Doyle case a knowing glance at her companion. “The cigarette supply must be runnin’ low.”
Mary chuckled. “I must say, Lady Acton, that you are so very kind—to take care of his son, during this difficult time.”
But Doyle could not accept the accolade, and retorted in a frank tone, “No—I haven’t a kind bone in my body. I wish I did, but kindness doesn’t come naturally to me, like it does to you.”
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Genuinely surprised, Mary turned to face her. “Oh—oh, I must disagree, Lady Acton. You—and Lord Acton—you’ve both been so generous.”
Doyle knit her brow as she trudged along, and considered this. “I don’t know, Mary—it’s a lot easier to be generous than it is to be kind, I think; givin’ away money is not the same as givin’ away yourself.”
“I’ll not hear of it,” Mary teased. “We’ll agree to disagree.” With a mighty effort, Doyle tried to shake off her
melancholy. “I’m sorry I’m such a grouser; faith, it’s been a very—” she thought the right word was ‘tumultous’, but decided she should play it safe “—a very strange day.”
In sympathy, Mary touched her arm. “You are tired, and there’s none to blame you. In fact, Lord Acton asked if I’d mind taking Emile tonight, since Reynolds is away, and that way you could have a lie-in, tomorrow.”
Doyle’s sour mood immediately returned. “Did he? Very thoughtful, that man.”
“You could say he is kind and generous,” Mary teased. Doyle mustered up a smile, and refrained from pointing out
that Acton had no doubt read his bride aright, and was eliminating potential witnesses to the bear-garden jawing that was to come. Instead, she offered in a mild tone, “If you say so, Mary, but he’s probably hopin’ for a bit of peace, himself.”
Right on cue, Emile shrieked like a banshee, and both women laughed. With her gaze resting on the two children, Mary said softly, “I don’t mind the noise—in fact, I’d like to have more children, someday.”
Again, Doyle could feel a surge of sheer happiness emanating from the woman, who knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she’d met her own future, on this strange and wondrous day. “You’ll have more children,” Doyle assured her absently. “Three, along with Gemma.”
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Surprised, Mary laughed. “Now, there’s a generous prediction.”
Doyle reminded herself that she should practice holding her tongue, and turned the subject. “Here’s the treat store, and not a moment too soon—I’m ready to have a sit-down.”
“What can I fetch for you, Lady Acton?”
“Thank God fastin’, I’ll finally have some coffee.” Doyle replied a bit grimly, as they herded the children through the door. “And as strong as they can make it, please.” She then paused in stricken alarm, because she’d been so intent on ditching her better half that she’d forgot to bring along a credit card. “Oh, Mary; I didn’t bring any money—I never remember.”
“Lord Acton already gave me money, Lady Acton—please don’t worry.”
Of course, he did, thought Doyle, as she watched the children cling to the counter’s edge, jumping up and down in their excitement. Because he always covers for me—always. There’s not a soul alive who’d mistake Acton for kind-and-generous, except that’s exactly how he is, with me. I think he doesn’t know how to simply be happy, like Mary is, right now— he doesn’t know how to go about it—and so he makes up for it by taking care of me as though I’m one of those fancy porcelain vases at Trestles. Although I’ve survived being shot—twice—so I suppose that’s not a very good comparison.
She paused for a moment, turning this thought over in her mind. Acton was over-devoted to his unlikely bride—no question about that—and she was at the center of his rather dark universe—although she was striving mightily to make it not quite so dark, so that he didn’t destroy himself in the process. However—as today’s events had demonstrated—she wasn’t exactly covering herself in glory.
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I’m not as strong an influence as I thought I was, she admitted, and then was surprised when her instinct prodded her, telling her that she was on the wrong track.
She lifted her brows in surprise. What? The wretched man had Drake murdered right in front of them, with no trace of blame to be discerned. Any influence I have should be ashamed of itself and repent fasting for such a paltry showing.
No, her instinct told her. Look again.
Frowning, she examined this insistence, and was suddenly struck by something that didn’t make sense. Drake’s murder was a vengeful one—yet again, Acton had meted out his own rough justice—but it didn’t quite seem in keeping. Despite her glum sitting-on-the-ash-heap attitude, she knew, down deep, that she was indeed an influence on her wayward husband, and for the better. Faith, one need only look at his recent record of dark deeds to see that his purpose had changed—he might still be masterminding some dark plot, but he was now seeking to eliminate threats to her, or threats to their way of life.
And this was why Drake’s murder seemed so out-of-keeping; Drake was no threat to Doyle, and no threat to their lives together. If he’d somehow made himself a target for Acton’s merciless vengeance, she didn’t know the reason, or why said vengeance had been delayed for so long, compared to all the other evildoers they’d run across.
She blew out a breath, knowing now that she was on the right track. Once again, I am at the center of this—I always am, she thought; there is something here that I should try to understand, and I think it’s important, for some reason.
Mary returned with the drinks and proffered treats, and the children ate with gusto for a few minutes, until Emile demonstrated to Gemma how to blow bubbles through his straw, with the result that chocolate milk was spewed all over the table.
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As the two women wiped with napkins, Doyle offered, “I keep hopin’ that Gemma will rub off on Emile, not the other way ʼround.”
But Mary only smiled, and wouldn’t criticize one of her charges. “If he helps to bring her out of her shell, it is all to the good, I think. Bill used to say that she wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
It occurred to Doyle that Mary rarely mentioned her late husband, and wondered if this was because she didn’t want to criticize him, either. Doyle offered, “He was fond of her, though, which speaks well of him, since you think she wasn’t his own.”
“Yes—he was a good man,” Mary replied evenly, and Doyle noted that this was not exactly true. “But he tended to be influenced by the wrong people—especially if he thought it might result in a windfall.”
Doyle quirked her mouth. “He can join up with the rest of humanity, then.”
But her companion disagreed with a smile. “You’ll not fool me, Lady Acton; you’re not influenced by money in the slightest.” Doyle could only concede this point. “Well, we never had any—my mother and me—but it never seemed to matter much.” She paused, lifting her head to gaze out the darkening window. “But now that I look back, I imagine it mattered a great deal to
her, but she saw to it that it didn’t matter to me.”
“A wonderful mother,” declared Mary, who knew of which she spoke.
“I hope I can be half so wonderful,” Doyle admitted. “We’re back to that whole kind-and-generous tangle-patch.”
Mary laughed, and herded the children outside so that they could begin their return journey to the flat. They walked for a few minutes in silence, Doyle puzzling over whatever-it-was that her instinct was trying to get her to understand, whilst Mary
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called ahead to caution Emile to wait for her, before crossing the street.
Twilight was upon them, and they all paused to admire the sunset, more visible now that they’d come to the cross-street. The vivid streaks of deep orange and red were o
ffset in startling contrast to the dull veneers of the tall buildings that flanked the colorful display.
Gemma said softly, “Rizhaya.”
Emile laughed in delight, but Doyle stood stock-still, staring at the little girl who’d used the Russian word for “sunset.” Doyle had heard the word once before, when it was used in reference to her own red hair—
“Holy Mother,” she breathed, in abject astonishment.
Mary took her elbow and asked in alarm, “Lady Acton, are you all right?”
“Holy Mother of God,” Doyle blurted out, her scalp prickling like a live thing. “I think it may be misdirection murders, all the way down.”
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Chapter 21
Of course, she knew.
He didn’t know why he always underestimated her.
W ith barely-contained impatience, Doyle entrusted Mary and the children to the driving service, and then texted Acton to let him know that she was on her way
up.
When she entered the flat, she duly noted that no lights had been turned on against the darkness, and that her husband was stationed at his desk in the bedroom, where he’d no doubt been tracking her progress on his laptop. She knew immediately that he’d been drinking—even before she saw the bottle of scotch as his elbow—and upon reflection, this state of affairs was not unexpected; when Acton indulged in his behind-the-scenes masterminding, he often retreated into a dark mood that apparently required a great deal of brooding, combined with the consumption of impressive amounts of alcohol. And in this particular instance, he was also worried that she was finally going to ditch him for his many misdeeds, and therefore she beheld a husband who was a strange mixture of repentant and triumphant—although he was trying his hardest to disguise the triumphant part, the wretched man.
She paused at the entry to the bedroom. “I see you’ve found a way to pass the time. And here I thought you’d be hoverin’ by the door, wringin’ your hands, and wearin’ sackcloth.”
He closed the laptop with a soft click. “I am wearing sackcloth in spirit. Tell me what I may do, so that you will no longer be angry.”
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“You can stop goin’ about, killin’ people,” she retorted, throwing down her coat. “And give me some of that—is there any left?”
After a pause, he handed her the bottle, and with no small measure of defiance, she took a pull, and then grimaced as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Fah, that’s horrid stuff. I don’t know how you bear it.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” he acknowledged.
“Like marriage,” she countered with a great deal of meaning, and set the bottle down. “We’re goin’ to talk about this, and there’s no shirkin’ it.” Acton famously did not like discussions, and small blame to him, as a discussion might feature the fact that a fellow DCI’s corpse was now cooling in the morgue, the supposed victim of a supposed heart attack.
Somberly, he gazed out the window at the park lights below, his dark hair falling across his brow. “I didn’t think you’d guess.”
This went without saying, of course. “I know you too well, my friend. And Gabriel seemed to know what was goin’ on, too, so best watch yourself.”
He contemplated the glass he held in his fingers. “I am unsurprised.”
“Well I wasn’t ‘unsurprised’, mister hoity-toity backwards-speak, and I’m that ashamed of you. What on earth were you about?”
He glanced at her, and then looked away again, to review the scene below. “Drake killed Morgan Percy.”
“Drake did?” She was so surprised that she forgot she was angry for a moment, and sank down to sit on the bed. “Oh—why would he kill her? Because she knew too much?”
“I imagine."
She frowned out the window, thinking this over, although she supposed it made sense. Since Drake was the only player
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who’d escaped retribution for the corruption rig, he must have been nervous that his lucky streak could come to an end. And Doyle herself had made a mighty effort to convince Percy that she should grass on everyone in exchange for a lighter sentence, so it did seem likely that Drake would want to snip off this particular loose end. He’d already committed a containment murder before this one, so it wasn’t as though he couldn’t bring himself to do the deed.
She paused, because she realized she was trying to talk herself into this theory when she didn’t necessarily believe it. While it was true that Percy had been murdered just as the initial arrests were being made—the timing of her death pointed to a panicked, containment murder—there was the undeniable fact that Drake was a wreck at the confirmation reception; filled with dread, whilst he was pretending to be all friendly-like with Acton. Drake may have killed Percy, but that was not the reason that Acton had killed Drake. There was something else at play, here.
Trying to decide what it was she was thinking, Doyle mused aloud, “So—those times when I caught you burnin’ the midnight oil to set a trap, you were settin’ a trap for Drake?”
Acton glanced at her, and then looked away. “In a manner of speaking.”
Making a derisive sound, she hunched her shoulders in annoyance. “Now, there’re some weasel-words, if I ever heard them. Why won’t you tell me straight-out what’s goin’ on, husband?”
He was silent for a moment, contemplating his glass. “I’m afraid it is rather complicated.”
Naturally, it was complicated—he didn’t have any other mode of action, did Acton; the more complicated the better, so that lesser mortals couldn’t possibly keep up. And something in all this wasn’t adding up; even if Drake had been served up his
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just desserts, it didn’t explain why it had been done so publicly. Acton was sending a message to someone—she’d bet her teeth on it. But who? And what was the message?
She blew out an exasperated breath, and moved on to the next worrisome subject in what seemed like an unending list. “Well—as usual—I don’t have the luxury of combin’ your hair with a joint-stool, husband, because we’ve yet another crisis. Should we put your head under the shower, or can you pay attention?”
Acton was immediately as alert as someone who’d put away a half-bottle of scotch could be. “Why? What has happened?”
“It’s about Gemma, Michael. She’s—I think—I think she’s Solonik’s daughter.”
For a long moment, he stared at her, frowning. “Why would you think this?”
“Because she said ‘rizhaya’. I know it sounds silly, but she said it just the same way Solonik used to say it, when he was referrin’ to my hair.”
Still frowning, he bent his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “She must have heard it from Emile, Kathleen. Emile speaks Russian.”
“Oh. Yes—that’s right; and I think he’s tryin’ to teach her some Russian words.” She knit her brow, wondering why she hadn’t leapt to this rather obvious conclusion.
But apparently, Acton trusted her instincts more than she did, and lifted his head, trying to focus. “It must be more than that, or it wouldn’t have alarmed you so.”
Slowly, she nodded, grateful that he recognized this as an article of faith. “Yes; there’s somethin’ there. I know it makes no sense, but now I’m worried that Blakney’s murder was a misdirection murder, and that Mary might be in danger, too. I know you told me that Solonik is dead, but—but I’m worried he’s behind all this, somehow.” A Russian underworld kingpin,
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Solonik had attempted to muscle in on Savoie’s smuggling operations but in the process, he’d got himself into a blood-feud with Acton—never a good idea—and had wound up getting himself killed, whilst serving a prison sentence. The family skullduggery had then been carried forward by the Barayevs— Solonik’s sister and brother-in-law—who were hip-deep in the corruption rig, themselves. Barayev
had been dispatched by Acton himself, and the missus had been incapacitated by a bout of poison, and thereby satisfactorily sidelined. So—there was truly no reason to believe that the Russian contingent had somehow managed to resurrect themselves and be of any influence whatsoever on the current round of crisises. Strange, that Doyle had that feeling, nonetheless.
After a moment’s contemplation, Acton shook his head. “I don’t see how Gemma is involved, Kathleen. Solonik had no children save Jonathan, who is now Emile.” He paused, and ponted out the obvious. “It would be difficult to convince me that Emile and Gemma are related.”
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