Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  “Do you see, children? The color has changed to white.” Nodding solemnly, the two earnest observers—standing on

  chairs—gazed at the boiling egg, their eyes wide.

  “We will now ladle it carefully—like this—onto a slice of buttered toast for Lady Acton. We will add a small garnish to entice her—just so—as she is not very fond of eggs.”

  “You’re a sly one, Reynolds,” Doyle called out. “I’m on to you, now.”

  “I’m going to be a chef, just like you,” Emile pronounced importantly.

  “My mum won’t let me touch the stove,” Gemma admitted. “I am not a chef, Master Emile. I am a butler.” Doyle could

  hear the faint rebuke in the servant’s words, even if the child could not.

  “Then I’m going to be a butler,” Emile amended enthusiastically, as he jumped off the chair and landed with a crash. “Can I carry it over?”

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  “May I carry it over,” Reynolds corrected, as he lifted the tray. “And no, you may not.”

  “Your father would slay me, if he heard you sayin’ such a thing,” Doyle warned Emile. “There’s to be no more butler-talk.”

  Emile turned to her, his eyes alight. “I’m going to visit Papa, tomorrow.”

  This was a surprise, and so Doyle replied, “Are you indeed? Reynolds, bake a cake, quick-like, with a file within. Opportunity is knockin’, and I’m not one to say nay.”

  “That is a misconception, madam. A file would be inserted only after baking.”

  She eyed him, as he set down the tray before her. “Fine, then; whatever’s the proper protocol—I think you’re missin’ the main point, here.”

  “Protocol for what?” Acton came in from the far bedroom, where he’d relocated his desk ever since Emile had moved in.

  “I’m to bring a cake, when I visit Papa tomorrow,” Emile informed him importantly.

  “You must address Lord Acton as ‘sir’,” Reynolds reminded

  him.

  “Sir,” amended Emile, straightening up.

  “Just like the army-man,” Gemma offered in her soft little voice. She was younger than Emile, and tended to support him with a mixture of awe and shyness. Her mother, Mary, was slated to be the unborn Edward’s nanny, but the woman’s husband had been killed, and until Edward made his appearance, Mary was working part-time to stay afloat. She’d refused monetary assistance, but had gratefully accepted their offer to watch Gemma whilst she worked. Doyle had actually hit upon this plan because Emile was a bundle of energy, and it was sincerely hoped that Gemma would serve as a playmate-and-distraction. Thus far, however, this plan had not worked out as hoped,

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  mainly because both children were fascinated by Reynolds, who was doing a journeyman’s job of keeping them entertained.

  “We were hopin’ to break Emile’s Papa out of prison— Reynolds and me,” Doyle explained. “The reasons for which will go unmentioned.”

  “Are you going to eat your egg, ma’am?” Emile hovered by the sofa, hopeful.

  Acton intervened in a voice that brooked no argument. “She is, indeed.”

  “I will, I will,” Doyle replied crossly, and lifted a fork. “Come, Master Emile,” Reynolds pulled out a chair at the

  kitchen table. “It is time to practice your sums.”

  As the boy bounded away, Doyle made a mighty effort to cast off her sulks, and smiled up at her husband. “You never thought you’d be runnin’ a daycare. Confess.”

  “We’ll manage,” he soothed, and rested a hand on her head. “I shouldn’t be havin’ children, Michael; I’ve no patience

  for it.”

  “Nonsense; you are an excellent mother.” Absently, he ran his hand over her head, but she could tell that he was distracted, for some reason, as he glanced over toward the children.

  As a distracted Acton did not necessarily bode well for her peace of mind, Doyle asked, “Who’s takin’ Emile over to visit Savoie tomorrow?”

  “Lizzie Mathis.”

  She stared at him in surprise. Lizzie Mathis was a young woman who was related to the steward who ran Acton’s estate, and who was therefore devoted to the House of Acton. She also worked in the forensics lab at Scotland Yard, and, on the side, she served as one of her husband’s minions, willing to do dark deeds on his behalf—with this visit to Savoie apparently serving as an excellent example. “Holy Mother, Michael; is that wise? What if Savoie works his charm on her, and convinces her to turn

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  coat against you?” This said in jest, as Mathis was all-business, all the time.

  Acton smiled at the absurdity of the suggestion. “We shall have to take our chances, I suppose.”

  Emile’s father, Philippe Savoie, was a notorious international criminal who’d masterminded a smuggling rig whereby illegal weapons were sold throughout the country. Currently, he was being held at Wexton Prison without bail, since his major-crimes list was as long as your arm. However, the whole set-up made Doyle uneasy; Acton himself had been up to his neck in the illegal smuggling rig, also—the two men had been partners, in the underworld operation. It was a shrine-worthy miracle that Acton’s participation hadn’t come to light, else he’d have landed in prison next door to Savoie. But Doyle’s husband did not seem at all worried, even though Savoie’s case was moving through the system with glacial speed, and even though they were minding Emile-the-wild-child in the interim. Instead, he seemed—well, he seemed pleased about something, which was another miracle, since he couldn’t buy a moment’s peace in his own home, not to mention that his wife was a sulking walrus.

  Doyle considered the Lizzie Mathis development as her husband watched the two children settle into their activities at the kitchen table. “Can Mathis even talk to Savoie, without counsel present?”

  “Mathis is not law enforcement; she is a civilian.”

  She nodded, having forgotten this. The lab people, like the Scene-of-Crime Officers, were independent contractors, and not law enforcement personnel. No doubt this was one of the reasons Mathis was going—no one would recognize her, and she wouldn’t be constrained in her communications with Savoie. In fact, Doyle would be very much surprised if the girl’s task wasn’t to pass information along to the prisoner, under the guise of bringing the boy for a visit.

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  With some uneasiness, Doyle eyed her husband, who hadn’t sat down beside her, but who was instead gazing thoughtfully toward the kitchen table, where Emile was bent over his worksheet, and Gemma colored with crayons. “Come clean, husband; what’s afoot?”

  He turned his attention back to her, and confessed, “It is probably for the best that you not know, Kathleen.”

  This was undoubtedly true—particularly if he was masterminding some plan to break Savoie out of prison. Presumably, he had some scheme in the works that would turn her red hair grey, if she knew of it, and so it was best that she didn’t. Nevertheless, she warned him, “You’ve had a lucky escape, my friend; don’t be temptin’ fate.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I won’t.”

  This answer gave her pause, because it was said with a nuance that didn’t seem fitting, somehow—Doyle’s husband was well-aware of her ability to sort out the truth—but before she could follow up, he’d moved on to the next topic.

  “I must visit Layton tomorrow; Nellie has requested a copy of my baptismal certificate. You are welcome to accompany me, of course.”

  Doyle made a face; Layton handled Acton’s financial affairs, and Doyle had visited the man’s posh offices once before, under best-be-forgotten circumstances. “No, thank you; you’ll have to dig through the vault all on your own. Are you sure you have a baptismal certificate? I wouldn’t put it past your mother to neglect such a thing.”

  With a small smile, he leaned down to remind her, “Indeed I do; I needed it to marry you.”


  “Holy Mother, Michael, but you were organized. I was like a lamb, bein’ led to the slaughter.”

  “Just so. I could leave nothing to chance.”

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  Meeting his smile with her own, she held his hand against her head, and watched the others at the table for a moment. When she’d first met Acton, she’d been serving as his support officer and was completely unaware that beneath his very reserved exterior there lurked a burning—and slightly fanatical—devotion to the aforesaid support officer. As he was well-aware she’d balk at any romantic overtures, he’d therefore done the only practical thing and ambushed her into marriage on a moment’s notice. It had all turned out rather well, actually, if you didn’t count the various brushes with death, and the extra children underfoot.

  “Speakin’ of Nellie, I should go visit the church again tomorrow, so I may as well make the trip whilst you’re at Layton’s.” For reasons that she could not explain, she didn’t want to mention the suicide-may-be-a-murder case to Acton; it could turn out to be nothing, after all, and she was dying to do something other than stare at the four walls. Reminded, she lifted her face to his. “Did you know that they found a body, in the Holy Trinity rubble?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “The report indicates an Asian woman— possibly the charwoman. Forensics has done some testing, but so far there’s no DNA to run a comparison.”

  Doyle’s mobile pinged, and she glanced at it. “There’s Mary; we can send Gemma home.”

  “I will ring for the driving service, madam.” Reynolds helped the little girl rise from the table. “Come, Miss Gemma, let’s pack up your rucksack.”

  “In a moment,” said Acton. He then walked over to crouch down before the little girl in a friendly fashion. “If you would, Gemma,” he began with a small smile, “tell me about the army-man.”

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  No luck—she’d heard. Nevertheless, it was unlikely she’d piece it together.

  “Can you tell me what this is all about, husband?” Evening was falling, and Reynolds had taken

  Emile along to drop off Gemma—the driver was a kind man, who was willing to indulge the boy by telling him tales from his own boyhood in Nigeria. As a result, the flat was blessedly quiet for a few minutes, and Doyle had hoisted herself off the sofa to come over and stand beside Acton, where he stood gazing out the windows, deep in thought.

  That his attention had been caught seemed obvious; the little girl had blushed and stammered—she tended to be intimidated by Acton—but she’d managed to tell him that there’d been an army-man who’d come to see her father, on occasion. The girl’s deceased father had been a pawnbroker, and it seemed clear that Acton found the existence of the visiting army-man very interesting.

  Doyle leaned against him, and ran a fond hand across her husband’s back. “Mayhap Blakney had an old army friend.”

  Acton glanced down at her. “Her father called him ‘sir’, which makes a friendship seem unlikely. And there is no record that Blakney was ever in the armed services.”

  Interesting that Acton would know this, off the top of his head. Of course, Acton tended to know everything, so there was that. “Mayhap she’s confused, Michael—mayhap it was someone who always wore fatigues, or somethin’.”

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  But his next question surprised her. “Did you ever catch the sense that Giselle and Blakney had a child together?”

  With a knit brow, Doyle considered this question, since Blakney and Giselle would have been little Gemma’s parents, and it seemed an odd question for Acton to be asking. Giselle had been a victim in an earlier homicide case, which was how they’d met Blakney-the-pawnbroker in the first place; he was the victim’s ex-husband, and they’d questioned him as part of their investigation.

  Doyle shook her head. “No, I didn’t—but that doesn’t mean much, Michael. A lot of the villains we meet aren’t pattern-card parents, after all.”

  He did not reply, but continued to gaze out the window. Puzzled, she ventured, “D’you think she’s not their child,

  then?”

  “I haven’t enough information to create a theory, as yet.” He turned to face her. “Would you mind finding out as much as you can about Gemma from Mary?”

  She nodded—Acton wouldn’t be interested unless he felt it was important, for some reason. “I will. Shall I ask about any stray army-men, while I’m at it?”

  “If you would.”

  Absently, he drew her against his side, whilst they watched the street lamps light up on the street below. As he offered nothing further on the subject, she prompted, “How soon d’you need to know?”

  “No great hurry. I don’t want to alarm Mary.”

  “Aye, then. Am I the one who should be alarmed?” She was half-teasing; when Acton’s attention was caught, Katy bar the door.

  He glanced down, and squeezed his arm around her. “It seems unusual, is all.”

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  With a nod, she acknowledged this—although she hadn’t picked up on it, of course. Her husband’s reputation as an extraordinary solver-of-crimes rested on his amazing ability to notice details that eventually turned into case-breakers; details that didn’t seem of interest to anyone else. There was good reason the younger detectives nicknamed him “Holmes” behind his back.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No; it’s a relief to stand up, for a bit.”

  He rested a gentle hand on her belly. “How does Edward?” “Never better. I can’t decide if I want him to get here,

  already, or if I want him to stay where he is, so that I’ll never be put to the test.”

  Smiling, he leaned to kiss her brow. “I believe testing is supposed to be a good thing. Father John mentioned something about the purity of gold.”

  Surprised, she laughed aloud. “What’s that from?” “The Book of Proverbs, I believe.”

  “Yes, well—you’re an Old Testament sort of person,” she observed, giving him a sidelong glance. “If you know what I mean.”

  “I suppose there’s some justice to that observation,” he replied mildly.

  She laughed again, and leaned into him. “So—you’re to be spoutin’ scripture at me, now? Faith, I’ve created a monster, which is nothin’ more than what I deserve.”

  He rested his head against hers. “Just so you know I’m paying attention.”

  “Well, watch yourself—Father John will try to wheedle you into payin’ more than attention, and we’re already runnin’ a free daycare.”

  “We’ve plenty of money to spare,” he replied, and it was

  true.

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  As usual, Doyle was reluctant to speak of the Acton family fortunes, in that it always made her feel as though she were a pretender to the throne. Therefore, she tugged lightly at his waist and turned the subject. “Well, I hope we’re payin’ Reynolds enough. Wouldn’t want him to throw down his oven mitts, and storm out the door.”

  “I believe Reynolds rather enjoys the children.”

  She lifted a corner of her mouth in acknowledgement. “I’ve a sneakin’ suspicion that you’re right. But it wouldn’t hurt to shovel him some more money, anyways; I don’t know where we’d be, without him.”

  “Already taken care of—please don’t worry.”

  Thoughtfully, she gazed down on the scene below them, because there was something niggling at her—something about what he’d said, and this conversation they were having. “You know, you’re a very generous man, Michael, considerin’ all the commandments that you don’t mind breakin’, when it suits your fancy.”

  Teasing, he drew her to him. “Not so very many, surely?” “Well, now that you’re spoutin’ scripture like the curate’s

  cat, I’ll say no more—except to say that even before you were reformed, you were always generous, even with yo
ur miserable relatives. It’s a point in your favor, I think.”

  But he tilted his head in a disclaimer. “I take a more practical view, I’m afraid. Money tends to smooth over any perceived grievances.”

  This seemed irrefutable, and she idly watched the pedestrians walking in the park below, wondering what it was she was trying to understand. “I suppose that’s true—although in our business, we’ve seen plenty of people who can never get enough money. Father John was just sayin’ that greed is a terrible driver.”