Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  He nodded, as though she’d made a fair point, but returned no comment.

  “I’m goin’ to follow up,” she assured him. “I know it’s important, or you wouldn’t be here—but it has to be guilefully done, which is probably another thing you’ve no experience with.”

  The little priest smiled in concession, and—although his face was careworn and weathered—when he smiled, there was a startling contrast, in that his teeth were very white, and very uniform. On reflection, it shouldn’t have been a surprise, though—Nellie had similar teeth; it was in the genetics, from that part of the world. In admiration, Doyle observed aloud, “You have such beautiful teeth—so even, even though your incisors are shovel-shaped.”

  He nodded affably, and she felt a bit embarrassed that she’d blurted out such a thing; they taught you in forensics that a dead person’s race could often be discerned from the shape of certain teeth. Quickly, she returned to the subject at hand. “I feel as though I should be figurin’ it all out, but I can’t make heads-nor-

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  tails of it—pregnancy makes one un-sharp, I think. And I’ve been distracted by the hissin’ ducks, and how Emile thought he was goin’ back to St. Petersburg.”

  The little priest offered, “In the end, the only kingdom that matters is the kingdom of heaven.”

  “Amen,” she replied dutifully, and wished she knew what he was talking about.

  They regarded each other in silence, and she ventured, “You know, Father, I’m thinkin’ that a bit more information wouldn’t be out of line.”

  “My sister is troubled,” he reminded her gently. “And money is no remedy for a troubled mind.”

  There was a pause. “Are we talkin’ about Acton, again?”

  But her eyes flew open to observe the darkened bedroom wall, and she lay still, listening to her husband’s steady breathing, as she stilled her hammering heart.

  The following morning was the day of the confirmation, and Acton was showering whilst Reynolds served up yet another helping of eggs to Emile, who was shoveling them in as fast as his hand could lift a fork.

  “Your suit of clothes is laid out on your bed, Master Emile, but we will wait a bit before we see you dressed.”

  “Emile’s comin’ to Acton’s confirmation?” Doyle asked in surprise.

  “Lord Acton thought it appropriate,” the servant replied, and Doyle could see that Reynolds didn’t think it was appropriate, but his was not to reason why.

  “Faith, Reynolds; Emile’s comin’, but you’re not?” This was almost too alarming to contemplate.

  “Miss Mary will attend, madam, and she will look after Emile. And I believe Lord Acton thought I might enjoy having the day off.”

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  “Oh—oh, I’ll bet that’s it.” Strange, that Acton hadn’t invited Reynolds—it wouldn’t hurt to have another pair of hands, and Acton would be more interested in making things easy for Doyle, rather than for Reynolds—Emile was a handful.

  She turned to the boy, and warned, “You’ve got to behave yourself, my friend—the bishop will be there.”

  Emile paused, much struck. “Will he wear his big hat?”

  “No doubt,” Doyle said. “And he’ll have his crook, besides— best mind yourself.”

  “The bishop will officiate?” Reynolds had perked up because—in the best butler tradition—he was more of a snob than Acton was.

  “We didn’t warrant an archbishop,” Doyle replied with mock-regret. “Acton needs to donate more money.”

  As the servant did not appreciate this attempt at ecclesiastical humor, he made no response, but instead retreated to the stove to fetch the boy more bacon.

  Watching him, Doyle decided that it was an opportune time to ask, “D’you know about The Hound of the Baskervilles, Reynolds?”

  “Certainly, madam. Another Doyle, if I may say so.”

  “Oh. Well, be that as it may, d’you remember how it went? Who the real killer was?”

  Reynolds knit his brow for a moment, as he deposited a heap of bacon onto Emile’s plate. “I believe there was a secret heir, madam.”

  “Truly?” Doyle considered this with interest. “I like ‘secret heir’ stories.”

  “A popular trope,” the servant agreed.

  “So—how about The Sign of the Four? What’s that one about?”

  “One of the earlier stories.” Reynolds straightened up, and thought it over. “A dispute over a purloined treasure, I believe.”

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  Doyle teetered on the edge of asking what “purloined” meant, but then decided that she’d got the gist. “I see—well, I suppose that’s another popular whatever-it-was-you-said.”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  Frowning slightly, she continued, “Was it blood-money, in The Sign of the Four? The treasure that they were fightin’ over?”

  Reynolds paused over the sink, carefully hiding his surprise that she was interested in this particular topic. “I don’t believe so, madam—not in the traditional sense. Instead it was the spoils of war, if I recall correctly.” He dried his hands. “Allow me to pull it up, and we’ll have an answer.”

  “No—let’s not look it up,” she said in alarm, and then wondered what to say; if Acton saw that she was researching the story, the gig would be up—she’d known at the time he made the comment that he was having a private joke with himself, in the same way that she’d known that Gabriel was having a private joke when he mentioned that story about the hound. Improvising, she cautioned, “I’m workin’ on a surprise for Acton, and I don’t want to tip him off.”

  Hesitating, the servant ventured, “Are you aware, madam, that Lord Acton already owns the complete Holmes canon?”

  “Oh,” said Doyle, blinking in surprise. “He does?”

  But Emile sprang out of his chair in excitement. “Can we go shoot it off, at the park?”

  “I’m afraid, Master Emile, that’s not the type of canon—” But Doyle smiled at the boy. “Let’s. We’ll aim it at the ducks,

  Emile—it’s nothin’ more than what the miserable chousers deserve.”

  As Emile expressed his extreme enthusiasm for this plan, it was left to Reynolds to throw cold water on the idea. “I believe Lady Acton is joking,” the servant intervened firmly. “Instead, we will gather up some stones when we are next at the pond, Master Emile, and I will teach you how to play Ducks and Drakes.”

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  With a slingshot?” asked Emile, still hoping for a bit of violence.

  “I know a Drake who can’t keep his hands off the ducks,” Doyle offered slyly. “He definitely deserves the slingshot treatment.”

  As Reynolds shot her an admonitory look, Doyle wondered why her scalp had started prickling.

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  She didn’t enjoy this type of gathering, of course.

  A shame, that it was necessary.

  I keep forgetting that I hate crowds, Doyle thought. For two pins, I’d duck into the sacristy, and wiggle myself out a window.

  The confirmation ceremony had concluded, and she was now positioned next to Acton in the receiving line at the reception, trying to keep up a pleasant front even though she was thoroughly sick of answering questions about her due-date, and equally sick of being buffeted by the undercurrents that swirled around her.

  Dr. Timothy McGonigal—Acton’s longtime friend—had come through the line, and ordinarily Doyle would have been relieved to see a familiar face; McGonigal had proved to be a staunch ally, through thick and thin. In this instance, however, the good doctor was troubled—an unusual state of affairs for him. Although the man smiled and shook Acton’s hand, his heart wasn’t in it, and neither was Nanda’s, for that matter. Nanda was McGonigal’s sweetheart, a nurse who’d originally hailed from Rwanda, but who was now working at the Holy Trinity free clinic—which prompte
d Doyle to wonder if they would have to shutter it, being as there wasn’t any money to keep the parish going.

  Usually, Nanda was as restful a person as McGonigal— which was why the couple had always seemed so perfect for each other. Today, however, Nanda was a seething caldron of

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  frustrated rage, and could barely muster up a smile, as she greeted Doyle.

  A lover’s tiff, Doyle decided, and hoped they could work it out—Acton had opined that an engagement was in the offing, but it certainly didn’t appear so, today.

  Officer Gabriel then ushered Tasza through the line, and Doyle was immediately irritated, since she didn’t much like the fact that Gabriel was presenting his live-in-girlfriend subterfuge to her without confessing to it, and then explaining why it was necessary. Doyle had always felt they were more-or-less honest with one another, she and Gabriel, and it made her think that maybe she’d misjudged the man.

  Indeed, when Gabriel had invited himself to the confirmation, Doyle had entertained the uneasy suspicion that Gabriel might be after Acton, which was why she thought she’d best mention his invitation-wrangling to her better half. Acton hadn’t seemed thrown at all, though—not that he ever seemed thrown—and on reflection, it didn’t make much sense. There’d be no point, one would think, in going after Acton just now; he’d almost single-handedly brought down the corruption rig, and was therefore bullet-proof—not to mention the Met was running out of people to go after him, in the first place. Besides, she’d always had the impression that Gabriel already knew about Acton’s doings, and didn’t necessarily disapprove.

  As Tasza exchanged pleasantries with Acton, Doyle leaned to look down the line, hoping they’d be finished soon, and saw that Chief Inspector Drake was coming through, although she caught her breath at the difference in his appearance. He was about Acton’s age, and had always been something of a Jack-the-lad; vain about his looks, and popular with the ladies. Now, however, he’d gained some weight, and didn’t look well—he seemed to have aged considerably, since the last time Doyle had seen him. And it had been a goodly while, she realized; although

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  she’d worked with several detectives on Drake’s team, she’d never run into him—almost as though he were avoiding her, even though she’d saved the man’s life, once.

  “Michael,” Drake said, shaking Acton’s hand. “I’m not certain what one says; congratulations, perhaps?”

  “Thank you,” said Acton politely. “It is happy occasion, indeed.”

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle, alarmed. “DS Doyle; you are looking well.” “Thank you, sir.”

  Pausing, the man then leaned in to murmur to Acton, “Perhaps we could share a pint, Michael; I’m worried there’s been a small misunderstanding—”

  “Certainly,” said Acton. “I am at your disposal.” Oh-oh, thought Doyle, with acute dismay.

  “I’ll phone you.” Drake put a hand on Acton’s upper arm as he moved on, and Doyle could feel her husband’s irritation— Acton didn’t like to be touched by anyone, save the wife of his bosom.

  Instinctively, Doyle reacted to the ominous exchange, although she wasn’t certain why she knew it was ominous. “Michael—,” she cautioned in an undertone, but before she could say anything further, Dr. Hsu drew Acton’s attention, and bowed.

  The Chinese coroner expressed his pleasure in his overly-formal manner, and looked nothing like the sort of person who’d drawn a knife on the illustrious Chief Inspector, once upon a time. You have to give it to Acton, Doyle thought; he made the right choice there, in knowing who to forgive, and who not to forgive.

  Her scalp prickled, and she thought again about her husband’s alarming interaction with Drake. Perhaps Drake hadn’t been forgiven, after all? As Doyle shook yet another hand and answered yet another question about her due-date, she

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  glanced uneasily at her calmly-standing husband, and hoped a pitched battle wasn’t about to erupt—Acton might be behaving as affably as he was able, but she’d the strong sense that mayhem was lurking just around the corner, and her strong sense was rarely wrong.

  Doyle mustered up a smile for the next guest, and tried to convince herself that she was overreacting—it wasn’t as though Acton and Drake would start a ruckus, right here in front of God and the bishop. And it had surely seemed as though Acton wasn’t the least interested in nicking Drake, for his sins.

  Only now—now, she wasn’t so sure. Thinking back on it, it did seem a little strange that Acton had never mentioned Drake to her, during these fearsome months when the corruption rig was being taken down. After all, the other DCI had been photographed handing money over to the villains, and he’d orchestrated a shadow murder, to boot; other players were going to prison for far less. And it wasn’t as though Acton admired the man; she’d the impression that Acton didn’t like him very much at all—although to be fair, Acton didn’t like anyone very much. Save for herself, of course.

  Her scalp prickled yet again, and she paused for a moment, but couldn’t think of any reason why Acton’s out-sized devotion to his bride would result in his hands-off attitude with respect to Drake—there didn’t seem to be a connection. She’d never been particularly friendly with Drake, and she’d never worked for him, either—with hindsight, she realized that Acton would never have allowed it.

  Acton lifted his gaze across the room for a moment, and Doyle realized he was signaling to Lizzie Mathis, who then promptly appeared at Doyle’s elbow. “Shall I see you seated, Lady Acton?”

  “If you would,” Acton said.

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  Doyle was tempted to refuse, and then decided she was being cross and childish—obviously, Mathis was just following orders, and besides, Doyle was pig-sick of being nice to people, and was ready to sit her weary self down—being nice for an extended period of time was not for the faint of heart.

  Mathis escorted her to a comfortable chair that was set against the far wall. “May I fetch you any refreshment, Lady Acton?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s coffee?” Doyle asked hopefully.

  “I don’t believe so,” Mathis replied. “Would you care for a glass of punch, instead?”

  “There’s usually a pot o’ coffee, brewin’ in the church office,” Doyle hinted.

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “I’m sorry, Lady Acton, I shouldn’t leave my post—but I’ll find someone to fetch you coffee.”

  Thinks I’m a crackin’ pain, Doyle deduced; and I suppose she’s right. “Never you mind, Lizzy—Nellie needs you, and coffee’s bad for the baby.”

  Mathis walked away, but Doyle saw that she made a quick, quiet comment to Acton on her way over to the refreshment table. Looking up, her husband met Doyle’s gaze, and then promptly excused himself to come lean over her. “Everything all right?”

  “I suppose it is,” Doyle replied, as she fought a mighty inclination to sulk. “But if you want me to sit still and behave myself, you’ve only to ask, husband. No need to game it out with stupid Lizzy Mathis, ahead of time.”

  He bent his head for a moment, and then took one of her hands. “Forgive me, Kathleen. I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable in this crowd, and I thought to give you an excuse to sit aside, for a few minutes.”

  This was true—and very much in keeping—but for some reason it only served to further irritate the already-irritated

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  Doyle. Although she knew she sounded like a baby, she couldn’t seem to help herself. “I just hate it when I have the feelin’ that Mathis is on the inside, and I’m not.”

  He met her eyes. “I am sorry. You must know that nothing matters to me but you.”

  This was true, and she was a gobbin’ fool to be throwing a childish fit—shame on her, for making the man scheme to smooth her way. Chastened, she teased, “You’re forgettin’ the Ho
ly Trinity—that should matter to you, too.”

  “That, too.”

  With a mighty effort, she cast off her sulks, and smiled. “I’m that sorry I’m an archwife, Michael.”