Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  After listening again, she assured him, “No, don’t worry; it was just a thought, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Slowly, she pressed off her mobile, and reported, “Lord Acton has brought unexpected guests, and so Hudson’s at sixes and sevens, having the new cook pull together a decent dinner.” She paused. “He’s worried they’ll only have three courses, and he has nothing appropriate for children.”

  This information was digested in the surprised silence it deserved. “Makes no sense a’tall,” Doyle finally decided. “We need to know more. It does sound as though Acton’s got some plan underway.” For a moment, she debated whether to proceed, but remembered Maguire’s warning, and knew her presence was important, for some reason. With this in mind, she fell back on her training. “There are too many unknowns, so we need to reconnoiter, and assess the situation.”

  “I don’t know how we can reconnoiter,” Mathis pointed out. “There’s a very good security system.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Doyle, who knew her husband very well. “I suppose I could just go up to the door, and hope for the best; it’s not as though they can refuse me entry.”

  “You wouldn’t arouse suspicion, Lizzie,” Williams suggested. “Why don’t you say you decided to come by to help Hudson, and then leave the kitchen door unlocked behind you? Doyle and I can enter on the quiet, and take an assessment. If it looks like Acton has the situation well in hand, we can retreat, and wait for you in the car.”

  Doyle was all admiration. “Faith, Thomas; that is an excellent plan.”

  They proceeded up the long, tree-flanked drive, and Mathis parked the car by the kitchen door. “Give me a minute or two. If it’s safe to come in, I’ll open the curtain on the door.”

  The girl entered the house, and as they waited in car, Williams asked, “Do we trust her?”

  “I don’t think we’ve much choice, Thomas. I know Acton trusts her, and I suppose that’s enough for me. Faith, I hope we’re doin’ the right thing—if I queer his pitch, Acton will be fit to murder me.”

  “No, he won’t murder you; you’re carrying his heir. He’ll have to be satisfied with murdering me twice, for bringing you here.”

  “I had to come, Thomas; it’s important that I show up in person, for some reason.”

  He glanced at her, but asked no questions. “All right. We’ll just have to make it up as we go.”

  She quirked her mouth. “Fortunately, that’s my usual protocol. Faith, I wonder who the guests are? It’s a shame we can’t peek into the drawin’ room windows from here—that’s where everyone gathers before dinner.”

  The curtain on the kitchen door twitched aside, and they had a quick glimpse of Mathis’ profile before she turned away. “There it is—let’s go.”

  Crouching, they ran across the yard, and Williams carefully pushed open the door, with Doyle close behind him. As they moved through the kitchen, they could hear voices approaching from the corridor, and Doyle frantically gestured toward the stairwell that led up to the dining room. After scrambling up the stairs, they paused on the landing to flatten themselves against the wall, listening as two footmen walked past below them.

  “. . . push dinner back, so hold off on serving drinks. Her ladyship’s not happy that there was no word sent ahead of time; she may not come down.”

  “Not a surprise; he likes to pull her tail.”

  “I’ll put together a tray, in the meantime. It may be a long night. . . ”

  The voices trailed off, as the men continued into the servant’s hall. Doyle let out a relieved breath, and resisted the urge to make a smart remark to the ancestral ghosts, who were fluttering around like doves, overhead. Excited, they were; and jockeying for position.

  Quickly, Doyle led Williams into the entry foyer, and then around the majestic main staircase toward the drawing room’s far door, which would suit their spying purposes, and hopefully allow them to avoid the servants. With soft feet, they skirted around to the door, and then, with Williams hovering behind her, Doyle very slowly turned the knob, hoping it wouldn’t creak, and opened the door just enough to peer through.

  An extraordinary tableau was presented to her gaze: Acton was seated in a wing chair with his back to them, casually leaning back, and watching the woman who sat on the edge of her chair across from him. Doyle was astonished to behold the matron—sitting in the drawing room at Trestles, cool as glass. She sat regally, with her hands crossed—much as she’d done the time Doyle had interviewed her at the SOCO’s building. Off to one side of them sat Philippe Savoie, an arm thrown negligently across the back of the settee as he smoked a cigarette. At his feet, a small boy played on the floor with a wooden set of Noah’s ark animals. Doyle wasn’t very good with children’s ages, but she guessed that the boy was about six.

  It was evident what had happened, what had made her husband depart from her side to come to Trestles, where the vile plotters were doing their vile plotting. Whilst Doyle was running around on the periphery, so very proud of her trap and seizure, Acton had gone straight for the jugular. The little boy was undoubtedly Solonik’s son, the matron’s nephew, and perhaps her only surviving relative, after the bloodbath of the past few months. The boy played at the feet of Savoie, the implied threat evident to everyone but the boy, as the adults no doubt discussed the matron’s terms of surrender; it wasn’t clear what they were discussing, as the conversation was in French.

  Although—although it didn’t seem to Doyle that the matron was unsettled by any of this. Acton addressed her, and she answered him in a composed voice, her gaze never resting for a moment on the child. She’s confident, and listening for something, Doyle realized. The matron was waiting for an interruption—perhaps the announcement of the fair Doyle’s death.

  Behind her, Williams gently touched her arm. He wants to withdraw, she realized, since it was clear that Acton had the situation well in hand. But she ignored the signal and stayed where she was, because Maguire had said she’d be needed, and what Acton didn’t know could hurt him.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion in the entry foyer outside the drawing room’s main doors, and Hudson’s voice could be heard, raised slightly in dignified protest.

  The room’s occupants paused in their conversation to turn their heads toward the sound, and Doyle could hear Williams’ quick intake of breath as the Met’s detective chief superintendent strode into the room, a PC flanking him on either side.

  Even more astonishing, close behind them came Dr. Harding, and Doyle felt a pang of bitter disappointment that her clever trap and seizure was doomed to come up empty. But at least Harding had been apprehended—although it seemed a little strange that they’d brought him here, and that he wasn’t in cuffs.

  The DCS stopped before Acton, to address him in a grim tone. “I have the unfortunate charge of placing you under arrest, Michael.”

  It was Doyle’s turn to gasp, as Acton rose to his feet, unruffled. “Do you, Edwin? And what is the charge?

  “Your wife’s murder. Come along, now—I think there is no need to read you the caution.”

  Doyle’s mouth dropped open and she stared in abject horror. The DCS—the highest ranking officer at the Met—knew that the charge was not true. And Williams—Williams who stood behind her, was not at all surprised by the accusation. Holy Mother of God; the DCS was in on Acton’s frame-up, and Williams already knew that he was bent.

  But she had no time to reflect on the cataclysmic events unfolding before her, because her poor husband had gone quite still at this news. “What do you mean, my wife’s murder?”

  His tone woke her out of her frozen horror, and even from across the room she could feel the gathering of a terrible, terrible fury. Step up, Doyle; it was time to look alive.

  Pushing through the door, she entered the room, and announced, “Here I am—definitely not dead.” Hesitating, she looked to the DCS and added, “Sir.”

  49

  For a long, silent pause, everyone stared at Doyle with vary
ing degrees of surprise and chagrin—except for the ghostly ancestors, who were agitating overhead. Faith, it’s like an Agatha Christie novel, thought Doyle, with everyone gathered in the drawing room for the deynoo—for the deynoo-something. She resisted an almost overwhelming urge to bite her nails.

  “Kathleen.” Acton walked forward, emanating waves of relief, but the matron stepped into his path, her pale face fixed on Doyle, and her wrath so palpable that Doyle took a step back.

  “You,” she breathed incredulously, the syllable released with a hiss. “Nyet; eto ne mozhet byt.” She then turned her furious, accusing gaze to Harding. “She lives!”

  “Silence, everyone,” ordered the DCS, who was understandably concerned that the situation might take a very bad turn for him, if any more revelations were to be thrown about.

  But Doyle was feeling a fair bout of fury, herself, and clenched her fists. “Sir, I have evidence that this man—Dr. Harding—posed as my doctor, and tried to kill me.”

  There was a moment of charged silence. “Is that so?” asked Acton, and turned to regard the man.

  “Yes,” Doyle continued. “Mathis is here, and she has the evidence—there’s a syringe filled with—with pancreas bromide, or somethin’. Whatever it is, it’s deadly.” There, she thought with grim satisfaction; that should tie the DCS’s hands, so that he had no choice but to make an immediate arrest.

  “No—no, that’s not true,” Harding protested, his face reddening. “I’m the one that uncovered Lord Acton’s scheme, and the murder of the visiting nurse only seals it. I called the police as soon as I suspected—”

  Doyle listened to this last bit in surprise, then realized that it only made sense; Mr. Rooke could not be allowed to live, being as he was the one witness who could implicate Harding in the attempt on her life. Fortunately, Rooke was safe and sound, kicking his heels in her laundry room.

  For a moment, no one moved, and it seemed to Doyle that Acton was waiting for the DCS to break the silence. For his part, the DCS appeared to be thinking rapidly—trying to find a way to salvage the situation, no doubt. After frowning for a moment, he apparently came to the conclusion that they could go forward with the plot, despite the annoying wife’s unexpected appearance. “I’m sorry, Michael, but Dr. Harding is a credible witness, and he has sworn out an affidavit that would establish—at the very least—a charge of attempted murder. I’m afraid I must discharge my duty.”

  Outraged, Doyle took a step toward him. “Well, I will swear out my own affidavit—”

  Savoie interrupted by leaning casually toward the boy, who’d been watching the adults with wide eyes. “Come; sit closer to me, if you please.”

  But despite this reminder, the matron would not buckle, and instead pointed an accusing finger at Acton. “It is him—do not believe the wife; it is the husband who wants her dead.”

  With a full measure of scorn, Doyle played her trump. “That is not true and the visitin’ nurse is not dead, but he will testify against Dr. Harding, also.”

  The matron stared at her, white-faced and furious, while Harding blustered, “I have no idea what this woman is talking about . . . it appears that I am being unjustly accused.”

  Acton, who’d been listening to these charges and countercharges without comment, now pulled the bell rope, and offered, “Perhaps we should step back for a moment, and reassess the situation before any further accusations are made.”

  Thoroughly astonished, Doyle eyed her husband with extreme misgiving; he was taking a conciliatory tone, which was very unlike him. All things considered, the massacre she’d feared should be commencing right about now, but instead of releasing the hounds, her volatile husband was calling for Mathis to serve coffee. Faith, she thought in surprise; you marry someone, and you think you know him.

  Into this highly-charged scene, the dowager Lady Acton stepped through the open doors, and stood for a moment on the threshold, her autocratic gaze traveling over the assorted persons in her drawing room. “And what, may I ask, is the meaning of this?”

  “We have guests, Mother,” Acton replied in an even tone. “And my wife has joined us.”

  The dowager’s gaze rested for a moment on Doyle. “You may not remember, my dear, that at Trestles, we dress for dinner.”

  The DCS took this opportunity to bow his head toward the dowager with all appearance of regret. “Lady Acton, I must apologize for the disturbance, but I have come on police business, and there have been some serious accusations made. I’m afraid I must interrupt your evening for a small time, so that I can question these witnesses.”

  He then stretched out a placating hand toward Acton. “Let me separate these two, Michael, and take statements—here and now—and I’ll get to the bottom of this alleged attempt on your wife. I must beg your pardon—” here he looked toward Doyle “—and yours too, DS Doyle. It is entirely possible that I was misled.”

  “No—” began Harding in alarm, but he was silenced by a glance from the other man.

  “An excellent plan, Edwin,” said Acton. “I am certain we can resolve this misunderstanding in short order.”

  This last comment was surprisingly true, and again, Doyle eyed her husband with misgiving. It went without saying that Acton would not allow Harding and the matron to disappear into the night with the treacherous DCS—pigs would fly before Acton would allow these people to get away with this.

  Briefly, her husband met her eyes with a message of reassurance. I’m to stay quiet, she thought; fine with me, it’s exhausting, always having to save the day. Sinking down into the settee, she deliberately turned a shoulder to the agitated knight overhead, who was extremely upset that someone had allowed a Frenchman into the house.

  The DCS began to direct the others. “Let’s take Mrs. Barayev to the foyer, and put Dr. Harding in the dining room—no one is to leave. We’ll start with Harding.” He made an apologetic gesture toward Acton. “I don’t think I can allow you to be present for the questioning, Michael.”

  Acton bowed his head in understanding. “I will keep company with my wife, then.”

  The matron was escorted into the foyer to await her turn, while the others left for the dining room, Harding emanating an incredulous sort of fury, as the door was closed behind him.

  Mathis and one of the footmen came around to serve out the coffee, and with a mighty resolve, Doyle refused a cup, even though it smelt wonderful, and she was in dire need—and coffee was a rarity at Trestles; usually they served only tea, since the dowager considered coffee a vulgar, new-world contrivance. To take her mind off it, she asked her husband in an undertone, “Do you have time to hear the tale?”

  “Not as yet,” he replied. With an unhurried step, he walked over to the back doorway, and signaled to the footman with the coffee tray, as he passed by.

  Doyle decided that she should ring up Reynolds, so as to scrub the mission, so to speak. As she pulled out his mobile, she felt a stab of exasperation. Obviously, Harding had not been monitoring their communications, so it would have been miles easier simply to call Acton, and tell him not to believe any reports of her death. Maguire was wrong; she hadn’t been needed, after all—her husband had the situation well in hand, and was behaving with commendable restraint, to boot. It all made little sense.

  Fortunately, Reynolds answered the call, which meant she’d caught him before he staged his heart attack. “Madam.”

  Very much put-upon, he was. “I wanted to tell you that you needn’t call an ambulance, Reynolds. Just stay there, and don’t allow anyone in.” Cautiously, she inquired, “How’s our Mr. Rooke?”

  “He remains in the laundry room, madam. He is complaining that he has missed his other appointments.”

  She thought about it for a moment, then instructed, “Tell him he was slated to be murdered today, and we are keepin’ him safe. Find out if the fake Dr. Easton had other appointments for him, and ring up Trenton to tell him about them—someone was goin’ to kill Rooke along the way. And don’t touch anythin�
�� in his medical bag, Reynolds; somethin’ else may have been poisoned.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  She smiled into the phone; trust Reynolds to handle a crisis without turning a hair. “I’ll consult with Acton, and get back to you.”

  “I quite look forward to it, madam.”

  After ringing off, Doyle saw that the boy was watching her from his position on the floor, then he quickly dropped his gaze back to the animals. Kneeling down, she tried to decide what one said to comfort small children. “What lovely animals.” She reached for a well-worn zebra, but the boy quickly moved it beyond her grasp, his dark eyes regarding her warily.

  Savoie, who’d been watching these events without comment, instructed the boy to give her the zebra, and with poor grace, the boy relinquished the animal.

  Diplomatically, Doyle left the zebra to graze on the thick Aubusson rug where the child could easily reclaim it, and turned her head to Savoie. “I’m that surprised to find you here, my friend. Promise me you’ll keep your hands out of the silver drawer.”

  Savoie’s impassive gaze scrutinized her scratches. “Your poor face.”

  “I need only break my nose, and no one could choose between us.”

  In response to this sally, he offered up his thin smile, but he was coldly angry, was Philippe Savoie. “He will pay for this.”

  This was no doubt true; between Acton and Savoie, Harding stood little chance of coming out of this with a whole skin—not to mention the matron looked as though she’d like to strangle him with her bare hands, for bungling the plan. Nevertheless, Doyle warned Savoie in a low voice, “Best behave yourself; the DCS is dyin’ to arrest someone, and you’re a prime candidate. Perhaps you should slip out the back, before someone decides to run a background check.”

  In response to this sound advice, Savoie drew on his cigarette. “You will slip out the back with me, yes?”

  “Can’t.” She shook her head with mock-regret. “Its havin’ a baby, I am.”