the night visitor. Stepping forward in a menacing manner, she ground through her teeth, “Dinna ye ever be sayin’ such a thing to me again or I willna be answerin’ for meself.”

  “Kathleen?” asked Acton from the doorway.

  With a mighty effort, Doyle reined in her temper and turned to face him, her chest heaving. “Oh—oh, hallo, Michael. I was just speakin’ with your mother.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “I SEE,” SAID ACTON. “MOTHER, WOULD YOU MIND IF I SPOKE to Kathleen for a moment?”

  “Of course. My dear, I will visit with you later.” With just a trace of dignified condescension, the dowager drifted past them and out the door, where Mathis waited deferentially.

  The door closed. “What was that about?” he murmured in a quiet tone, listening for a moment with his ear pressed against the panel.

  Doyle watched him anxiously. “She knows it’s a charade—the Masterson thing. I didn’t give it away, Michael, I promise.”

  But he did not seem at all concerned, and indeed—if she was to gauge his mood—she would have to say he seemed very satisfied, which seemed a little strange. “No—you are doing very well. Can you quarrel with me? Loudly?”

  “I suppose,” she offered hesitantly. “About Masterson, d’you mean?”

  “Pick any topic,” he replied, and straightened up to approach her. Lifting the porcelain vase from the bedside table, he offered it. “Break this, if you would.”

  “Oh, Michael; I don’t think I can—it’s so very pretty.”

  With no further ado, he cocked an arm and threw the vase against the fireplace hearth, dashing it to pieces with a resounding crash.

  Thus prompted, she marshaled her sense of ill-usage—not difficult at all, truly—and raised her voice. “Get out; go off wi’ your rigmutton, and the divil take the both o’ ye.”

  “Kathleen . . .” he cautioned, in the tone of a man trying to keep a quarrel private. He then leaned in to kiss her mouth, quickly, and strode over to exit out the door, indicating that she was to slam it behind him, which she did with great relish, the sound reverberating up into the rafters.

  “My wife would like to rest,” she could hear him say to Mathis. “Please see to it that she is not disturbed.”

  Doyle listened to his footsteps retreat down the hall and allowed her gaze to rest on the splintered vase for a moment. She was almost certain that he was heading to the archives to whisper sweet nothings into Masterson’s vile ears, but there had definitely been a shift in his attitude; the black mood still hovered, but he was grimly satisfied, for some reason. It all had something to do with Masterson’s lies about the history, but Doyle was at a loss as to what was the point of it all, and so knelt to begin carefully picking up the shards, just to feel useful.

  Almost immediately, Mathis entered after a perfunctory knock, armed with a dustpan and whisk broom, which made Doyle wonder if there was a peephole somewhere. “Here, please let me get that, madam.”

  “Gladly,” said Doyle, who nevertheless continued to pick up the shards and cradle them in her hand. “I have a terrible temper, I’m afraid—I blame the hair.”

  But this attempt at raillery fell short, as Mathis only smiled politely as she knelt down beside Doyle. “It’s naught, my lady.”

  “My husband is a very patient man.”

  This attempt to provoke a reaction also fell short, but Doyle had a quick flash of something she’d grown accustomed to—swiftly suppressed incredulity that someone like her husband would willingly consort with the likes of her fair self. Doyle’s hands stilled for a moment, as she was struck with a terrible, terrible thought. What if—what if Acton wasn’t willingly consorting—

  “May I take that, madam?”

  Mathis held out the dustpan to collect the shards, and Doyle willingly relinquished them, all too happy to change her train of thought as she brushed off her hands. “I’m doin’ a bunk, Mathis; I need a little walk-about to cool my head.” She eyed the maid sidelong, as it wasn’t at all clear that she would be allowed to wander about without a keeper.

  But apparently she was not to be confined, because Mathis only smiled. “Of course, madam. Would you like an umbrella?”

  “Does it look to rain?” This was all that was needed; a thunderstorm and flickering lights, in keeping with this flippin’ gothic pile.

  “Perhaps not; but one never knows.”

  “I’ll take my chances, then.”

  Ten minutes later, Doyle was walking out under the massive oaks that lined the front drive, her hands in her pockets and her thoughts a bit bleak. She knew the signs; whatever scheme Acton had underway was about to come to fruition, and try as she might, she couldn’t figure out how he was going to extricate them from this miserable situation, short of marrying Masterson to shut her up, or—even worse—cutting a bloody swath as only Acton could. And his mother had twigged him, which didn’t bode well; hopefully she’d not upset his plans out of pure spite.

  As if on cue, she was hailed and turned to behold Sir Stephen approaching across the broad lawn. It wants only this, she thought with resignation—I’ve got to be careful to give nothing away, although I probably wouldn’t know if I did, come to think of it.

  But being plumbed for secrets was apparently not to be a problem, because the man was too consumed by glee beneath his outwardly solemn and sympathetic manner. Why is it, she thought in annoyance, that everyone is so willing to accept Acton’s betrayal of me without a moment’s hesitation? She then remembered her Terrible Thought, and decided not to follow up on this particular rhetorical question.

  Sir Stephen stood before her, slightly out of breath and trying to adopt the manner of a sympathetic friend without much success. “Would you mind company? Or would you rather walk it out alone?”

  “I may walk out the gates and just keep on walkin’,” she replied with what she hoped was the right touch of embarrassed ruefulness.

  “I don’t recommend it; Meryton is six miles away.”

  Doyle presumed this was a reference to the nearest town. “Is that where you live?”

  He arched his brows, sardonically amused. “No, I live here.”

  This was unexpected, and so she stammered, “Oh—oh, I see.”

  His mouth twisted in a cynical smile. “Acton is too—too occupied to deal with the day-to-day estate matters, so I stay at hand to assist Lady Acton.”

  Doyle resisted the urge to remind him that she was the incumbent Lady Acton, as by all appearances she was soon to be given the boot, and besides, she wanted to find out what he was up to. Sir Stephen was the sort of person who was always up to something—she knew the type; his scheming made him feel superior.

  As he fell into step beside her, he continued almost kindly, “It takes some getting used to, I know; but in no time—I am certain—you’ll be over this rough patch and you’ll take up the reins here, yourself.”

  This was such an out-and-out falsehood that she had to suppress a smile. His gleeful mood was probably because Masterson was on the far side of child-bearing, and the odds were better that he’d continue as the heir if she were to dethrone the fair Doyle. Or he was gleeful because Acton—to all appearances—was behaving badly, and there was no love lost between the two men. As they walked along in silence, it occurred to her that—although Sir Stephen would seem to be a prime suspect—Acton had never assumed that his cousin was the one feeding damaging information to Solonik. But the answer was simple, when she thought about it; Sir Stephen would not want to sully the glory that was
Trestles by slandering the current baron, in the same way that Acton dangled that same glory before Masterson to dissuade her from bringing it down. I don’t know about the supposed glory, Doyle thought with some skepticism, but I do know that this place is brimful of secrets. Her scalp prickled, but she ignored it.

  “How did you enjoy Buckle?”

  It took Doyle a moment to realize he referred to the morning ride, and then she replied, “Buckle seems an excellent horse, and I only wish I were an excellent rider.”

  He chuckled in a patronizing manner, and then said diffidently, “Grady tells me Acton had a visitor.”

  “He did, but I was not introduced.”

  She said it in a sulking tone that hopefully would put an end to this particular line of inquiry, but the other offered with false disapproval, “He didn’t? Well, that wasn’t very respectful of him, was it? Could you tell if it was someone he knew well?”

  Doyle found she was beyond irritated with Acton’s assorted relatives, and wished she knew what was best to say. “I think it was Miss Masterson’s brother—or uncle, or somethin’.” She scowled in disapproval whilst congratulating herself on thinking of something that furthered Acton’s scheme and at the same time put an end to any more questions on the subject.

  “Oh—then I will say no more.” Again, he hid his glee behind a sympathetic guise. “Look, if it’s any consolation, Acton has the occasional passing fancy; it means nothing.” He shrugged. “Melinda is a perfect example.”

  This was said because he wanted to make certain the dim bride realized Melinda’s true purpose as an irritant, but Doyle decided that two could play at this game. With a knit brow, she glanced at him in surprise. “Oh? And here I thought Melinda was your flight o’ fancy.” This, because it was true, and because he was probably sleeping with the tedious woman only to spite Acton. Not that Acton was spited, of course; he was too busy having his way with a certain red-headed baroness in the stables—the only bright moment in an otherwise thoroughly forgettable weekend.