Murder in Misdirection: A Doyle & Acton Mystery (The Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard series Book 7)

by Anne Cleeland

  This was true, and much appreciated, but Doyle was ready to change the subject. “What now? Should we block the vents, just in case?”

  “The command will re-assess,” the DCS said, as they climbed the stairs. “They’ll be worried about Savoie, and they’ll think we’re contained with no way out, so that they have a few minutes to think it over. It should be enough for Acton to scramble a helicopter SWAT—it takes about twenty minutes.”

  This was said with more certainty than he felt, but Doyle took comfort in the fact that she knew her husband, and knew that he’d move heaven and earth to get her out of this mess. And besides, there was an angry knight doing his best to gum up the works—although it wasn’t clear what a fifteenth-century specter could actually accomplish. He’d poked Mathis, though, which was certainly a mark in his favor.

  They clanged up the stairwell, Savoie grimacing, as he leaned heavily on the railing, and the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. At the top, they came to the roof access door, which required a security card to exit.

  “We wait here,” said Savoie. “Acton, he will unlock it from his computer. That is how we will know it is safe to move.”

  Doyle decided she wasn’t going to stand on ceremony, and sank down on the top step, as another wave of pain washed over her. “Grand.”

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  Mathis pointed out the flaw in this plan. “How will we know it’s Lord Acton, and not prison personnel doing the unlocking?”

  “We will not know,” the Frenchman replied briefly, and then swore, as he bent to examine his wound.

  “They saw I have a weapon,” the DCS assured the girls. “Unlikely they’d try to storm us, and put Savoie at risk—it would be poor tactics.”

  “They may be panicked, and not very interested in tactics,” Doyle declared a bit grimly, as she clutched at the railing. “They’re a passel of blacklegs, with a lot to hide.”

  The DCS glanced at Savoie. “We just need to stall—and not much longer, I imagine. If it comes down to it, I can negotiate— I’ll tell them I know where the money is, and that I was trying to escape to get to it.”

  Savoie met his gaze, and then nodded. “Bien. Go stand by the door, and see if you can hear anything.” He handed the DCS the empty gun again.

  “May I have a gun?” Mathis asked again.

  “Non,” Savoie replied shortly, and then crouched beside Doyle. “You must tell this baby to wait, yes?”

  “Yes,” Doyle agreed, and clenched the railing until her knuckles showed white.

  Savoie made a sympathetic sound. “We have the deep blue devil, yes?”

  “We do,” she agreed, then swallowed—the mention of the missing money reminded her that she hadn’t yet found out what she needed to know. The situation was hair-raising enough as it was, but if Savoie was planning to double-cross Acton, it would immediately get worse—faith, she may have to shoot Savoie herself, when all was said and done. “I wanted to ask you somethin’, Philippe.”

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  “I may not answer,” he advised fairly. “Me, I do not answer the questions.” Thinking about this, he amended, “For Emile, and for you, sometimes I do.”

  Doyle could appreciate this attitude, and ventured, “I understand that Mrs. Barayev—Emile’s aunt—was here at the prison, when Emile was visitin’. Emile says she was arrangin’ to take him back to St. Petersburg.”

  “Yes,” said Savoie, his mouth suddenly thinning. “This is so.” Nothin’ for it. She continued tentatively, “I was worried—I suppose when Emile told me this, I was worried that you were in

  cahoots with her. That you were plottin’ against Acton.”

  He stared at her with open incredulity. “Fah—you do not trust me, still?”

  “I truly can’t be blamed, Phillippe,” she defended herself. “You’re an out-and-out blackleg, yourself.”

  Savoie gave her a very put-upon look, and said as though speaking to a simpleton, “I do not plot against Acton. Me, I did not know about this plan, but Acton, he found out, and he stopped her. He stopped la chienne from taking Emile away, remercie la sainte mère.” He paused, and lowered his gaze for a moment, as emotional as Savoie ever allowed himself to be. “Acton, he kept Emile safe from her.”

  This was of interest, as Doyle was aware of no such abduction attempt. Not to mention it suggested that Savoie didn’t know that the woman had been shuffled off this mortal coil. Carefully, she offered, “So—she’s fled to St. Petersburg, then? A good riddance, I say.”

  “Non, he replied in a grim tone. “Non—it is bad rid-dance. The money, it is gone.”

  Doyle stared at him, her scalp prickling, and a terrible, terrible thought forming in her mind. Swallowing, she asked, “So—it’s Mrs. Barayev, who has the money that everyone’s chasin’?”

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  But the Frenchman seemed to recall his answer-no-questions philosophy, and said only what was presumably a very bad word, in French.

  It didn’t matter, however, because suddenly, everything that hadn’t made sense began to make sense, and Doyle rested her forehead on her knees for a moment, to hide her reaction. Mother a’ mercy, the irony was thick on the ground—it wasn’t Savoie who was double-crossing Acton, it was Acton who was double-crossing Savoie.

  Serves me right, she thought, clenching her teeth against another wave of pain. And I’m roundly an idiot, yet again. This time, the pain did not recede right away, but instead increased in intensity, so that she groaned aloud, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

  “You mustn’t blaspheme,” the DCS gently admonished. “Here, hold my hand.”

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  Don’t let her die. Please.

  T he group waited in the tense silence, Doyle trying to think about anything other than the unfortunate fact that the heir to the House of Acton was bound and determined to

  be born in a miserable prison stairwell.

  “You hear nothing?” Savoie asked the DCS at the door. “No—although I don’t know as I’d hear anything in the first

  place—it’s a double-sealed door. But I imagine very soon, they will try to parlay with us. Since we don’t have a phone, they’ll use the loudspeakers.”

  “This is not your normal situation, though,” Doyle pointed out, which seemed a massive understatement. “The brass may not want anyone else to know what’s goin’ down, and if they use the loudspeakers, they can’t very well keep it quiet.”

  She didn’t add that it was unlikely even Acton wanted anyone to know what was going down, now that she’d finally figured it out. Suddenly, it was all clear-as-glass, and all the puzzling loose-ends had tied themselves up in a neat little bow. After all, Acton had—uncharacteristically—held off from murdering the main principals in the corruption rig—Drake, Mrs. Barayev, and the DCS—even though he was definitely not the forgive-and-forget type. Faith, the DCS had stormed into Acton’s beloved Trestles and tried to arrest him; that her husband hadn’t yanked a sword off the wall and dispatched him on the spot should have been the obvious tip-off that he had some scheme afoot. And now she knew why he’d behaved with such uncharacteristic restraint; he wanted to get his own hands

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  on the fortune that the corruption rig had gathered up, and he wanted to do so without anyone’s realizing what he was doing.

  Therefore, he’d put the worthy DI Williams on the embezzlement case, and then had implemented his own, parallel, cascade scheme, which had worked out like a charm. When Williams started getting close to solving the embezzlement crimes—as Acton knew he would—the main players began to panic, and kill the lower-echelon types who were the most likely to confess to the police—Drake’s list, the ghostly priest had called it.

  This necessarily required them to keep consolidating the fortune so that it ended up in one place—they couldn’t risk any new people with knowledge�
�and so it was a simple thing, really, for Acton to spring his trap at the very end; to seize the fortune, arrange for it to pass through the prison ministry account, and then arrange for the matron to mysteriously disappear—along with all the money—just after she spoke openly of fleeing to St Petersburg.

  Only the matron hadn’t fled at all; she’d been buried under the rubble at Holy Trinity Church, a misdirection murder that no one would mourn—or even be very interested in—save for the fact that a charwoman living in the far-away Philippines was uneasy about taking blood-money. And now the DCS was slated to be murdered by the angry prison guards, who would be convinced he’d conspired to rob them of their ill-gotten gains, since the final stop for all the money was the prison ministry’s account.

  I almost feel sorry for the blacklegs, Doyle thought, as she rubbed her face against her knees, and waited for the next contraction. It was a perfect plan—not that Acton would ever concoct an imperfect one. To all appearances, the money was gone, and the players were not about to go crashin’ about in Russian mob-land to get it back. And—as the icing on the cake— the only people who might guess that Acton was behind this

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  particular larceny-by-trick were the law enforcement players— Drake and the DCS—who’d both be conveniently dead.

  Suddenly, they could hear a banging clang down below, as a lower door was flung open, and then they could hear several loud explosions in quick succession, sounding over-loud in the contained space.

  “Flash-bangs,” shouted the DCS, as the noise echoed up the stairwell. “They’ll be coming up floor by floor, to clear us out. The front line will have riot shields, and try to draw fire, since they think I’ve only the ammo from the guards.”

  But Savoie had already figured out this ominous plan, and he’d put his hand under Doyle’s arm to help her up. “Come, come, little bird; we go outside.”

  “Is that wise?” Mathis asked in confusion. “Won’t they have someone cutting off any escape on the roof? We should wait for Acton.”

  There was a small silence as the two men herded them over to the door. “They’ve decided to cut their losses,” the DCS advised in a level tone. “Their CO must have looked at the tape, and realized that DS Doyle came here on a rescue mission. They’ve decided we are all expendable.”

  “They’d—they’d kill Savoie?” asked Mathis in surprise.

  “Oui,” agreed the Frenchman in a grim tone. “They cannot allow the questions to be asked.”

  They assembled at the security door, and Doyle closed her eyes briefly. I can’t allow everyone to be killed because I’m roundly an idiot, she thought, tamping down panic. Think, Doyle; think.

  “Another minute,” Savoie said, and focused on the door’s red light, waiting for Acton’s signal. “We wait as long as we can.”

  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” the DCS recited steadily. He then paused, and advised, “Look for cover on the roof—there are vents, and storage modules.”

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  Doyle tried to remember her close-quarters-combat training at the Crime Academy. “Who’s front line? I’ll need a gun, and we should set-up our angles.”

  “I’m front line,” said the DCS, without hesitation. “I’m their main target, and I’ll try to convince them I’m more valuable alive. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures—”

  “No, I’m front line,” Mathis interrupted. “I’ll hide a gun, and pretend to break free. When they allow me to approach, I can shoot whoever’s in command.”

  “They won’t let you approach,” said the DCS. “If they’re willing to sacrifice Savoie, they’re desperate. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

  But this gave Doyle an idea. “I don’t think they know who I am,” she said, and pressed a hand against her side to ease another burst of pain. “I never checked in at security. If I tell them who I am, and that Acton’s on to them, their plan to wipe out all witnesses is ruined. They’ll know they can’t just add a few more bodies to the count, and sweep it all under the rug.”

  They all jumped, as another series of explosions could be heard below them, coming ever closer.

  Thoughtfully, the DCS met Savoie’s eyes with his own. “A fair point. What do you think?”

  “They’ll take her hostage,” Mathis pointed out impatiently. “That’s to the good,” Doyle explained. “Then they’ll be stuck

  with that deep-blue-devil person, and have to try to negotiate their way out of this mess. I’d take Acton’s odds in that situation, any day of the week.”

  “Oui,” Savoie decided. “I will speak to them.”

  “No,” Doyle insisted, pulling her hair out of its ponytail. “It has to be just me—I’m recognizable, and they have to see this red head straightaway, especially if there are shoot-to-kill orders. If they see the bridge-jumper, everyone will have second thoughts.”

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  “Agreed,” the DCS said. “But the rest of us should follow her out and secure the door behind us; the stairwell team won’t have the benefit of seeing her, and they may start firing.”

  With one accord, they all jumped in alarm as another series of explosions could be heard, closer below them, this time. “Everyone ready?” the DCS asked, and then held the security card to the door. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

  “Bien,” said Savoie.

  With a fierce push, the DCS and Savoie swung the heavy metal door outward, and Doyle strode outward onto the roof with her hands held out from her sides, as high as she could lift them. Naturally, it was raining—as befitted the situation—and for a few tenses seconds she tried to get her bearings, and hoped that the rooftop personnel hadn’t actually been given shoot-on-sight orders.

  Loudly, she shouted, “I am Lady Acton.” She squinted against the rain, and it took her a few seconds to see the prison riot personnel, their weapons drawn as they crouched behind vents and other structures. She added for clarity, “I am Lord Acton’s wife.” She figured she’d better throw that in, just in case they didn’t connect the dots. “The Chief Inspector is on his way, and you are all under arrest. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  There was a moment of surprised silence. She pointed to the nearest man and added, “I will need to borrow your flexcuffs. officer.”

  “Hold, right there,” another man shouted. He bent his head, and she could hear his rapid-fire conversation over the comms with whoever was directing the operation, the words indistinguishable, but his tone a bit panicked.

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  Good one, Doyle, she thought; and let go of the breath she’d been holding. You’ve managed to throw the cat amongst the pigeons in the deep blue sea.

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  There. There she was.

  “Hold in place, I am awaiting orders,” the comm officer shouted, and Doyle dutifully waited, a flash of lightning illuminating, for a brief moment, the

  Trestles knight, who stood beside her, his broken sword at the ready.

  “Lay down your weapons,” Doyle shouted, and hoped another labor pain wasn’t about to unleash its fury— embarrassing, is what it would be, if she had to lie down whilst trying to attempt a mass arrest.

  And then faintly, in the distance, Doyle could hear the sound she’d been straining to hear—the blessed, blessed sound of a helicopter’s rotors. “Acton’s comin’,” she shouted. “And hell’s comin’ with him. Surrender your weapons—whoever turns first will probably get a conspiracy plea deal.”

  “Seize her,” the comm officer shouted in a panicked tone, but no one moved, and Doyle could sense their confusion and dismay. Much heartened, she drew a deep breath and congratulated herself; when it came to turning
the blacklegs against each other, she’d learned a lesson or two at the feet of the master.

  The helicopter hovered above them, and a loudspeaker announced, “Throw down your weapons. Hands up, or we fire at will.”