“Ah—yes?” His eyes glinted for a moment, and he shrugged. “Ah—this baby, it could have been my baby.”
“I believe, all things considered, that it is just as well it is my husband’s, Philippe.”
He chuckled in his rusty way—she’d forgotten how much she amused him. She glanced at the dining room door, and reiterated, “You truly should leave, I think; I’d rather not have to be breakin’ you out of prison.”
Idly, he picked up a tiger, which earned him a wary glance from their small companion. “I do not doubt that you could; you can make everyone believe you—it is a useful trick.”
Doyle made a face. “I think you are confusin’ me with the matron. She could teach the devil himself a few tricks.”
Savoie manipulated the tiger so that it wandered across Doyle’s lower leg. “D’accord. That one, she learned from her cracking brother. He is the wolf wearing the clothes from the lambs.”
Doyle could only nod in agreement; she didn’t have fond memories of Solonik. “He was killed in prison; I suppose you heard?”
Her companion nodded solemnly, his gaze on the tiger. “Yes.”
“A good riddance—the world is well-rid of him.”
Savoie cocked his head in disapproval. “Now, now, little bird; remember that he sought your prayers.”
She answered grimly, “He’ll be needin’ them, where he is.”
“You are harsh,” Savoie pronounced, gently chiding. The tiger wandered over to investigate her hand, where it was spread on the floor.
“That’s a stunner, comin’ from you.”
The dowager, who’d been watching the trio sprawled on the floor with rigid disapproval, called out, “Who are these people, my dear? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Savoie promptly rose to his feet, and approached the older woman, holding out his hand and speaking in rapid French. Doyle didn’t know what he said, but whatever it was, every word was a lie.
The dowager answered in kind, and looked upon him with wary approval, then asked several questions and listened with interest to the answers. Doyle guessed he was turning her up sweet with some tale of aristocratic heritage, and hoped he wasn’t setting the stage to make off with her mother-in-law’s jewel case. While the others spoke, the boy took the opportunity to reach over and retrieve the wooden tiger, an eye on Doyle, to make sure she wasn’t going to report him.
“And what is your name?” she asked kindly, working hard to control her accent.
“Jonathon,” he whispered, ducking his head and staring fixedly at the animals.
This didn’t seem very Russian to Doyle, but as she was winding up to ask another question, Savoie turned to call out something to the boy, and held out a casual hand to him. The dowager directed them down the hallway, and the two ducked out the door.
“What has happened to your face, my dear?” The dowager’s tone made it clear that she fully expected Doyle to confess that she’d been brawling in the streets.
“A window fell on me, ma’am.” Doyle picked up the zebra again, running her finger along its smooth neck. She knew, without asking, that the toy set had belonged to Acton, and she began packing the animals into the ark; they were destined for Acton’s son, not Solonik’s, thank you very much.
“You must be more careful,” the older woman advised. “You seem very accident-prone.”
Doyle was spared having to come up with a response when a shot suddenly rang out, from the direction of the dining room.
50
Doyle sprang to her feet, but before she could decide whether it would be poor form to leave the dowager undefended, Acton strode over. “Stay, please,” her husband instructed her, a hand held out as he swiftly crossed toward the dining room.
Before he arrived, the door swung open to reveal the DCS, looking a bit shaken, as he stood framed in the doorway.
Acton halted before him. “Was that a shot, Edwin? What’s happened?”
The DCS took a long breath. “We’ll need the coroner. Dr. Harding has taken his own life.”
“Acton,” the dowager remonstrated in disapproval, “You mustn’t bring your work home.”
After a moment’s astonishment, Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead; when the DCS said that Harding had taken his own life, it wasn’t true. The DCS must have wanted to make certain that Harding would make no further revelations, and so had committed a containment murder of his own.
But to Doyle’s surprise, Acton casually picked up Savoie’s discarded cigarette, and entered the adjoining room to view Harding’s body, lying beneath the massive mahogany table. Crouching down beside the still form, her husband drew on the cigarette for a moment, then applied it to the decedent’s leg. The doctor lay still for few seconds, then jerked and gasped in pain.
“Not quite dead,” Acton pronounced, rising again. “Cuff him, if you would.”
“Why—why, I don’t understand.” The DCS blustered as he turned to the attending PC. “How could you not have known that he was feigning?”
Acton spared the PC from having to come up with an explanation. “It would do him little good; the coroner’s office is no longer in the recycling business.”
There was a moment of dismayed, charged silence. “I don’t know what you mean, Michael,” said the DCS, and Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead, although it hardly seemed necessary.
Acton said only, “I believe you will soon receive a full report. Shall we proceed with the interviews?”
Doyle almost felt sorry for the DCS, who seemed to be having trouble gathering his wits, in the face of this onslaught of unwelcome news. It was apparent that Acton knew more than he was saying, Doyle was producing clouds of witnesses to foil his frame-up, and between the two of them, his goose was well and thoroughly cooked.
As Harding was hauled to his feet, he gave the DCS a meaningful glance, his voice a bit high. “I demand to see a solicitor.”
Faith, the solicitor’s dead too, thought Doyle; these people aren’t up to speed at all.
“Take him out to the response car, and await my instruction,” the DCS told one of the PCs, and then turned to speak in a low tone to Acton. “Perhaps—perhaps we should indeed take a step back, and discuss these matters, Michael. I confess I’m inclined to think that this witness is no longer credible, but if he wants a solicitor, I’ll have to provide one. It may be better to keep this matter quiet; obviously the doctor is in need of some therapy, himself.”
Acton’s unwavering gaze rested on Harding’s retreating form, but he spoke in a benign tone. “Yes, I think it best. My wife would not like to be the focus of such a story.”
Oh-oh, thought Doyle.
“You are very forgiving,” the DCS offered. “I confess I don’t think I could do the same, in your place.”
“Nonsense; he is clearly unbalanced, and I’m not one to seek retribution.”
Oh-oh, thought Doyle again, in acute dismay.
Unaware of the mayhem to come, the DCS continued in a conciliatory manner, “Let me take him in, then, and he can sweat it out a bit. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable, and if he isn’t, I’ll bring in the psychs to do an evaluation, and we’ll get it done it the hard way.”
“Right, then,” Acton agreed, never for a moment believing that this would actually happen.
“And Mrs. Barayev?” The DCS lifted his gaze toward the foyer, and shrugged his shoulders. “What of her? Unless Harding implicates her, we’ve no charges to bring.”
“We have obstruction of justice, sir,” Doyle interrupted firmly. “She gave false information to the police in connection with the SOCO’s murder—I’m a witness to it.”
With a flare of annoyance, the DCS thought about this, and then had no choice but to nod his head. “Right. Let’s caution her on that, and let her sweat it out, too. She’ll have to be wondering whether Harding will turn on her, and maybe we’ll get a confession before she demands a solicitor.”
Having taken her measure of the matron, Doyle was doubtful that the w
oman would falter under pressure, but it seemed evident that the DCS was stalling as best he could, and small blame to him; he’d crossed swords with Acton, had come up spectacularly short, and now faced almost certain ruination.
“Acton, shall I have Hudson put back dinner?” called out the dowager, in disapproving tones.
Acton took Doyle’s arm to lead her back to the settee. “If you would, Mother; I’m afraid we’ve more police business to complete.”
This seemed a gross understatement, given the situation. As the DCS had a quiet conversation with the remaining PC, Acton pulled his mobile from its sheath, and began scrolling for a number. Leaning forward, Doyle took a wary glance through the drawing room doors at the matron, who was seated on one of the Chippendale chairs in the foyer. She no longer seemed confident, but instead rubbed her temples with her fingers, as though her head hurt. The footman who was positioned against the wall had a wooden expression, but Doyle knew that he was secretly pleased about something, which seemed a bit odd, considering the circumstances. He reminded her of someone, somewhere else, and Doyle’s scalp prickled. But before she could grasp at the elusive memory, Acton interrupted her thoughts.
“How did you twig Harding?” He glanced at her, as he held his mobile to his ear.
“It was a crackin’ red flag, Michael. A visitin’ nurse came to say that my husband insisted I have a vitamin shot.”
“Clumsy,” observed Acton, who was, after all, an expert on unclumsy murders. Doyle’s scalp prickled, but before she could think about why this was, someone answered his call, and he spoke quietly into his mobile. “Howard, I am sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I believe it is time to move.” He paused. “If you would ring up Previ, I’d appreciate it.”
As he rang off, Doyle remembered that Howard was the Home Office official—the one who was investigating the corruption ring—and the one that the villains had tried to frame by using Acton. But she couldn’t quite place the other name. “Who’s Previ?” she leaned in to whisper. “I forget.”
“He’s the publisher of the London World News.” Acton sheathed his mobile. “They’ve an exposé of the corruption scandal, ready to go. There will be no containing the scandal after publication, and therefore—we can only hope—no more containment murders.”
Doyle, however, shook her head, because she was still having trouble grasping the breadth of it. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael; the DCS, of all people.” She eyed him for a moment. “You don’t seem very surprised.”
He brought his chin to his chest, his absent gaze resting for a moment on the matron’s form in the next room. “I had my suspicions. The scheme could only work if there were well-placed players in the judiciary, at the prison, and at the Met.”
“There’ll be no coverin’ this up, my friend—instead, we’ll be lucky if there’s anyone left to prosecute all the blacklegs.”
“Unavoidable,” he agreed, with palpable regret.
“Will they have enough to go after the DCS? Would anyone believe him, if he claimed ignorance?”
“I very much doubt that he will avoid a lengthy prison term,” her husband replied, and it was true.
At this juncture, the dowager called out to Doyle, “My dear, what has happened to the comte, and his son?”
“Oh; oh—I’m not certain, ma’am.” As Savoie’s failure to return seemed an ominous development, Doyle turned to Acton. “What has happened to the comte, and his son?”
Acton seemed unalarmed. “He had a pressing engagement, I’m afraid.”
Oh-oh, thought Doyle, for the third time.
“A charming man,” the dowager pronounced, sipping her aperitif. “His mother is a d’Amberre, of the Normandy d’Amberres.”
Doyle warned in a low voice, “Michael, neither one of you is going to hurt that little boy.”
The dowager mused, “I must write her; the comte mentioned that she suffers from ill health.”
Acton took Doyle’s hand in reassurance. “No, the boy will not be harmed; there’s little point, since it is clear that his aunt wouldn’t care, one way or the other.”
“Faith, I could have told you that—she’s cold to the core.” Her scalp prickled, and she resisted a mighty urge to lean over again, and stare at the woman through the open doors. Have done, Doyle, she thought. Its imagining things, you are.
Instead, Doyle focused her attention on her husband, who—unlike Maguire—had no trouble whatsoever living with himself after committing dark deeds. It seemed clear he was ready to commit a few more, if she were any judge of the tell-tale signs, and so it was time for the fair Doyle to make yet another stab at redemption—after all, Acton’s confirmation was fast approaching, and she didn’t want St. Michael’s to be struck by lightning for the event. She asked him gently, “Is Dr. Harding goin’ to make it as far as the end of the driveway, my friend?”
He bent his head to finger her hands. “I’d rather not say, I’m afraid.”
His tone discouraged any further discussion of the subject, and so she subsided, a bit ashamed that she was willing to give it up so easily. Acton and Savoie would probably have a fistfight over who got to murder Harding, and the matron would presumably fare little better—Doyle’s husband was going to mete out his own version of justice, yet again.
She sighed, and contemplated the floor, because she didn’t want to look toward the entry foyer again. It was always a bone between the two of them; she knew that the justice system was imperfect, but it was miles better than letting everyone—including Acton—decide that they were better qualified to act as their own judge and jury. Faith, centuries of civilization were at stake—and if they got it wrong on occasion, so be it; that was the price of peace, the price of everyone’s having agreed to respect the process, for the greater good.
But the annoying schoolmarm found that she could dredge up little conviction, this time. Could anyone truly say that Acton was wrong to take the law into his hands, considering the situation? They knew without a doubt that Harding had tried to murder her—twice—and besides that, the psychiatrist knew too much about Acton; God only knew what would come to light, if he attempted a plea negotiation. I should make a push to talk my renegade husband out of yet another vigilante murder, she acknowledged to herself; but my heart’s not in it, and besides, the ancestors huddling in the rafters are all rooting for bloodshed, and lots of it.
Unable to help it, Doyle’s gaze was drawn once again to the foyer. The matron was now resting her head against the chair back, with the footman standing attendance, and the DCS pacing the floor in his preoccupation. The elegant tea table held the remains of the coffee service, and a portrait of one of Acton’s ancestors looked down upon all of them, his expression faintly disdainful.
No, she firmly instructed herself, quickly looking away. You’re just being fanciful, my girl; have done.
But Doyle closed her eyes, trying to remember the scene at the lab, when Mathis had injected some of the syringe’s contents into the machine. The girl had kept the syringe, of course—it was off the books, and the stuff was dangerous. How much of the drug had been left in the syringe? And then Acton had asked Mathis to bring in coffee. . . .
Beside her, Acton reached to cover her hand with his own. “I am sorry, Kathleen; I did not mean to be so short with you.”
The black mood hovered, but he was trying to control it, worried about her, sitting here stewing, with her eyes closed. She opened them, and mustered up as sincere a smile as she could manage. “Don’t worry, Michael. I’m all right.”
Only she wasn’t. You’ll be needed, Maguire had said. Stubbornly, Doyle closed her eyes again, and refused to look toward the foyer. After all, she couldn’t be certain that Mathis had used the drug on the matron—it was a wild guess. And even if the wretched woman died, it was nothing more than she deserved, and it meant there would be no further vengeance-takings on Acton—it would be the good kind of containment murder, for a change. Maguire was right; this revenge business never seemed to end, and
if Solonik’s evil sister was shuffled off this mortal coil it would bring this whole chapter to a fitting end, with the added bonus that all the other villains in greater London would think twice before coming after Acton and his family. Faith, it was only by the grace of God that she—and Edward—had managed to survive this latest go-round.
By the grace of God. By the most holy grace of God.
With a sigh, Doyle reluctantly rose to her feet. “Somethin’s wrong,” she announced, as she approached the woman in the next room. “I think Mrs. Barayev has taken some sort of drug.”
51
In the general confusion following Doyle’s announcement, she became aware that—if the reactions were any indication—there were more suspects in the matron’s attempted murder than not. Acton stood to one side, unmoved, and asked Hudson to call for an ambulance, whilst the DCS crouched to flip back one of the unconscious woman’s eyelids and suggest—without any real urgency—that Harding be brought back in, as he was a medical doctor.
Whilst Harding was being fetched from the response car, Doyle looked around at the impassive faces and urged, “I think we are supposed to induce vomitin’—although I imagine it depends on the drug. Perhaps Mathis will know.” This said diplomatically, because she probably shouldn’t implicate Mathis in the attempted murder, at least not without Acton’s say-so.
Mathis was duly summoned to give her opinion, and the PC who’d been guarding the matron rushed back into the room to announce that Harding had disappeared from custody, and that the other PC who’d been guarding him had been coshed.
On hearing this, Doyle had the immediate suspicion that the DCS had arranged for Harding’s escape, but then she caught a flare of genuine surprise and dismay from the man—he was not happy about this news. By contrast, Acton was not surprised by Harding’s disappearance, and Doyle quickly concluded that the good doctor was now making the dubious acquaintance of Philippe Savoie.
The footman who’d been stationed in the foyer was dispatched to direct the EMT personnel when they arrived, but as he passed her by, Doyle knew he was hiding his satisfaction. Her scalp prickling, she suddenly realized why his attitude had seemed so familiar, and the memory from her visit to Wexton Prison came rushing back. Solonik had arranged for her to visit the prison in an attempt to frame her for murder, and the only reason she’d figured it out was because the prison guard had been in on the scheme, and she could sense his secret gloating. Now, she had that same sense from the footman—that he was secretly gloating.
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 29
