Murder in All Honour: A Doyle and Acton Mystery (Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard Mysteries)

by Anne Cleeland

  “It’s rather endearing that you do.”

  She could hear voices in the background, and—reminded that he needed to get back to his weighty troubles—she was recalled to her own weighty troubles. “Are we still plannin’ on havin’ Timothy and Nanda over for Christmas Eve?”

  “We are, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  “No, I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

  She could hear that he was moving. “I must go, I’m afraid.”

  “I will see you later, my friend.”

  She rang off, and wondered if she would have the wherewithal to arrest Timothy McGonigal for murder on Christmas Eve, especially since her husband seemed willing to look the other way. She watched the departing passengers crowd through the tunnel, and decided that Timothy couldn’t possibly be the killer—it made no sense a’tall. Rather than cover for him, Acton would’ve made sure it stopped, so that his friend did not run the risk of being caught, and having to weather the horrific scandal that would surely follow. Still and all, she should find a way to speak with Timothy privately, so as to see what there was to see. If he was indeed doing these terrible crimes, it seemed clear there was a psychological disorder at play, so she’d best be careful.

  Doyle placed a protective hand on her small bump, and thought, I suppose I’d have to shoot him, if he tried anything, and then Acton would have to stage yet another suicide. It’s a sad, sad testament that we’re getting so good at it.

  9

  As was her usual, Doyle asked the driving service to drop her off a block away from St. Michael’s, being as she couldn’t bring herself to arrive at church in a limousine, like a flippin’ Pharisee. The rain had stopped for the nonce, but it continued cold and a bit blustery, and so she hunched her shoulders and turned up her coat collar, as she hurried toward the church.

  The figure of a man stepped out of the shadows, and lingered at the corner as she approached. “Bonsoir.”

  Startled, Doyle realized almost immediately that it was Philippe Savoie, and that he’d been waiting to speak to her. This didn’t necessarily bode well, but on second thought, the notorious Frenchman tended to have his finger on the pulse of underworld doings, which might actually be helpful, for a change. “Oh—oh, hallo, Philippe. What brings you here on such a night?”

  But he was not one to dwell on pleasantries. “I wish to speak with you; to ask your help. You will be the Saint Bernard, this time.”

  “As long as you’re not expectin’ any brandy—I’m fresh out,” she joked half-heartedly. Honestly, it wanted only this; that Savoie would be lurking about, and adding to her general level of anxiety. She warned him, “I’ll help if I can, but I can’t speak to official matters.”

  He scowled, and made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Non-non; I do not ask about the matters official. Instead, I must ask about the schools, here.”

  She stared at him, at sea. “The schools?”

  “Yes, the schools for the children. The good ones; Catholique.”

  There was a long pause, whilst she tried to decide if she’d heard him aright. “I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.”

  He found this perplexing, and made a gesture in the general direction of her abdomen. “How can this be? What of this child you will have?”

  “Oh. Well, poor Edward’s mother is not that organized, I’m afraid. On the other hand, I imagine that Lord Acton’s son can attend whichever school he likes.”

  Conceding this point, Savoie nodded. “Yes—bien sûr. As for me, I make le don en argent, the offer of money—” he rubbed his fingers together, searching for the right word.

  “A donation?”

  “The donation—oui. Then, many doors will open.”

  Diplomatically, she offered, “I suppose that’s true,” and didn’t add that the amount of money it would presumably take to overlook Savoie’s lengthy and impressive Interpol jacket would no doubt be staggering. “I’ll look into it, then—I’m behind on my work, so give me a few days.”

  Pleased, he rendered his thin smile. “Merci.”

  After a small pause, she thought she may as well ask. “I didn’t know you had any children, Philippe.”

  He took a quick look around them, and then lowered his voice. “I have the boy, now. He is old enough for school, so I must send him to school.”

  In dawning amazement, she stared at him. “Holy—Holy Mother, Philippe; please don’t be tellin’ me you still have Solonik’s son with you.” Solonik was a Russian kingpin who’d conspired to bring down Acton; he’d learned the hard way that Acton was nobody’s fool, and had himself ended up in prison, instead. He’d then had the good sense to get killed in a prison fight, which had the benefit of bringing all his evil schemes to a conclusive and fitting end. Savoie had used Solonik’s young son as a pressure point, and—amazingly—had apparently taken the boy in, when his father was killed. It was nothing short of astonishing.

  “You must say nothing,” Savoie admonished her, very seriously. “No one must know. You, I trust. We trust each other, non? His name is now Emile.”

  Faith; it is the apocalypse, Doyle realized with acute dismay. “Philippe—for the love o’ Mike, Philippe; you can’t just go about takin’ up children, willy-nilly.”

  But the Frenchman insisted, “He is a good boy. I have named him for my brother—the one who was killed.”

  He gave her a significant look, and she wondered for one horrified moment if Savoie knew that the fair Doyle had killed his wretched brother. Hurriedly, she went on, “But—but doesn’t he have a mother somewhere? Or relatives, who are lookin’ for him?”

  “Be calm, little bird; remember that his father is dead.”

  She blew out a breath. “Yes—and thank all the saints and holy angels for that little piece of luck.”

  He agreed with a solemn nod. “You will find out about the schools, yes? I must know about the papers that are needed, so that I can create them—”

  Ruthlessly, she cut him off. “I will tell you about the schools, but the less I know about everythin’ else, the better.”

  “Bien. We will meet again soon, yes?”

  “We’ll see,” she temporized crossly. “You’re a bundle of trouble, is what you are, and I’ve got enough trouble on my plate, just now.”

  He eyed her. “The big, blond man—he is the one who is bundled for trouble.”

  Doyle was convinced Savoie was well-aware of Williams’ name, but didn’t deign to use it, being as he didn’t like Williams much. He’d been under the mistaken impression that Williams was stabbing Doyle in the back with the evil Cassie Masterson, of Acton-stealing fame.

  Feeling that she should set the record straight—Savoie tended to kill people, after all— Doyle explained, “I think you have the wrong impression of Williams; he wasn’t in cahoots with nasty Masterson, he was just doin’ a line with her to find out what she knew, so that he could help me.”

  Savoie raised his eyebrows, apparently impressed. “De vrai? He would do such a thing?”

  “Please don’t hire him away, Philippe. We are severely short-handed.”

  But the Frenchman made a small sound of impatience. “He would like you to leave your husband, that one.”

  “Well, then it’s a case of the pot and the kettle, my friend.”

  At his blank look, she explained, “It means you’re both in the same boat.”

  He gave a bark of rusty laughter, so that she had to hush him, hoping none of the congregants saw her laughing it up with a criminal mastermind just before the prayer service.

  Reminded that she should try to find out if he knew anything about the many and sundry murders that she was investigating, she asked, “Before you go, do you have any ideas about who’s killin’ these pregnant prostitutes? Have you heard anythin’ in your travels?”

  “Non. Me, I am very busy.”

  He gave her another significant look, and she hurriedly decided she didn’t want to hear the particulars of whatever it was he’d been up to, main
ly because she tended to forget what Acton knew and didn’t know about her friendship with Savoie, and she didn’t want to wind up in the marital dog house by blurting out the wrong thing at the wrong time. “Be off with you, then; before I read you the caution.”

  With a glint in his eye, Savoie walked away, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets.

  Doyle hurried onward, trying to decide if he’d been joking, after all. Surely, Philippe Savoie was not going to take in wretched Solonik’s wretched son, and raise him; the very idea boggled the mind. But he’d been sincere—she could sense it; and he’d come out on this blustery night to waylay her, and ask about the right schools. It appeared—as strange as it seemed—that the man was determined to stand as a good father to the fatherless boy. I won’t tell Acton, she decided; and I can’t get involved in this particular kettle of snakes—I’ll look into the schools, and then stay well-away.

  She reached the portico without being further accosted, and gratefully stepped through the open door—the deacon had seen her coming, and held the door against the wind. The elderly Scottish man was one of her biggest fans, ever since the bridge-jumping incident, having apparently decided that she was some sort of saint-in-the-making. This rather embarrassing view of things had only been cemented when she’d survived the recent assassination attempt in the church, which he’d witnessed first-hand.

  “Good evening, lass.” He glanced behind her. “Are ye alone, then?”

  “Acton is already here, so I had the drivin’ service drop me off,” she assured him quickly, feeling a bit foolish. He must have noted that she came on foot, and—on reflection—it did seem the height of foolishness to be walking alone at night, in this area; she might meet a villain or two with whom she wasn’t already acquainted, and then where would she be?

  Diplomatically, the elderly man offered, “If ye’re ever in need an escort, lass, I’m always willing—I can borrow the guid Father’s car, and nip over in two shakes. I know yer husband has important business, and can’t always be close to hand.”

  Doyle bit back a tart reminder that she was a police officer, after all, and instead smiled her gratitude as he gestured her in. I mustn’t bristle, on account of having so many champions, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. If any of these poor victims had a man who was willing to fret about her—or about the child she carried—none of them would have wound up unmourned, and in the morgue.

  Doyle paused near the nave’s entry doors for a few moments, her eyes adjusting to the dim light as she debated whether it would be bad form to skulk about in the back during a prayer service. Almost immediately, however, she recognized Munoz—bent forward in one of the pews, about half way down the aisle. Reconciled to being civil, Doyle approached the other girl, and then realized that she was weeping, clutching the pew-back in front of her, her forehead resting on her hands.

  Horrified at what this portended, Doyle slid in beside the girl to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder, miserably searching for words of comfort. “Izzy—oh, Izzy, I am so wretchedly sorry. But Elena’s sufferin’ is over, now, and she is abidin’—”

  Munoz’s muffled voice could be heard. “No, Doyle, you idiot—she’s safe.” She lifted her dark head, gazing straight ahead through her tears. “Elena’s safe.”

  Doyle stared at her, open-mouthed. “Oh—oh, thank the saints and holy angels, Izzy—I can scarce believe it—where—where is she?”

  The other girl sank back into the pew, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. “She’s in the hospital—they’re examining her, and Vice is doing a debriefing. My mother is there, but they won’t allow anyone else; not until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

  “Mother a’ mercy,” Doyle breathed, and meant it.

  Pulling herself together, Munoz turned to remonstrate, “They’re keeping it quiet. Don’t say anything.”

  “Of course.” This was completely understandable; that one had been forced into sex slavery was not something one would want bandied about.

  Munoz, true to form, was embarrassed at having been caught in an emotional moment, and so she asked in a brisk manner. “Anything new on my nun-killer case?”

  But Doyle was still processing the unexpected good news, and confessed, “Faith, I’d forgotten about the wretched nun-killer. I had a look-in at the psycho-mother’s latest victim, and so I’ve been distracted.”

  Munoz regarded her with an admonitory frown. “You shouldn’t be handling that case.”

  Doyle shrugged. “Probably not, but we’re short on personnel, and long on shockin’ cases.”

  Slowly, Munoz turned to regard the altar. “The world has gone completely mad.”

  Doyle’s scalp prickled, and she wondered why this would be. “Not so mad that we’ve lost all hope, Munoz. To despair is a sin, after all.”

  “Well, at least now I can get back to work, despairing or not.”

  “Faith; that will be lovely, Munoz. I’ve got a slate of reports due, and I’ll be happy to dish out a few homicides.” This was an indication of Doyle’s desperation; normally, she’d jealously hoard any and all homicides on her docket.

  At this point, the deacon and Nellie began to light the candles at the altar, and Doyle spotted Acton, approaching them up the side aisle.

  “Sir,” said Munoz, rising respectfully. Then, to Doyle, “If you don’t mind, I’ll move a bit closer to the front.”

  As the girl crossed in front of him, Acton offered, “I understand you’ve had good news, Sergeant.”

  For the barest moment, Munoz’s lower lip turned up in a trembling smile, and then she took herself in hand. “Yes, sir—I’m afraid I’ve been cautioned not to speak of it.”

  “Carry on, then.”

  As Acton slid into the pew next to Doyle, she smiled up at her husband, hardly able to see him through the tears that were filling her eyes. “How on earth did you manage it?”

  He tilted his head toward her slightly, his attitude one of bemusement. “How on earth did I manage what?”

  He didn’t fool her for a second, but she let it go, instead facing forward to remark, “You are amazin’. And just when I’m thinkin’ that it’ll be up to me to wring your neck, there you go, redeemin’ yourself all over the place.”

  He made no response, but reached to clasp her hand, as the service began.

  As she watched Father John take his place behind the altar, Doyle was nearly overcome with a huge sense of relief; she’d gotten her wires crossed, and instead of Acton’s aiding and abetting the psycho-mother—which made no sense a’tall, for heaven’s sake—he’d been cooking up some scheme to rescue Elena. That must have been the reason behind Munoz’s phone call to her that morning; Gerry had heard a whisper that Acton was moving to rescue the girl off-the-books, by using resources that couldn’t withstand the light of day, and the train accident must have been involved in it, somehow. I’d love to know the particulars, she thought; but if he’d rather I didn’t know, it’s a small price to pay.

  Father John’s voice broke into her thoughts. “. . . and may the wretched soul who is committin’ these terrible murders turn to the light of Christ’s love, and confess his crimes.”

  “Amen,” said Doyle fervently.

  “Amen,” repeated Acton, and Doyle’s heart sank, because it was not true.

  10

  As Acton drove them home from the service, Doyle tried to decide how best to broach the many and varied touchy subjects that had to be broached. She’d learned from long experience that she couldn’t ask Acton outright what he was hiding about the psycho-mother cases; he’d give her one of his patented non-answers, and then be even more secretive. And he was very good at seeing through any seemingly-idle questions she might bring up—he had a fine-tuned radar, when it came to her. Therefore, the best plan was the one she’d already resolved on; to arrange to speak to Timothy McGonigal without Acton’s knowing about it, and try to eliminate him as a potential suspect. She’d meet with him and bring up the subject of the murders—h
ad to be done delicately, of course; couldn’t very well ask if he had any stolen fetuses, stashed about—and see if she could discern any hint that Timothy knew something. It boggled the mind, to even think he was involved in these horrid crimes, but in this business, you learned very quickly that anyone was capable of anything.

  “I’m to go on a retreat, it seems.”

  Her train of thought interrupted, Doyle turned to stare at her husband in surprise. “Are you? A church retreat, d’you mean?”

  “It is considered a necessary step, in fulfilling the sacrament.”

  With some dismay, she exclaimed, “Oh, Michael; the timin’ couldn’t be worse.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “No matter.”

  “You can’t duck it?”

  He smiled slightly. “I don’t want to duck it.”

  This was true, and in an odd way, it gave her pause. The last thing he’d want to do was spend a weekend contemplating the eternal mysteries—or at least, one would think—but he was nevertheless willing to do it. Strange, that it made her feel uneasy, for some reason. “D’you suppose I could come along, and hide under the cot?”

  He tilted his head in apology. “As delightful as that sounds, I should take it seriously.”

  She warned, “They’ll try to plumb the depths of your soul, you know.”

  “Good luck to them.”

  She made a wry mouth. “Is ‘unplumbable’ a word?”

  “It should be.”

  She teetered on the edge of starting a discussion—Acton famously didn’t care for discussions, so she had to tread carefully. “I suppose—I suppose the idea makes me a little uneasy, Michael.” No need to explain why, of course; he had more blood on his hands than all the four horsemen, lumped together.

  Immediately, he reached to cover her hand. “Please don’t worry, Kathleen.”

  It was a dilemma when it shouldn’t have been; it would be for the best if he genuinely converted—if he made a clean breast, and repented of all past sins. She just knew, down to the soles of her feet, that he’d no such intention. Aloud, she ventured, “I just don’t know if I’m more worried that you’ll tell them the truth, or that you won’t.”