Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  “Hold on,” he repeated. “We’ll be there soon.”

  But Doyle wasn’t listening, because she was wracked with such pain that she wasn’t sure she’d survive it, and heard a strange groaning sound that she realized was coming from within herself. Then—almost like a miracle—the pain was gone, and she stared at the chopper’s ceiling, where Acton’s face used to be.

  “He’s here,” said the officer excitedly.

  “He’s here,” Acton repeated in wonder.

  “He’s here?” Doyle asked in astonishment. And then she could hear a tiny wailing sound, and promptly burst into tears.

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  The gamut of emotions, from desperation to wonderment. Strange, that a short time ago he’d despaired of ever feeling anything, ever again.

  D oyle woke because Dr. Timothy McGonigal was trying to take her blood pressure without waking her, and as the device discreetly pumped on her arm, she opened her

  eyes. “Ho, Timothy. Where’s that baby?”

  “Here,” said Acton, who was seated by her bedside, and holding Edward in the crook of his arm. He reached to take her hand. “How are you?”

  “I am crackin’ excellent,” Doyle observed, and it was the truth. “But you look a bit ragged, my friend.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him that a little sleep won’t fix,” McGonigal observed with a smile. “And I’m sorry I woke you, Kathleen, but perhaps we should try to put the baby to the breast again. Shall I call for Mary?” When they’d all arrived the night before, the good doctor had been surprised to discover that they’d hired a nanny who had no experience with infants, and so he’d ably stepped into the breach.

  “No—let me find my bearings for a few minutes, Tim, before we call in an audience. Although if Nanda’s here, I suppose I should listen to a veteran.”

  There was a small silence, as Acton carefully deposited the sleeping baby in Doyle’s arms. “No, no—Nanda did not come with me.” The doctor offered nothing further.

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  Oh-oh, thought Doyle, watching McGonigal gently pull on Edward’s tiny jaw; there’s trouble in paradise—although they were an odd pairing to begin with, and the cultural differences may have been just too hard to overcome. Of course, I’m one to talk—it’s that pot and kettle thing, yet again.

  “Ouch,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Sweet baby Moses, that hurts.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” the doctor assured her. “Good—he’s latched on.”

  Now, here’s a surreal experience, thought Doyle, as she watched the baby open his eyes, briefly, and then close them again.

  “I think he’ll have blue eyes,” said McGonigal. “Although it’s too early to tell. Unusual, with both of you brown-eyed.”

  “Green, Tim. He’ll have my mother’s eyes.” For a brief moment, Doyle raised her gaze, and met her husband’s. “And note that I didn’t need you or your paltry needles—did it the old-fashioned way, I did.”

  “Very impressive,” the doctor agreed with a smile, but she could see that he was troubled—she shouldn’t have mentioned Nanda. Poor man, he hadn’t much experience with women, and was no doubt suffering his first real heartbreak.

  “I’ll leave you three alone,” he offered, after a moment. “He looks to be doing well.”

  “Hudson will see to your breakfast,” Acton said. “And a room has been made up—I hope you will stay for the fête.”

  “Don’t worry; I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “What’s a ‘fate’?” asked Doyle. “Sounds a bit ominous, and I’ve had my fill of ominous.”

  Acton explained, “It is traditional to hold a celebration for the staff, when an heir is born.”

  “Ah,” said Doyle. “Will there be a maypole, and wassailin’?” “Blood-oaths, instead,” he teased.

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  She made a wry mouth. “You laugh, husband, but everythin’ would have been miles easier if there’d been a few blood-oaths required from the very beginnin’.”

  With a smile, McGonigal closed the door behind him.

  “I am that sorry I gave you such a scare, Michael,” Doyle said as soon as they were alone. “Please, please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Kathleen,” he replied, and it was true—she was lucky he was that besotted with his wrong-headed wife.

  She reached to squeeze his hand. “I’m roundly an idiot, and I beg your pardon fastin’.”

  “You are impulsive,” he corrected. “You are not an idiot.” “Tasza thinks I’m an idiot,” she ventured, watching him.

  When he made no reply, she continued, “Is she a friendly, Michael?”

  This seemed a valid concern; Tasza was a Commander— which made her Gabriel’s superior, not the other way ʼround. And—rather ominously—Tasza had been taking a pretend-interest in the prison ministry, which everyone thought was ground zero for the money-laundering operation. Small blame to them, since that was exactly what Acton had intended, in his plot to doom the DCS, and seize all the money for himself—quite the two-for-one, it was. Her devious husband had hijacked the cascade scheme, and had served it up with a generous side-helping of vengeance, as an added bonus. He’d waited for Williams to put the fear of God into the villains, and then had waited patiently whilst they killed all the lower-level people in a panic, leading him, like that scary misdirection-hound, to the stolen treasure—although she was mixing the two stories, and she shouldn’t. While it was true that Acton’s scheme may have involved a few misdirection murders, here and there, the more pertinent fact was that there was a fabulous treasure to be stolen. Faith, Acton himself had said it was more like that stolen-

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  treasure story, and like a gobbin’ fool, she hadn’t taken him at his word.

  She realized that he was speaking to her, and so she pulled her wandering thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “So, Tasza’s not a friendly?”

  Acton chose his words carefully. “I would advise against giving her any information, and if she asks any questions of you, please refer her to me.”

  With a speculative look, Doyle lifted her gaze from the baby at her breast. “D’you think she’s on to you?”

  Her husband met her gaze in surprise. “About what?” “About all the gold that’s sittin’ in the vault here—or the

  dungeon, or whatever it is.”

  There was a moment of astonished silence, and then he lowered his head for a moment, trying to decide what to say. “How did you know?”

  She readjusted the baby, and sent him a look. “I know you, my friend, like the back o’ my hand—that’s how I know.” This was basically the truth, and the fact that a ghost had prodded her a bit need not be mentioned—best that he didn’t know her methods, after all.

  And anyways, it hadn’t been that hard to piece it all together, once she’d seen Emile’s coin. The fortune from the massive corruption rig had gone missing, and Doyle knew that the counter-terrorism people kept careful tabs on any large and unexplained deposits that went into banking accounts. Acton, of course, knew the same, and therefore he’d had Layton convert the money into the world’s oldest currency—untraceable, and easily stored away for centuries, if necessary. And—as it so happened—he had just such a centuries-old storage place, himself.

  There was a long pause. “You are extraordinary,” he said, and meant it.

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  “And impulsive,” she added, and then winced as the baby tugged too hard. “Don’t forget impulsive, husband, else I never would have married you in the first place. You, on the other hand, are the opposite of whatever impulsive is, and you are due for a monumental scoldin’. Mother a’ mercy, Michael; if I didn’t have to hand you the baby to do it, I’d brain you with the nearest joint stool.”

  Acton tilted his head. “Ah. A shame, to think that just a moment ago
you were begging my pardon fasting.”

  But she was not going to let him jolly her up, because she’d had yet another brush with disaster, and was getting mighty sick of staring disaster in the face. “We’re past that part; now we’re at the part where I lay into you, yet again.”

  With an attitude of resignation, he sat back and met her eyes. “I am all attention, then.”

  She was struck, for a moment, with how out-of-character it was for him to allow anyone to browbeat him, and confessed in a rush, “I hate it, that I’m the one who always has to trim your sails.”

  “There is no one else who could,” he replied honestly.

  The subject hung in the air between them for a moment. Acton hated letting anyone within his fortress, but he’d made an exception for her, because he couldn’t help it, poor man. And— since she was the only person who could possibly influence him—this didn’t seem to be a coincidence; it seemed evident that she’d been steered his way, or he’d been steered her way, depending on how you looked at it. Faith, it was one of the reasons she kept after him—it was her role to keep after him, apparently, and she shouldn’t shirk it just because it always seemed a sleeveless task. Not to mention that she loved the man, and was very uneasy about that whole hellfire scenario— mayhap she was turning into an evangelical, after all.

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  Doyle gathered up her thoughts for a moment, and then began, “You think it’s about the money, and the power that money provides. You were powerless, once, and I think havin’ a lot of money—by hook or by crook—makes you feel less powerless. But that’s not what it’s truly about, Michael. Money can’t take the place of faith—or family. My mother used to say that before they invented money, they invented family.”

  She paused for a moment, distracted by this thought. “Although her family ditched her when she turned up pregnant, so I suppose that didn’t hold true, in her case. Come to think of it, I should go track them down, whoever they are, and throat-punch every last one of them.”

  “Only say the word,” he offered.

  Despite her attempt at having a serious discussion, she had to smile. “It is so very gratifyin’, Michael, to have such a champion. I don’t tell you near enough.” “Shall we take Edward to Ireland?”

  “He’s too young to do any throat-punchin’.” “I’m not.”

  “No spite murders,” she warned. “They’re the worst.” There was a pause. “Where was I? I’ve forgotten.”

  “You were telling me that I must try to be a better person.” “Same old song,” she sighed. “I’m such an archwife.”

  He leaned forward, and lifted her hand to kiss the back. “You are the greatest and best thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “Tell me I’m makin’ a dent, at least.”

  “You are—I give you my word. But please—” He paused, thinking about what he wanted to say. “I would ask, Kathleen, if you have any concerns in the future—any concerns at all—if you would please bring them to me, rather than attempt to remedy the situation yourself. I don’t know as I could withstand many more days like yesterday.”

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  But Doyle only shook her head. “I’ll give you no such assurances, my friend, because I want you to be worried that I might up and storm Wexton Prison at any moment. It would serve as a small check on your schemin’ ways.”

  He had the grace to bend his head in acknowledgment. “Yes. You are indeed extraordinary, and I don’t know why I continually underestimate you.”

  As Doyle knew she wasn’t as extraordinary as much as she was plagued by ghosts and assorted proddings, she decided to gloss over that part. “That’s not the point, Michael; the point is that you shouldn’t have been workin’ such a scheme to begin with. Although I suppose you did tell me, when you said it was like The Four of the Sign.”

  He kept his gaze on the coverlet, as he nodded his head in agreement, but she laughed. “All right; what was it, again?”

  He smiled slightly. “The Sign of the Four.”

  “Whatever, Michael—the point is this; you can’t keep the money. It’s blood-money, and besides, you’ve got to learn your lesson, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

  But Acton met her eyes. “Much of the money will go to build a new diocesan school, Kathleen. Along with a new free clinic, to replace Holy Trinity’s.”

  Adamant, Doyle continued to shake her head. “No. You can’t go and build things with it; not with blood-money.”

  He contemplated her hand, as he played with her fingers. “If

  I recall correctly, the original blood-money was put to good use.

  They used it to purchase a potter’s field, I believe.”

  She stared at him in stark disbelief. “Holy Mother, I’ve created a monster.”

  “And besides, a good deal of the corruption rig money was diverted from the Health Professions Council. I would hesitate to return it to them.”

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  “They’re a bunch o’ blacklegs,” she agreed, seeing his point. “Not to mention they’re gettin’ themselves spite-murdered, left and right.”

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “The nave at St. Michael’s should be enlarged, to accommodate the new parishioners.”

  There was a long moment whilst she stared at him, frowning—never let it be said that she didn’t know when she was on the losing end of an argument. “If you throw in a bell tower for Father John, I’m sold.”

  “Done.” He leaned forward—careful not to interrupt Edward, and kissed her.

  With a sigh, she sank back into the enormous four-post bed, and closed her eyes. It went without saying, of course, that a significant sum was going to be left in the vault at Trestles— Acton was Acton, after all, and couldn’t seem to help himself. All and all, I can claim a moral victory, she decided, and I think even the ghost-priest would pat me on the back for a job well-done.

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  The spite murders were bothersome, but he’d not stand in the way—he’d no doubt do the same, himself. It would be beneficial, perhaps, to leave town for a time.

  T hey day progressed, and Doyle found that it was rather nice, to be settled into the sumptuous bed with the baby, and with no pressing tasks hovering on the horizon. She

  wasn’t certain how long they’d be at Trestles, but it seemed that Acton was in no hurry to return to London. Reynolds had been brought over to help out, and from what Doyle had seen, he’d assumed a subservient role without turning a hair, humbly taking instruction from Hudson, the steward. Not for the first time, it occurred to Doyle that Reynolds was nobody’s fool.

  Mary and Gemma had been moved in, also—Gemma allowed to come in briefly, so as to gaze upon the baby with wide eyes, whilst Mary listened to a highly-edited version of Edward’s dramatic birth. We’ll have to get our story straight, Doyle realized; I imagine Acton would rather the exact circumstances of Edward’s birth were not made public.

  Doyle was settling Edward into his crib—and trying to decide which end of the elaborate, silk-swathed structure was the head—when she heard a discreet knocking at the door jamb, and turned to see Reynolds, standing correctly at attention.

  “Excuse me, madam, but Lord Aldwych is below, and begs a moment of your time to meet Master Edward, and convey his congratulations.”

  Doyle straightened up, as this was of interest; Acton was Lord Aldwych’s heir, but the two men thoroughly despised each

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  other. The fact that the old man had made the effort to come pay a formal call was nothing less than an olive branch, and Doyle could only be grateful—Edward had a very nasty set of relatives, after all, and the fewer blood-feuds, the better.

  Beneath his respectful manner, Reynolds was radiating a deep satisfaction—nothing like taking a gander at the ancestral estate, to raise a butler’s spirits. “Lord Aldwych will be unable to a
ttend the fête, it seems, but would like to meet the heir, if it is convenient.” He paused. “Lord Acton wished me to say that I can relay your excuses, if that is your desire.”

  Doyle braced her hands on her back. “Heavens, no, Reynolds—as if I’d let you miss the chance to kowtow to a genuine earl.”

  The servant entered the room with a brisk step. “I hope I do not kowtow to anyone, madam,” he replied with a tinge of disapproval. After taking an assessing glance around the room, he then walked over to the windows to straighten-out the tail of a velvet curtain. “May I fetch your dressing-gown and slippers, madam?”