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

by Anne Cleeland

  Savoie regarded her, a trace of amusement still lingering in his gaze. “Solonik telephoned me this day—he is very unhappy.”

  With some surprise, she stared at him. “Surely he’s not allowed to make calls in prison?”

  He smiled at her as though she were a very amusing child, and did not deign to reply. “He says Acton is upsetting his plans. Acton is taking the newspaper woman’s goat, is he not?”

  With great satisfaction, Doyle affirmed, “Indeed he is. He is cookin’ her goose.”

  He laughed aloud again. “Then you have no more troubles.”

  With all sincerity, she thanked him. “I appreciate it so very much; you have saved me in more ways than one.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I am one of your saints, then.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if heaven is ready for the likes of you, Philippe.”

  “That is good; I am not ready for heaven.” Leaning in, he kissed her gently.

  She stood still and acquiesced, although she could feel herself blushing furiously and hoped there were no security cameras capturing this marital lapse. But the kiss was chaste and brief, and then he pulled away and lifted a plain card out of his pocket. On it was penned an international telephone number next to a hand-sketch of a goat. “If you wish to speak to me, call this number and follow instructions. But tell no one else of it, if you please.”

  Looking at it, she nodded. “Will you go back home?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not; I may stay here for a time.”

  This raised a twinge of alarm within her breast, and she felt she should warn him, “I can’t help you if you run into trouble, and I can’t ask Acton to help you.”

  He was amused for some reason, but said gravely, “I understand.”

  They regarded each other for a moment, and she thought of her baby, and how much easier everything seemed, all of a sudden. “Please stay in contact, if you’d like. I will always stand your friend.”

  He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger and shook it slightly. “Try very hard to stay out of trouble.”

  “Done,” she teased, and he released her.

  CHAPTER 47

  DOYLE CHECKED THE TIME AS SHE CAME UP THE LIFT TO THE flat. She was not later than her usual, despite all that had been accomplished on this tumultuous day. She was hungry, which was to the good—perhaps she wouldn’t lose her appetite, this time. Leastways, no one was poisoning her, which was a step up from the last time.

  As she entered, Acton looked up from across the room where he sat at his desk. She knew straightaway that he had been drinking, and felt a frozen moment of fear. Although if there was bad news he would not be drinking so heavily; instead he would stay alert and focused—he only overdid it after the crisis had passed.

  She crossed over to him, and he lifted his head to receive her kiss. His laptop was open on the desk, displaying her location on a GPS monitor. Laying a finger on the screen, she pointed to the indicator. “Look, here I am.”

  He smiled and took her hand. “You had a good day?”

  “Very good indeed; I have a million things to be tellin’ you.”

  “I am at your disposal.”

  But she knelt down before him, still holding his hand. “What’s happened?” she asked gently, looking up into his face. “Should I start barricadin’ the door?”

  He loosened his hand to stroke her head. “Sorry—I don’t mean to upset you. I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t pour another glass, and then I did.”

  She was getting mixed messages, and couldn’t decide why this was. “Should I leave you to it, then? You know I don’t mind.”

  “No. Stay with me, I want to look at you.” Obligingly, she rested her head against his knee, and he stroked her hair for a few moments. “You have solved the case?”

  Without preamble, she told him, “It’s Kevin Maguire, from the paper. It’s dyin’, he is, and he’s tryin’ to right past wrongs.”

  There was a pause, while Acton’s hand rested on her head. “It fits. Have we any evidence?”

  “None.” Best not to mention she’d had a nice little chat with the murderer this fine day. “But I think we can set up a trap and seizure, if I can figure out who the next victim is.”

  There was a small silence. “You are certain he is the killer?”

  “I am.” Warily, she lifted her head to eye him. “Remember, you are not to take matters into your own hands, Michael. I can catch him; I have one of my feelin’s, I do.”

  “Fair enough,” he replied mildly.

  She laid her head down again. “Williams was reconnoiter-in’ over at the World News, and says that Masterson was sacked.”

  “Yes, she was. And apparently, she was in such a temper that the suggestion of mental imbalance had immediate credence.”

  Doyle wasn’t certain what “credence” meant, but she understood the gist. “Well, thank the saints and holy martyrs. And a good riddance—you can do much better than her, Michael.”

  But he didn’t chuckle in response, instead fingering her hair absently. “I will bring some pressure to bear so that she does not attempt to tell her tales elsewhere, or sue the paper.”

  Doyle hadn’t thought of this, as she worried about only one crisis at a time. Fortunately, Acton was good at crisis multitasking. “Do you have pressure to bear?”

  “Yes,” he replied, and offered nothing more.

  She was all admiration. “Is there anythin’ you don’t know?”

  “Apparently so.”

  A bit surprised by the nuance in his tone, she glanced up at him, but he did not elaborate, as his hand moved from her hair to gently lift her chin. “Your face is so beautiful.” He brushed her cheekbone with a thumb.

  She knew where this was leading, but desperately needed sustenance. “Hold that thought, Michael—d’you mind if I make somethin’ to eat? Then we can pick up where we left off.”

  Standing a bit unsteadily, he accompanied her into the kitchen, and paused at the sink to splash water on his face and lean on his arms, trying to gather himself. She wished he would tell her what was bothering him, but knew better than to ask him again directly; he would tell her only if he wanted, and apparently, he didn’t want to.

  Since she didn’t feel ambitious, she decided to put together a ham and butter sandwich, which required neither time nor expertise. Her slightly-more-sober husband came over to stand behind her, stroking her arms as she buttered the bread. “The bruises have all faded—from the night you were attacked.”

  “Finally; this skin of mine is a blessin’ and a curse.”

  He put his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “That’s just it—you are so appealing. It is at the same time a blessing and a curse.”

  “You need to work on your compliments, Michael,” she noted in a dry tone. He smelt of scotch.

  “Men want to take care of you.”

  She hoped they were not wandering into the subject of Williams, and said merely, “I’m not so very helpless, my friend.”

  “No—in fact, I think you try to protect me. I had not realized it before, but it explains a great deal.”

  She paused in her sandwich-making and grasped his hands at her waist. “Of course I do, Michael. I love, love, love you and I don’t want you to be unhappy.” She paused and leaned her head back so that her face rested against his. “As you are now.”

  “Can you guess,” he said softly, kissing her neck, “what would make me happy?”

  With a smile, she turned to face him. She knew his heart wasn’t in it, but he was going to make an effort and so she would play along—if she was needed to render aid and comfort, the pitiful sandwich could wait.

  He ran his mouth along her collarbone and she clung to him as he lifted her onto the counter and began to unfasten her trousers. Here is something new, she thought with interest as she carefully slid the butter knife away from the immediate area. The session in the tack room had apparently inspired a new trend; next he’d be wanting
to have at it in the morgue, or something.

  Later, they sat before the fire, eating the sandwiches, with Acton’s mood much improved. The remedy, Doyle thought with satisfaction; works every time—a shame I can’t bottle it up and sell it. Reminded of her promise to Munoz, she licked her fingers and ventured, “I told Munoz that I would ask you if you knew of any eligible men.”

  Leaning back on his hands, he gazed at her, amused. “Eligible, meaning without the common sense to run in the opposite direction.”

  “Exactly.” He gave her a look and she began to laugh, because it truly was funny. “I just need to tell her that I asked, is all.”

  “How about Williams? It would take his mind off waiting to outlive me.”

  “Michael,” she admonished, gently punching him on the shoulder. “Don’t be givin’ the few men in my quiver over to Munoz, for heaven’s sake. Besides, Munoz has already made an unsuccessful run.”

  “Williams resisted? Good man.”

  Best not to mention Williams’s other little liaison—that one would probably not sit so well with Acton. “I won’t poke fun at Williams; he had my back on this vigilante case, and it was much appreciated.”

  Suddenly serious, Acton straightened up to take her hand in his, and ducked his head for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Perhaps in the future, you will not hesitate to tell me if you encounter a problem, Kathleen. I won’t berate you—I promise; I only want to know so that I can help.”

  Oh-oh, she thought in a panic—which of my many transgressions has he unearthed? “You make me very uneasy, Michael,” she hedged. “What’s afoot?”

  “Nothing,” he said gently. “I just wanted to say.”

  This was not exactly true, and she was quiet, feeling guilty.

  “I would forgive you anything, you know.”

  She lifted a corner of her mouth. “That’s perhaps not the wisest thing to be sayin’ to one’s wife, Michael.”

  “Yes; especially one as charming as you. But it is the truth, nevertheless.”

  She knit her brow, suddenly. “Does this work both ways? Am I to know the next time you are smokin’ with a brasser for all the world to think that you are cheatin’ on me?”

  There was a small silence; he was startled by her outburst, and small blame to him—she was startled, herself. “I’m sorry I’m soundin’ like an archwife, Michael. Apparently, that still rankles.”

  His arms came around her, and he rested his cheek on her head. “No, you are exactly right—forgive me. It should work both ways, but there are times I must alone decide what is best for the both of us. I must reserve that right.”

  She sighed; he was right—it was probably best she did not know the details about some of his doings. “Aye, then,” she conceded. “This marriage business is a rare crack, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It is. And I must make a better effort at it.”

  Wickedly, she teased, “I don’t know—any more effortin’ and I’ll be worn to a thread.”

  “Just so,” he replied, and ran a well-satisfied hand up her arm—proud of it, he was. “I will take you to out to dinner tomorrow night. Where would you like to go?”

  Quirking her mouth, she gave him a look of extreme skepticism. “Saints, Michael; just as though we were an ordinary mister and missus?”

  “We can do it if we put our minds to it.” He bent his head to murmur against her neck. “Will you wear your dress?”

  Very pleased by this show of husbandly interest, she teased, “And where will I be puttin’ my gun? I can’t very well put it in my bosom—there’s no place to hide it.”

  With gentle pressure, he pushed her so that she lay back down on the rug. “Let me search for a good place.”

  Giggling, she acquiesced. Apparently, her worries that she’d served her purpose—and that now his fixation on her would dissipate—were without foundation. Or at least for the next twenty minutes or so.

  CHAPTER 48

  “VERY NICE, MADAM, IF I MAY SAY SO.”

  Reynolds stood to one side, his hands clasped behind his back as Doyle critically examined her reflection in the mirror. Acton had just come home and had promptly gone in to shower, so she’d asked Reynolds for advice about earrings, and was tentatively pleased with the end result; the black knit dress clung to her slender figure and set off the whiteness of her skin against her auburn hair. “D’you think the skirt’s too short?” It seemed very strange to show such an expanse of pale leg.

  “Lord Acton will not think so.”

  The servant had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelash his reaction to the fact that the grocery list she’d left on the counter featured a pregnancy test, which was hopefully a good omen, and not a sign that he intended to resign straightaway.

  She heard the intercom buzz, and then Reynolds’s voice as he went to answer it. A moment later he stood at the entry to the bedroom and announced, “There is a detective downstairs who asked for Lord Acton, and then when I said he was unavailable, asked for a word with you, madam.”

  “Downstairs?” It could only be Williams, and she wondered what he needed as she crossed to the kitchen intercom—perhaps he had more information on Masterson. “Hey.”

  “Doyle? It’s Samuels.”

  This was a surprise, but it was probably something important, if he was coming after-hours like this. “Oh—oh, hallo, Samuels. Acton is showerin’, I’m afraid. Can I help?”

  “Would you mind coming on down for a moment? I have something I’d rather not leave with the concierge.”

  This was untrue, and gave her pause. “Oh? What sort of thing?”

  He lowered his voice. “It has to do with Solonik.”

  This was true, and she immediately entertained the unwelcome thought that—no matter what Savoie had promised—Solonik was going forward with his vengeance plan. “Right; I’ll be down directly.”

  Reynolds offered, “Shall I accompany you, madam?”

  But she harbored a burgeoning fear that her doings with Solonik were about to be exposed to Acton, and so she mustered up an easy smile. “No—he’s a friend from work and I’ll just say hallo.”

  Trying to hide her anxiety, Doyle descended in the lift and walked out to see Samuels in the vestibule near the revolving glass door, ashen of face as he clutched a padded mailing envelope. Her heart sank; he was emanating guilt and anxiety—Samuels, who had been asking too many questions about Acton. He did not seem ambitious enough to be the conspiratorial type, but then again, you never knew. She decided it would be best to pretend she did not know what was afoot—if she had any trouble, after all, the concierge was close to hand. With a friendly smile, she approached him, balancing carefully on her heels. “Hallo, Samuels. What’s up?”

  A sheen of perspiration reflected off his brow as he glanced at the security desk. “Come out to my car, I need to show you something.”

  She wasn’t certain if this was true, but had a ready excuse. “I can’t—I’m gettin’ ready to go out. What’s this about Solonik?”

  In response, he stepped close and pressed the envelope next to her side. “Keep quiet and come with me—I have a gun.”

  This was true, and Doyle’s eyes flew to his in astonishment as he took her arm and firmly steered her toward the revolving door. For a moment, she debated putting up a fight here—where help was at hand—as opposed to going along and hoping to catch him off guard, or even talk him out of it. It was not an easy decision, what with the gun barrel aimed against her in the approximate location of the baby. “Samuels,” she said as calmly as she was able. “You can’t be serious—what ails you? Have you been drinkin’?”

  “Come along—quickly. If you cooperate, I won’t hurt you.”

  “Where are we going?” She leaned back, but he had her arm in an iron grip and pulled her along to the sidewalk outside. Stalling, she asked in a meek tone, “Can I take off my shoes? I’m not used to walkin’ in them.”

  “We won’t be walking long; I’ve got a car up ahe
ad, in the alley.”

  This did not bode well, and she realized she’d have to make a stand rather than get into a car with him—best to allow him to think she was frightened and docile, and then take her chance when the moment of truth came. “Samuels; I’m Lady Acton, for heaven’s sake—you canno’ just be stealin’ me off the street.”

  “No talking—and stay over here, next to the building.” Nervously, he glanced around them, but the street was quiet on this weekday evening; the ground still wet from a recent shower. And now that she had a good look, she realized there was something strange about his pallor—something not right. “Are you on drugs or somethin’, my friend? Because you’re not acting rationly.”

  “Rationally,” he corrected in annoyance. “Stay quiet; and once we get in the car you’ll lie down—I can’t take the chance someone will recognize you.”

  “All right—all right; don’t be pullin’, I’m comin’.” She feigned a stumble and took the opportunity to slip out of her shoes, hopping along to keep up. At least she had a weapon of sorts, now. “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about, Samuels—Acton will be furious.”

  “No—Acton will be stymied.”

  As his hurried steps echoed along the quiet street, Doyle silently kept up, the damp pavement cold against her feet as she tried to decide what would be best to do. It was miserably ironic that this was the one time she was not wearing her ankle holster—stupid dress.

  After another nervous glance behind them, Samuels abruptly turned into a side street, but then stopped so short that she bumped into him. Before them was Williams, approaching up the narrow sidewalk and seemingly unconcerned, his hands in his pockets.

  “Hallo, Williams,” said Samuels, and pressed the gun barrel against Doyle meaningfully.

  “Hallo, Williams,” she dutifully repeated.

  Williams stopped in surprise and looked up at them. “Hallo; where are you two off to?”

  “We’re going to the coffeehouse to talk over some evidence,” said Samuels, indicating the envelope.