Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  Whilst Doyle stood very still, trying to make sense of it, Mathis announced from her position on the floor, “It doesn’t appear to be a caustic substance, so we should induce vomiting. Help me roll her over—careful, now.”

  “My nerves are quite shot,” the dowager complained from the drawing room. “If you would call for tea, Hudson.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Hudson, who was up to his elbows helping Mathis with the unconscious matron. “I’ll have it brought out straightaway.”

  Tea, Doyle realized in frozen shock; holy Mother of God—tea. Tea was what was served here, not coffee. But coffee would mask the drug better than tea would, which meant—which meant that the gleeful footman was conniving with the DCS to frame Acton for the matron’s murder.

  Forcing herself to move, she leaned forward to put a hand on her husband’s shoulder, as he crouched down beside Mathis. “Sir,” she whispered through stiff lips. “Sir, if I could have a word—it’s about Caroline.”

  Acton turned to look up at her in surprise, which was not unexpected; he’d killed Caroline, and staged her death to look like a suicide—which was whatever the opposite of ‘symmetrical’ was, but she hadn’t time to think about vocabulary, just now. Doyle met Acton’s eyes, an urgent message contained in her own. “It will just take a moment.”

  Acton rose and drew her aside, his gaze assessing her face. “What is it? Are you unwell?”

  Trying to control her surge of panic, she spoke in an undertone. “It’s a set-up, Michael—they’re framin’ you for the matron’s murder, and I’m not sure how many are in on it. The footman—the footman who brought the coffee is in on it.” She paused, remembering the conversation she and Williams had overheard from the stairwell. “Another footman, I think, and perhaps Mathis, too—she’s the one who had the syringe.”

  Acton regarded her gravely for a moment, and made no reply.

  Her throat dry, Doyle urged, “Shouldn’t we ask some questions, so that I can listen to the answers? And we have to warn Williams—where is he? Holy mother, Michael; what if they’ve taken him out, already?”

  “Please don’t worry, Kathleen,” Acton replied. “It’s not about Caroline. Instead, it’s about Barayev.”

  Staring at him, she had to think about what was meant by this cryptic comment. Barayev was the matron’s dead husband—and a blackleg in his own right; the SOCO’s photos showed that he was also involved in Solonik’s corruption ring. He’d died because Acton had killed him, and had framed Solonik to take the blame—

  The penny dropped. “Michael,” she breathed, “That is diabolical.”

  “I would ask that you sit quietly, please.”

  Nodding in bemusement, she allowed him to seat her in one of the elegant Chippendale chairs behind Mathis, who was ministering to the matron with no real urgency. I had it backwards, she realized in wonder; it is a conspiracy, but it’s Acton’s conspiracy. I’d forgotten, for a moment, that he’s the grand master at turning the tables. Instead of Acton’s being framed for my murder, the DCS is being framed for the matron’s murder. The gloating footman is Acton’s man, and he will gladly testify that the matron implicated the DCS in the corruption ring, and that the DCS was striving mightily to keep her from making any further revelations during the course of this evening. Faith, it was brilliant—Acton came to Trestles to set a trap, and the DCS had walked right in, with the added bonus that Harding had served himself up on the vengeance platter, too. Small wonder Maguire had said that it was all very symmetrical.

  The ancestor in the portrait above her was a very unpleasant fellow—small blame to him, as he’d died of the pox—and she threw him a scornful look. “Snabble it, you; it doesn’t matter to me a’tall. Save your tattlin’ for someone who cares.”

  “Madam?” Mathis turned to ask in surprise, but at this juncture, Hudson opened the massive front doors to allow entry to the medical personnel, and they began to pepper Mathis with questions—most of which she answered dishonestly. As they prepared the matron for transport, the DCS observed from a small distance, standing with his arms crossed, and unaware that evidence was no doubt being gathered to show that he’d administered the fatal dose.

  But—but something was wrong, and between the still-fluttering ghosts and her prickling scalp, Doyle was mightily confused. Maguire had said she’d be needed, and that what Acton didn’t know might hurt him, but it seemed that the only contribution the fair Doyle had made to this little morality play was to try to save the matron from her fate—which ran counter to Acton’s plan. There must be something else—something else that she was missing.

  As if on cue, Williams appeared before her, quietly picking up the coffee tray from the tea table before her. “Hey,” he said, glancing up at her.

  Doyle quirked her mouth. “Hey, yourself. Don’t get your prints on anythin’, else you’ll be the one windin’ up in the nick.”

  He didn’t deign to respond to this little attempt at manipulation–of-evidence humor, and instead informed her softly, “Acton’s going to go back with them tonight; the matron will be booked into the prison infirmary.”

  “And he’ll be wantin’ to meet with the Home Secretary.” This went without saying; one couldn’t just arrest the DCS without going through the proper channels; her poor husband was in for a long night.

  “You’re to stay here, with me, and you’re not to go outside.”

  “Grand,” Doyle groused. “It’s lucky that Acton has a castle keep at hand, ready-made for lockin’ away his free-range wife.”

  Williams gave her a look as he turned away with the tray. “Mathis will stay with you, also.”

  “Even grander.”

  He gave her another look over his shoulder—this one amused—and carried away the evidence that would bring down the head of the CID.

  “Madam?” Mathis approached, and Doyle heaved an inward sigh, as the girl folded her hands. “I’m to escort you to your rooms.”

  “In a minute,” Doyle replied, just to be contrary. “Let me see Acton off, first.”

  “As you wish.” Mathis bowed her head, but Doyle could see that she was impatient; Acton must want Doyle upstairs, and safely locked away—although there was no one left to cause any trouble, one would think. Hard on this thought, there was a generalized excited flurry in the rafters, far above her head.

  Exasperated, Doyle lifted her face, and warned the ghosts, “Everyone needs to calm way down.”

  “I am perfectly calm, madam.” Beneath her serene exterior, Mathis bristled a bit.

  Doyle drew a deep breath, in an attempt to settle her frayed nerves. “Of course you are, Mathis; you’ve done exigent work tonight—”

  “—I believe you mean exemplary, madam.”

  “Yes; yes, I did,” Doyle agreed heavily, holding on to her temper with both hands. “I’ve been unforgivably rude, and I keep sayin’ things I shouldn’t. Shame on me.”

  Mathis unbent enough to commiserate, “Then shame on me, too. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with Officer Williams.”

  “He’s too masterful, or somethin’.” Doyle scowled crossly. “It drives you crazy.”

  “Exactly,” her companion agreed with some heat.

  “May I interrupt?” The remaining PC approached, and bestowed a charming smile upon Mathis. “I just wanted you to know that we’ll be leaving—may I take your mobile number, Miss Mathis, in the event any further information is needed?”

  “Of course,” Mathis replied, but Doyle knew the man was mainly interested in the fair Mathis, which just went to show you that it took all kinds. Doyle had the impression that the officer was something of a boyo, thinking he was irresistible to the ladies, and good luck to him, since Mathis would be one tough nut to crack.

  The PC turned his smile upon Doyle, whilst Mathis entered her number into his phone. “And at last I meet the bridge-jumper.”

  Friendly, he was. Almost too friendly, considering she was his senior officer, and her husband was his much-senior officer.
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  “That’s me,” Doyle agreed, pinning on her smile.

  As Mathis returned his mobile, the PC confessed, “I can’t say as I would have jumped, myself; I’m something of a skiver.”

  Skiver, thought Doyle in surprise. There’s that word—

  “We are all very proud of Lady Acton,” Mathis said, and it was not exactly true.

  But Doyle wasn’t thinking about that, instead, she was listening to the roar of movement overhead, as swords were drawn from their scabbards, and her scalp prickled like a live thing. With a conspiratorial air, she smiled up at the PC. “Would you like to see my medal?”

  She could feel Mathis’s incredulous gaze slide toward her, but the PC seemed more amused than anything. “I would indeed.”

  Doyle met his gaze in what she hoped was a flirtatious manner—channeling Munoz, she was. “It’s in the archives. Quick-like, before anyone sees.”

  The man radiated pleased anticipation, almost unable to believe his good fortune. “Lead the way.”

  Soft-footed, Doyle hurried down the hall to the stone-lined archives room, which had been part of the original keep, whilst a host of ancestral beings raced along the high ceiling behind her. Opening the heavy door, she took a guilty glance over her shoulder, and then signaled to the PC that he should enter. He slipped past her, and she immediately slammed the door after him, turning the huge brass key in the lock with a decisive twist of her wrist. He’s lucky they’re only ghosts, she thought grimly; otherwise he’d be hacked to death within the minute.

  She turned to call to Mathis, but then froze on beholding Grady, the Irish stableman, approaching rapidly as he brandished a shotgun.

  “What’s afoot?” he asked urgently, as a faint pounding could be heard on the other side of the archives door.

  Swallowing, she managed, “I’ve—I’ve got to speak to Acton.”

  “I can’t go fetch ʼim, I’m to stay w’ ye,” the man explained. “Let me call to Mathis, and she’ll fetch ʼim.”

  And so they waited together, Grady shielding Doyle against the stone wall, his shotgun at the ready. “Go raibh maith agat,” she offered, a bit abashed by her initial reaction.

  “Don’t mention it, my lady.”

  In a blessedly short time, Acton could be heard approaching with Mathis. “What’s happened?”

  “The PC is actually Judge Whitteside,” Doyle explained in a rush. “He was going to ride with you to the Met, and you were going to be the next death in custody—I don’t know the exact plan, but you were not going to survive.”

  After the barest pause, her husband sent Mathis for Hudson, and took Grady aside to issue a few quiet orders.

  Spent, Doyle closed her eyes, and leaned against the ancient door, listening to the muted pounding from the frustrated villain on the other side, and the muted murmuring of frustrated warriors overhead, who’d been hoping for a pitched battle. I thank You for Maguire’s warning, she thought; if I may say so, perhaps You might have been a little clearer, but all’s well that ends well, and I’ve no grounds to quibble.

  52

  Doyle sat with Acton at the long table in the servant’s hall as they ate a whole cooked chicken with their hands. Acton had been reluctant to leave her side, and so all villains were now locked up with the local constable, and the Home Secretary had been informed that he should clear his calendar for the next morning, and have the crisis control team brought in.

  It was well past midnight, but she’d confessed to her husband that she was starving, crisis or no, and if she didn’t eat soon, she’d be gnawing on the bell ropes. Therefore, they’d descended to the kitchen and roused the poor cook, who’d already had her dinner ruined this night, and who was now hovering in the doorway to serve this makeshift meal in her nightgown, emanating equal parts nervousness and wonder.

  Doyle bit into a chicken leg with relish. “I’m sleeping with you; none of this separate chambers nonsense.”

  “No argument here.”

  She took a swig of cider, straight out of the bottle. “I imagine this is the most excitement the local station house has seen in a while.” The local police were still searching for Harding, who’d disappeared without a trace, and although the matron had been arrested and charged, it was as yet unclear whether she would survive the night. Mathis had left, wanting to go straight to the lab to examine a suspicious coffee cup, and no one seemed to remember that Savoie had been a visitor, and so he was not mentioned in the police reports.

  Doyle wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Who’s left to charge the DCS with murder? You?”

  “We don’t have a murder, as the matron has not yet died,” Acton pointed out reasonably.

  “Oh. Well, I suppose that’s to the good,” Doyle observed, and tried to mean it. “Murder is murder, Michael, even when it seems like a fine solution to all outstandin’ problems.” She paused, trying to decide how much to berate him over this—it was nothing that she hadn’t said before, a million times. “You can’t go about decidin’ that there are good containment murders, as opposed to bad ones. They are all bad—there’s no such thing as an honorable murder.”

  “I will take it under advisement.” He tapped his bottle to hers in a toast, and drank.

  Thinking over the evening’s events, she twisted off the other chicken leg from the carcass. “Maguire needs to improve on his warnin’s, I barely sorted it out in the nick of time.”

  “I disagree; he warned me very clearly.”

  This was of interest, and she paused in gnawing on the bone. “Maguire warned you?”

  “Yes. He’d discovered the Wexton Prison corruption ring, and sent his research to me, knowing that I’d put a stop to it, one way or the other.”

  Frowning in surprise, Doyle considered this—it did explain why her husband had been troubled about this for months, and so secretive. “Why wouldn’t Maguire just post an article in the newspaper, like you will, and expose them?”

  “I imagine he was afraid.”

  Thoughtfully mopping up the juices with a piece of bread, she could only agree. “Yes; he said as much to me, once—said he was a coward, who ran away from the all the problems he’d caused.”

  “He’s atoned, certainly.”

  Licking her fingers, she could only agree. “In spades; this was a nasty bunch.”

  “Indeed.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “And they were so brassy; faith, it’s still hard to believe.”

  “Not such a risk, actually. Remember, they had an easy solution if any investigation was launched—they’d stage their own deaths. And the DCS could always work to neutralize any exigent threat.”

  “I got ‘exigent’ wrong,” Doyle confessed. “And in front of stupid Mathis, no less.”

  He leaned in to kiss her. “You got everything else right.” He raised his empty bottle to the cook, indicating that he wanted another, and the woman hurried over, her forehead shiny with nervous perspiration.

  “Do you think there are any more to be nicked?” She eyed him; watching his reaction. After all, the no-account matron had gone to ground near here, and it seemed evident that someone from Trestles had been conspiring with the evildoers. Sir Stephen, Acton’s heir, was mysteriously absent, and no one had offered an explanation as to his whereabouts. It only made sense that someone was lurking about in London to make sure the fair Doyle was well and truly dead—Doyle had assumed it was Harding, but Harding had been needed here, to testify against Acton. And then there was the little matter of Holy Trinity Church, and the Health Professions Council, which seemed to serve as operational command for all the dark doings in greater London.

  “I shouldn’t wonder.”

  She wiped her fingers in resignation, knowing this was the best answer she’d get, and then leaned to give him a slightly greasy kiss. “I’m that pleased that reports of my death were extravabated.”

  He leaned to kiss her back. “I couldn’t put it better, myself.”

  Thus reminded, Doyle looked at
the tall clock in the corner. “I forgot to ring up poor Reynolds; the visitin’ nurse is no doubt still locked in the laundry room.”

  “I’ll phone Trenton. How did you manage to get by him, this time?”

  The words were casual, but Doyle could sense the underlying displeasure, and she rested her wrists on the table’s edge. “Can we not tell him I got past him again, Michael? The poor man’s going to need a psychiatrist, himself.”

  Acton paused for a moment, swirling the liquid in his bottle. “I can’t seem to keep you in check, can I?”

  She ventured, “Best that you don’t try, Michael. Truly.”

  He leaned his shoulder against hers, and again tapped her bottle with his. “All right.”

  Doyle felt relief flood over her—no longer a princess in a tower, thank all the saints and holy angels; she wasn’t cut out to be a princess. She wasn’t cut out to be a baroness, either, but Acton had given her little choice.

  They ate in silence for a few moments, and as she plucked at the remnants on her chicken leg, she mused, “Maguire was right; it was all very symmetrical. Solonik was plottin’ to frame me for murder, and then his sister took up the mantle, and plotted to frame you.”

  “Solonik was framing you for murder?” asked Acton in a mild tone.

  She paused, having forgotten that he didn’t know about this troubling little detail. “Oh; oh—I suspected as much,” she stammered. “It only makes sense.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  Hurriedly, she changed the subject. “You should have seen Williams and Mathis in the car together, Michael; they were brawlin’ like Sailortown shants.”