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

by Anne Cleeland

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  But Doyle only shook her head. “I’ll give you no such assurances, my friend, because I want you to be worried that I might up and storm Wexton Prison at any moment. It would serve as a small check on your schemin’ ways.”

  He had the grace to bend his head in acknowledgment. “Yes. You are indeed extraordinary, and I don’t know why I continually underestimate you.”

  As Doyle knew she wasn’t as extraordinary as much as she was plagued by ghosts and assorted proddings, she decided to gloss over that part. “That’s not the point, Michael; the point is that you shouldn’t have been workin’ such a scheme to begin with. Although I suppose you did tell me, when you said it was like The Four of the Sign.”

  He kept his gaze on the coverlet, as he nodded his head in agreement, but she laughed. “All right; what was it, again?”

  He smiled slightly. “The Sign of the Four.”

  “Whatever, Michael—the point is this; you can’t keep the money. It’s blood-money, and besides, you’ve got to learn your lesson, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

  But Acton met her eyes. “Much of the money will go to build a new diocesan school, Kathleen. Along with a new free clinic, to replace Holy Trinity’s.”

  Adamant, Doyle continued to shake her head. “No. You can’t go and build things with it; not with blood-money.”

  He contemplated her hand, as he played with her fingers. “If

  I recall correctly, the original blood-money was put to good use.

  They used it to purchase a potter’s field, I believe.”

  She stared at him in stark disbelief. “Holy Mother, I’ve created a monster.”

  “And besides, a good deal of the corruption rig money was diverted from the Health Professions Council. I would hesitate to return it to them.”

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  “They’re a bunch o’ blacklegs,” she agreed, seeing his point. “Not to mention they’re gettin’ themselves spite-murdered, left and right.”

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “The nave at St. Michael’s should be enlarged, to accommodate the new parishioners.”

  There was a long moment whilst she stared at him, frowning—never let it be said that she didn’t know when she was on the losing end of an argument. “If you throw in a bell tower for Father John, I’m sold.”

  “Done.” He leaned forward—careful not to interrupt Edward, and kissed her.

  With a sigh, she sank back into the enormous four-post bed, and closed her eyes. It went without saying, of course, that a significant sum was going to be left in the vault at Trestles— Acton was Acton, after all, and couldn’t seem to help himself. All and all, I can claim a moral victory, she decided, and I think even the ghost-priest would pat me on the back for a job well-done.

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  The spite murders were bothersome, but he’d not stand in the way—he’d no doubt do the same, himself. It would be beneficial, perhaps, to leave town for a time.

  T hey day progressed, and Doyle found that it was rather nice, to be settled into the sumptuous bed with the baby, and with no pressing tasks hovering on the horizon. She

  wasn’t certain how long they’d be at Trestles, but it seemed that Acton was in no hurry to return to London. Reynolds had been brought over to help out, and from what Doyle had seen, he’d assumed a subservient role without turning a hair, humbly taking instruction from Hudson, the steward. Not for the first time, it occurred to Doyle that Reynolds was nobody’s fool.

  Mary and Gemma had been moved in, also—Gemma allowed to come in briefly, so as to gaze upon the baby with wide eyes, whilst Mary listened to a highly-edited version of Edward’s dramatic birth. We’ll have to get our story straight, Doyle realized; I imagine Acton would rather the exact circumstances of Edward’s birth were not made public.

  Doyle was settling Edward into his crib—and trying to decide which end of the elaborate, silk-swathed structure was the head—when she heard a discreet knocking at the door jamb, and turned to see Reynolds, standing correctly at attention.

  “Excuse me, madam, but Lord Aldwych is below, and begs a moment of your time to meet Master Edward, and convey his congratulations.”

  Doyle straightened up, as this was of interest; Acton was Lord Aldwych’s heir, but the two men thoroughly despised each

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  other. The fact that the old man had made the effort to come pay a formal call was nothing less than an olive branch, and Doyle could only be grateful—Edward had a very nasty set of relatives, after all, and the fewer blood-feuds, the better.

  Beneath his respectful manner, Reynolds was radiating a deep satisfaction—nothing like taking a gander at the ancestral estate, to raise a butler’s spirits. “Lord Aldwych will be unable to attend the fête, it seems, but would like to meet the heir, if it is convenient.” He paused. “Lord Acton wished me to say that I can relay your excuses, if that is your desire.”

  Doyle braced her hands on her back. “Heavens, no, Reynolds—as if I’d let you miss the chance to kowtow to a genuine earl.”

  The servant entered the room with a brisk step. “I hope I do not kowtow to anyone, madam,” he replied with a tinge of disapproval. After taking an assessing glance around the room, he then walked over to the windows to straighten-out the tail of a velvet curtain. “May I fetch your dressing-gown and slippers, madam?”

  “You may,” she agreed, hiding a smile. “Anythin’ to make me look like less a pretender than my usual.”

  “No such thing, madam—but as he is from a different generation, he may look askance, if you entertain him en déshabillé.”

  “Can’t have that,” agreed Doyle. “No askancin’ allowed.” The servant cast a critical eye over the sleeping baby. “Have

  we something a bit more dignified, for Master Edward to wear?” Doyle eyed him with amusement. “I don’t know how you can make a one-day’s baby look dignified, Reynolds. We’ll have

  to stick to the T-shirt, I think.”

  “As you wish, madam,” the servant said smoothly, but nevertheless draped a lace-edged blanket over the sleeping Edward.

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  Watching him, Doyle decided that she just couldn’t resist, and there was nothin’ for it—besides, he’d have to find out, sooner or later. “Here’s a wrinkle, Reynolds. It turns out that our Gemma’s a Romanov.”

  Reynolds bent to fetch Doyle’s slippers. “I believe, madam, that you haven’t found quite the right word.”

  With no small satisfaction, Doyle related, “No—it’s true. Gemma’s real name is Georgievna, or somethin’ complicated. She’s a Romanov—the ones from Russia, who were mostly killed, a long time ago. She’s a super-duchess, or some such thing.”

  Slowly, Reynolds turned to stare at her for a long moment. “Who told you this, madam?”

  She smiled at his amazement. “Acton himself, my friend. It’s true as true can be.”

  Reynolds drew his brows together, still trying to assimilate this extraordinary news. “Great heavens. Then she is related to our royal family, too.”

  Now it was Doyle’s turn to be surprised. “Is she?” “Oh yes—they were all cousins.”

  But Doyle could only shake her head. “Such a pack of nonsense. I have it on good authority that the only kingdom that matters is the kingdom of heaven.”

  His brow knit, Reynolds slowly lowered the hands that held Doyle’s slippers. “If I may ask, madam, why is she here?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but I think she may be in some sort of danger, so please keep it under your hat—no boastin’ at the butler’s pub, or wherever it is you go to swap tales.”

  “Certainly not, madam.” He frowned out the windows. “If no one is to know, then what will become of her?”

  “Honestly, I haven’t a clue. But at least she knows how to poach an egg, which will stand her in good s
tead.”

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  Recovering his poise, Reynolds nodded, briskly. “I appreciate your confidence, madam, and I will say no more.” Recalled to his task, he advised, “I will fetch Lord Aldwych, now.” As he turned to leave, Doyle asked, “Speakin’ of loose-end

  children, Reynolds, where’s our Emile?”

  In a neutral tone, the servant paused to relate, “Emile is having a holiday in France, madam.”

  “I’m not even goin’ to ask,” she decided. “It’s a gift horse, is what it is.”

  “Exactly,” the servant agreed, and bowed his way out.

  A few minutes later, Doyle was greeting Lord Aldwych, who was Acton’s great-grandfather, although each of them wished it weren’t the case. Acton had accompanied him, and behind his perfect-polite manner, Doyle could sense her husband’s suppressed desire that the ceremonial meeting take place and then be over and done with—no love lost, between these two.

  Self-consciously, the elderly man held up a mobile phone, and took a snap of the sleeping baby, his arthritic, gnarled fingers holding the mobile in the manner of someone who’s only recently learned.

  “A fine boy,” he whispered, with the slight rasp of the very aged.

  Not long, now, thought Doyle.

  “We are indeed very pleased,” said Acton, in his public-school voice.

  The old man nodded, but didn’t move for a moment; gathering himself. “I would seek a boon from you, sir.”

  “Willingly,” said Acton, who hid his wariness.

  Without taking his gaze from the baby, the other man began, “There was a child I’d lost track of—a child from the wrong side of the blanket. I’ve found him, now, and he’s married, with his own children. I would ask—” He paused. “I would ask—

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  if you could—perhaps help them, in some way. Schooling for his children, perhaps.”

  “Of course,” said Acton immediately. “Only leave me his information.”

  Lord Aldwych nodded, and then turned to begin his painstaking way toward the doorway. He paused, for a moment, before Doyle. “Madam,” he said, and inclined his head carefully. “I am grateful to you.”

  “Cheers,” said Doyle

  The old man did not look at Acton, but his next words were clearly intended for him. “We have much in common, sir. We were both victims of your father.”

  Acton, who never spoke of his father, made no reply.

  The old man nodded again, as he stepped forward. “I suppose we can only hope that he is burning in hell.”

  “Oh, he is,” Doyle assured him. “Believe you me.”

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  He was tentatively hopeful that she didn’t mind staying

  here, at least for the time being.

  It rejuvenated him, to be here.

  Doyle spent the remainder of the day alternating between dozing and feeding the baby, and Acton had retreated to catch some sleep—he’d be expected to preside over the

  celebration, and needed to rest-up. She could hear activity and muted voices below stairs, as the preparations were made, and thought yet again that the whole situation was utterly surreal, and that she rather wished her mother were here, to goggle alongside her.

  Hard on this thought, she realized that the knight was standing in the far corner, his broken sword resting on his shoulder as he gazed at Edward, asleep in his mother’s arms. There was something in that hardened gaze that moved her to tears, and she said aloud, “I’m truly glad it all worked out for you, after all this fussin’. It hasn’t exactly been a slice o’ heaven, mind you, but I’m glad you got what you wanted.” She paused. “And I’m sorry about your sword—although that was Mathis’ fault. Can’t you get another one, from that King Hal person?”

  “Kathleen?”

  She smiled as Acton slipped into the room, no doubt thinking that she’d lost her mind, and truly, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise, after everything that had happened.

  “Who were you speaking to?” Her husband asked the question with the air of someone who is not certain that he wanted to hear the answer.

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  “Well, he’s gone now, but I was speakin’ to the knight, who is that pleased with Edward, and the way that everythin’s landed as it should have. It turns out that the lost Acton heir—the one that everyone was bangin’ on about—was the RAF pilot, after all. The same fellow your grandfather substituted as the false heir— although he didn’t know he was the true heir, at the time. Neither one of them did.” She paused. “Ironic, is what it is.”

  Acton stared at her, speechless.

  She laughed at his reaction—not often that Acton was at a loss for words. “It’s true, and let this be a lesson to you stupid aristocrats with all your stupid bloodlines, and such. The RAF officer was the lost heir, all along, and the knight cooked up the scheme to throw them together—the heir and your great-grandfather—whilst they were workin’ at the airbase durin’ the war. Poor ghost, he’s been doin’ a journeyman’s job, gettin’ it all worked out correctly.” She added, “Gave him a scare at the prison, I did.”

  Slowly, Acton raised his gaze to stare at the grounds, out the diamond-paned windows. “And so—I was the true heir, all along.”

  “Edward’s the true heir; you are yesterday’s news, my friend.” Still coming to terms with it, the poor man was, and small blame to him. It occurred to her, suddenly, that perhaps Acton’s ways—the way he was—could be traced to his belief, all along, that he was an imposter. Overcompensation, Dr. Harding would have called it.

  Acton bent his head, and gazed upon the sleeping baby for a moment. “Shall we do something to show the knight our appreciation? Put his portrait in pride of place over the mantel, perhaps?”

  “He’s not a portrait sort of person,” Doyle advised bluntly. “But he would like to see Mathis married off to someone nice; she’s related to him, too. Somethin’ about a buxom maidservant.”

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  There was a small silence, and Doyle eyed him. “Not to mention that Mathis needs a raise.”

  He met her gaze. “Does she?”

  “Please don’t be angry with her, Michael. I’d the bit between my teeth, and she did the best she could, under the circumstances. Faith, Savoie will probably try to hire her away; she spent the entire time tryin’ to get the drop on ʼim.” She paused, and then added with some emphasis, “You can’t be blamin’ her; neither one of us knew what we were walkin’ into— and that, my friend, is thanks in large part to you.”

  He ducked his chin in concession. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’m hoist by my own petard, then.”

  She laughed aloud. “Not a clue what that means, Michael. Is that from the other Doyle person, again?”

  He leaned in to kiss her soundly. “Someone else entirely.” “And you’ll not lay waste to the poor DCS, will you? He was

  a brick.”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Would you like to hold the baby?”

  “I would,” he said, and carefully lifted Edward from her arms, before settling into the chair.

  Doyle continued, “Now, there’s a true conversion, if I ever saw one—the DCS, I mean. Like St. Paul on the road to Damascus—only even more unbelievable.”

  “I confess I am very surprised to hear it.”

  In a diffident tone, she ventured, “His ministry could use a bit of money, I think—they’re fightin’ the good fight, too.”

  Acton pulled his gaze from his new son, and met her eyes with some amusement. “You are catching me at a weak moment.”

  “My mother didn’t raise a fool, my friend.”

  “All right—I’ll see what can be done.” He lowered his gaze to Edward, again.