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

by Anne Cleeland

  “She doesn’t know she’s goin’ to be a nanny, yet,” Doyle replied absently. “Do you suppose we do have some toffee, somewhere?”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  12

  “Hallo, Timothy; it’s Kathleen.” As Munoz was not yet at work, Doyle had sidled over to use the other girl’s land line, so as to make this call to Timothy McGonigal, who was an unsuspecting suspect.

  “Why, hallo, Kathleen; how nice to hear from you. How are you feeling?”

  “Well, I haven’t been shot, lately, if that’s what you’re askin’.” Nothing like a little medical humor, to lighten up the conversation. Now, she just had to figure out how to casually bring up the subject of murdered prostitutes.

  He chuckled in his understated way. “I am very happy to hear it. Nanda and I are quite looking forward to Christmas Eve.”

  “Well, that’s what I was wantin’ to speak with you about, actually; I wondered if you’d mind if I came over, on the sly, and took a gander at your piano. I’m thinkin’ of gettin’ Acton one for Christmas, and I’d like your advice.”

  There was the tiniest pause. “Certainly; I am at your disposal.”

  “He can’t know about it,” she cautioned. “It wouldn’t be a surprise, else.”

  “Understood. I have surgeries this morning, but I can meet you there just after lunch—would that be agreeable?”

  “Thank you so much, Tim; see you then.”

  Thoughtfully, Doyle rang off—this visit would, in fact, serve several purposes. It was true that she wanted to see if she could eliminate Timothy as a psycho-mother suspect, but she also wanted to buttonhole him without Acton’s being present, so as to ask about Acton’s dead father.

  The general public believed that the previous Lord Acton had mysteriously disappeared many years ago, but Acton had confessed to Doyle that he’d killed his father. And now—if Acton was some sort of imposter—it may mean that the man he’d murdered was not technically his father. For some reason, she knew that it was important she find out what was afoot; the knight-ghost at Trestles certainly seemed to think it was important, he was all a’broil about something, and she would bet her teeth it had to do with Acton’s father. Perhaps if she could get to the bottom of it, she could visit Trestles without having the feeling that the crockery was going to start crashing from the shelves at any minute.

  She’d gained the impression that Timothy knew what had happened to Acton’s father, so hopefully she could winkle the story out of him before she had to decide whether to arrest the man on multiple murders. Although she’d have no evidence against him—or no admissible evidence, leastways, only her sure knowledge—and her husband would undoubtedly be inclined to move heaven and earth to protect his friend. Her scalp started prickling, and she wondered why—it was no surprise that Acton would be covering for Timothy, if that was indeed the case. The hard part would be trying to figure out what the fair Doyle should do next.

  “What are you doing?”

  Doyle started guiltily, because she’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed Munoz’s approach. But before she could come up with an explanation for using the other girl’s phone, Munoz leaned in, emanating equal parts excitement and agitation. “Never mind; come outside with me.” The girl took a quick survey of their surroundings. “I have to tell you something.”

  It was evident that whatever-it-was had thrown the normally unflappable Munoz off-kilter, and as Doyle was living in dread that Munoz would discover Gerry Lestrade’s true identity, she immediately tried to change the subject so as not to find out that this was the case. “How’s Elena?”

  Munoz threw a look over her shoulder that nearly knocked Doyle back, so strong was the expressed excitement. “In a minute; let’s go outside.”

  They emerged onto the front sidewalk, and Doyle kept pace as Munoz walked swiftly away from the surveillance cameras on the roof. Under her breath, the other girl said, “I have to tell you or I’m going to burst, but you must promise not to tell anyone.”

  Doyle cautiously decided that this did not sound like an I’ve-discovered-that-my-beau-is-related-to-a-criminal-kingpin sort of conversation, and took hope. “All right; I’ll be mum as a nun.”

  But Munoz paused in a shop window alcove, and reiterated, “I want you to promise—you’ll never believe it, Doyle; never in a million years.”

  With an increasing sense of bewilderment, Doyle duly noted the other girl’s extreme agitation. “I’ll not get a chance unless you tell me, for heaven’s sake. Unsnabble, Munoz; I solemnly promise that I won’t tell a soul.”

  The girl leaned in, and disclosed in an incredulous whisper. “It was Habib. Habib rescued Elena.”

  These particular words, put together in this particular order, made no sense to Doyle, and so she did not respond for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, you don’t.” For once, Munoz didn’t take this opening to make a smart remark. “I told you you’d never believe it. DI Habib, our supervisor, rescued Elena.” She lowered her voice to add, “And it wasn’t even sanctioned; he did it off the books.”

  Doyle’s brows came together in incredulity. “Habib? How on earth—”

  “Shhh.” Munoz looked over at the passersby on the pavement. “It’s being kept very quiet, so that he doesn’t become a target.”

  But Doyle was at sea. “A target for what?”

  “He posed as an arms dealer—a Pakistani arms dealer. Apparently, he flashed a lot of money around, and asked for a girl like Elena.”

  Unable to muster up a coherent thought, Doyle allowed her mouth to drop open.

  Munoz’s eyes widened in shared amazement. “I know! Habib! But he pulled it off—bold as brass. As soon as he was alone with Elena, he escaped with her out the window. She said she wasn’t much help because—” here, Munoz faltered for a moment, “—because she’d been drugged. But he put a blanket over her, and bundled her out.”

  “Holy Mother of God.”

  “Who would have thought?”

  Doyle slowly shook her head. “No one.” But this was not exactly true; while no one else would think to put Habib on such a spectacular undercover detail, apparently Acton would. This rescue had Acton’s fingerprints all over it.

  But, as always, Munoz’s reaction centered upon Munoz. “Do you think Habib will expect me to marry him, now?”

  Doyle lifted her head, and pretended to contemplate this. “I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s how things work in Pakistan, Munoz. Have your grandmother bribe him, instead.”

  “There’s not enough money in the world,” the beauty noted gloomily.

  Doyle hid a smile, and offered, “Cheer up; at least he’s got hidden depths. Think on it; he’s like the hero in a fairy tale—it would only be sportin’, to marry him.”

  Slowly, Munoz shook her dusky head. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “It’s amazin’,” Doyle agreed. “But thank God fastin’.”

  Munoz looked up. “I’m supposed to interview a witness on the nun case, but my mother wants me there when Elena goes home. Can you take it for me?”

  “Nasty case, that one.” Doyle hedged. “And I’m already workin’ on a nasty case.”

  “They’re all nasty,” Munoz proclaimed without sympathy, and checked her mobile. “Just send me a quick report—I’ve got to get back up to speed, and I’ve a pile of cases waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Doyle replied with heavy irony, being as Munoz was not her superior officer, and shouldn’t be ordering her about as though she were. Not to mention Doyle had a pile of reports crying out for attention, herself.

  Munoz suddenly looked up from her screen. “Habib is back at work.”

  “Of course, he is; he probably rode in on a white horse.”

  “We’re not supposed to know,” Munoz cautioned again. “What if he says something?”

  “He won’t,” said Doyle, who knew that this was probably the very reason Acton had recruited him. “Just go
on about your business, Sergeant.”

  In abject wonder, Munoz met Doyle’s eyes. “Habib.”

  Unable to help herself, Doyle started laughing.

  13

  Doyle went straightaway to take the witness interview, being as she was already out and about, and it wasn’t raining, for a change. Not to mention that it gave her a ready excuse to avoid the wretched busy-work that was lying in wait at her desk. They never explained to you that police work was nine-tenths paperwork—they were very wily, that way; made it sound all glamorous, and cops-and-robbers, rather than a lot of pencil-chewing, trying to decide how to spell “perpetrator” so that the spell-check could even recognize what you were trying to say.

  And in any event, a bit of walking might help clear her mind; there was something lurking in the background that made her uneasy, even though she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. After all, the news about Elena’s rescue was nothing short of miraculous, and it made her think that perhaps a turning point had been reached—she was superstitious enough to believe that luck ran in streaks, and they’d had a long run of bad luck, lately. But there was something—something odd going on, starting with her secretive husband, who was standing back to allow the justice system to grind its imperfect wheels, and who was going on a religious retreat—another sure sign o’ the apocalypse—and who was masterminding the rescue of girls he’d never met, even as he was protecting a deranged killer, who was murdering girls he’d never met.

  “Somethin’ doesn’t add up,” she said aloud, pausing to view her reflection in a storefront window. “Or mayhap it does, and I’m missin’ it.” She waited for a moment, hoping for a leap of intuition, but as none came, she pulled up her coat collar, and continued on her way toward the address Munoz had given her.

  After this interview—and her meeting with Timothy—she resolved to devote the afternoon to finishing up her reports; it would take at least one worry off her mind, and it was past time she accomplished something. Her emails were piling up, and if she didn’t stay abreast, she might overlook something important—although it was hard to imagine anything more important than the Acton-covering-for-the-psycho-mother case. Although this nun-killer case would probably come in a close second, in terms of importance, so there was another ready excuse to stay in the field, and not spend her day bent over her desk like a soulless scrivener.

  The witness worked part-time as a grocery clerk, and had agreed to meet with the police when she took her midmorning break. Hopefully, Doyle would glean something useful; they’d no decent leads on the nun’s murder, but this witness was a volunteer at the Community Family Center, and she’d called in yesterday to mention that she thought the murdered nun had been fighting with a boyfriend. Since this was an interesting development—not every day that you ran across a nun with a boyfriend, after all—a follow-up interview was deemed needful.

  Doyle stepped into the small grocer’s shop—breathing in the faint scent of stale cheese and onion—and easily found her witness, since there were few customers in the store on this chilly morning. The witness was a thin woman of middle years who wore practical eyeglasses, and pulled her grey hair back into a no-nonsense pony tail. Although she shook Doyle’s hand with civility, Doyle had the immediate impression the woman was wary, and suspicious.

  The woman began, “I wanted to make certain that someone was pursuing the case, what with all the upheaval at Scotland Yard.” She nodded in the direction of the stack of newspapers in the rack, where the latest headlines were prominent, and not very flattering to local law enforcement.

  Doyle did her best to appear competent, as she pulled out her occurrence book. “Yes, ma’am; we are followin’ up on all leads, and I understand you’ve thought of somethin’ else you’d like to report.” Doyle had only skimmed through portions of the preliminary report, but to show she was up to speed, she offered, “It didn’t appear to be a robbery; instead, the killer may have held some sort of religious grudge.”

  But the witness eyed Doyle with open skepticism, and shifted her weight to lean against the counter. “She didn’t wear a nun’s habit, you know. I think it’s more likely that it was something personal—someone she knew.”

  “Oh; oh—of course; I’d forgotten. Tell me; how did you know the victim—” Doyle checked her notes, “—Sister Carmella.”

  The witness eyed Doyle yet again. “I worked with her at the Community Family Center—we worked together for nearly a year. Do you happen to have a badge?”

  “Of course.” Doyle duly produced it, and confessed, “I’m sorry; we’re a bit short-handed, and I’m not the detective who is assigned to this case. I haven’t been briefed on the particulars, but I promise you, I will do a very thorough job.”

  After she squinted to examine the badge, the witness nodded. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t covering for him, or something.”

  Doyle raised her gaze to the witness’s, and tried to quash a sudden flare of panic. “Who’d you think I’d cover for?”

  The woman shrugged. “The man—whoever the man was, that Carmella was arguing with.”

  Doyle let out the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. Silly knocker; Acton wasn’t involved in this, and besides, the last thing Acton would do is engage in a public argument—he would consider it well-beneath him. “Tell me about the man, then. Can you give a description?”

  Looking a bit conscious, the witness confessed, “No; I never saw him, I just know that she was arguing with him, over in the next room at the Center. I should have said something before, but honestly, I didn’t think it was important. Then, after I thought about it, I began to wonder if maybe she was having a love affair—she was a nun, after all; why else would she feel so strongly, that she’d argue with him like that? So, when the police didn’t arrest anyone, I thought it best that I come forward, and say.”

  This was always an obstacle in detective work—witnesses who felt they knew best about how much information should be released to the police. But they also taught you at the Crime Academy that the first account given was generally the most trustworthy. “It seems a bit unlikely—” Doyle ventured, “—that a nun would be havin’ a love affair. Perhaps your first impression was the right one.”

  For the third time, the witness eyed Doyle with some skepticism. “She was leaving the convent, you know. He might have been the reason she was leaving. I’m just putting two and two together, since the police don’t seem to be trying very hard.”

  “Oh—was she truly leavin’ the convent?” This was a bit shocking to Doyle’s thoroughly Catholic soul; nuns were a species in and of themselves, and did not change their spots, so to speak—or at least, not the ones she’d grown up with.

  “Yes.” The witness hesitated, then added, “I have to say that she didn’t seem cut out to be a nun.”

  But Doyle decided she wasn’t pursuing this interview very professionally, and tried to pick up the loose threads. “Tell me, if you would, everythin’ you know of the argument. Was it the same day she was killed?”

  “No—a few days earlier. “

  “Who else would have seen the man she argued with?”

  With a purse of her lips, the witness thought this over. “I’m not sure—maybe Keisha, at the front desk. We were closing up for the night; we’d had the ESL class, and the Heartcare class, and the students had all gone home.”

  “English as a second language?” Doyle verified, taking notes.

  Yes. And Heartcare is for new mothers—classes on how to apply for aid, how to find child care, immunizations—” the woman raised a shoulder. “The basics for first-time mothers.”

  “And where were you, when you heard them arguin’?”

  “I was putting the supplies away in the cupboard. I wasn’t sure if I should interrupt, or if it would only embarrass her, but by the time I decided I should go over there, he’d already left.”

  Thinking about this, Doyle suggested, “So it didn’t sound as though she was
bein’ threatened, or was in any danger.”

  Slowly, the witness agreed. “No. I think that’s why I didn’t think it was necessary to mention it, the first time I spoke to the police.”

  “You couldn’t hear what they argued about? No hints?”

  “No—but she was angry with him immediately, so it was someone she already knew, I think.”

  “How long did they argue?”

  “Not long—Carmella wanted him gone, you could tell.”

  Now it was Doyle’s turn to eye the witness with skepticism. “Why were you thinkin’ that it may have been a boyfriend, then? It doesn’t much sound like a boyfriend.”

  With a breath of frustration, the witness acknowledged this. “I know, but—thinking back on it—perhaps he was trying to get her to elope with him. I think—I think he wanted to take her to Dublin. I’m fairly sure he said ‘Dublin’.”

  For a long, silent moment, Doyle stared at the witness in astonishment, whilst the witness stared back with increasing confusion. “What? What is it?”

  With a mighty effort, Doyle pulled herself together, and in light of this new development, shifted the focus of her questions. “Is the work at the Center connected in any way with Holy Trinity Church?”

  Puzzled by this non-sequitur, the witness shook her head. “No—no churches.”

  Doyle persisted, “How about Holy Trinity Clinic—the medical clinic?”

  “No; we’re an independent organization—although we’ve three branches.”

  Her scalp prickling, Doyle cast about for the connection, knowing that it was here, somewhere. “How about the Health Professions Council?

  “We do get some funding from the Council,” the witness acknowledged.

  Doyle leapt on this potential lead. “Do they send personnel—or keep records about what you do here?”

  But this was another dead end. “No—not at all. We apply for a grant, every year, and that’s the only record that I know of—our application for the grant.”

  Her brow knit, Doyle thought it over. “Is Sister Carmella’s order funded by Holy Trinity Church?”