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

by Anne Cleeland

  She stared at him in surprise, as this was completely true. “The Home Office? Then Rowan-Mayne isn’t the killer?”

  He nodded in confirmation. “Not Rowan-Mayne.”

  Frowning, she slowly sank into the chair across from him. “Faith; I don’t understand—you can’t just go about killin’ people, Michael, even if you have some sort of immunity from the Home Office.”

  Crossing his arms, he bowed his head with regret. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say anything further.”

  But that didn’t stop her from trying to puzzle out what was meant, as she pried open her pasta container. “Someone’s undercover? Someone’s undercover, and he had to kill someone to save himself?” She frowned. “No, that doesn’t make sense; the shot was execution-style—so not self-defense.”

  “Indeed.”

  “An informant?” she guessed, looking up. “Worried that the villains had twigged ʼim?”

  “Something like that,” he agreed, and it gave her pause, because his statement was not exactly true, and it was not exactly false.

  Before she could wind up for another question, however, he leaned forward, and took her hand in his. “How are you feeling? Are you tired?”

  “I miss my mother,” Doyle suddenly blurted out. “Christmas is the hardest; she always put a holly branch over the door, and a candle in the window—” she paused, amazed and embarrassed that she’d said such a thing, whilst he came around to gently pull her upright into an embrace. “Sorry,” she mumbled into his shirtfront. “I’m gabblin’.”

  “Not at all,” he soothed, resting his cheek against her head. “What else did she do?”

  With a conscious effort, Doyle opened her eyes wide, so as not to cry. “She made everythin’—she made everythin’ so special, that’s all. And now—now I’ve got to make everythin’ special for Edward, and I’m not certain I know how.”

  He squeezed, gently. “We will sort it out, between us.”

  “I know—I know we will. And I’m such a knocker, but I appreciate you, Michael. I truly, truly, do, even though I don’t always show it.”

  “You don’t have to say,” he said. “Not to me.”

  Faith, it was heaven; to be held safe, by someone who understood her so very well. Her scalp prickled, but she ignored it. “Lunch is gettin’ cold,” she noted, and didn’t move.

  “What do you say I cancel my one o’clock, and we go out for a walk along the river?”

  “Saints,” she teased, leaning back to look at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with the Chief Inspector?”

  “I’ve been neglecting you—you said so, yourself.”

  “Well, the top of your desk is clear—and we do have five minutes to spare.”

  He chuckled, deep in his chest, and she smiled, rubbing her face on his lapel. “It was just a touch of pre-motherhood panic, Michael. It’s all gone, now.”

  “I have a meeting at the church tonight; if you’d like to come along, we could take a quiet walk afterwards, as long as the weather holds.”

  “I’m takin’ walks, like I’m supposed to,” she protested, seeing through this subterfuge.

  “Then perhaps we can walk to dinner, instead.”

  But she was distracted by what he’d said, and frowned slightly. “D’you have another instruction meeting with Father John? Didn’t you already go, this week?”

  “Father John suggested I come again—and I have to make preparations for the retreat.”

  She tugged on his lapel, for emphasis. “Mark me; the only preparation you make for a retreat is to hide candy somewhere in your duffle, where the nuns won’t find it.”

  “Is that so? You shock me.”

  She smiled, and rested her cheek again on his shirtfront. “The nuns at St. Brigid’s were like bloodhounds, my friend.” Suddenly struck, she raised her head. “Faith, that’s it—that’s what I forgot to ask.”

  “What didn’t you ask?” Releasing her, he steered her toward the waiting pasta.

  “I was speakin’ to a volunteer who’d worked with the murdered nun, and she mentioned that the victim didn’t seem cut out to be a nun. I should have followed up; it may have been important.”

  “What else did the witness say?”

  The question was asked casually, but her antenna quivered. However, there seemed to be no harm in asking for his help—she’d just keep her semi-formed conclusions to herself. “Do you know what ‘Dublin’ could mean? Or some word that sounds like ‘Dublin’?”

  He picked up a fork and began to eat. “Context?”

  “The witness thought she heard the nun arguing with someone, and that’s what she thought she’d heard. Williams wondered if it was the name of a charity, in the area.”

  He shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t ring a bell. Did you run a search?”

  “No, I haven’t had time—I’ve been runnin’ to and fro, like a headless chicken.” She added with emphasis, “And takin’ lots of walks.”

  “There’s my girl.”

  She bent her head to eat, hiding her relief. When Acton had said that he didn’t know what was meant by “Dublin,” it was the truth. “I’ll run a search this afternoon—I’m goin’ to catch up on my reports and emails, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Work from home, so you can put your feet up. You needn’t accompany me to the church, if you’d rather rest.”

  “I’ll come with,” she decided. “I can sharpen pencils, or do somethin’ useful whilst I’m waitin’.”

  His desk phone buzzed, and Acton’s assistant could be heard over the speaker. “Sir, I am sorry to interrupt, but the Home Secretary is on the line.”

  “I’ll go.” Doyle gathered up her things, and quickly stood to leave, as she was certain it would be a private conversation. “We’re lucky that the Home Secretary didn’t catch us havin’ at it, on the desk.”

  “You disappoint me,” her husband replied, and picked up the call.

  Doyle stopped by her own desk on her way out, to make sure she had everything she’d need to work from home—nothing like being married to one’s commanding officer, especially one as solit—solitiness, or whatever the word was—as Acton was. He’s trying to smooth your way, the PC had said, and it was true; she was to be coddled, will-she or nil-she.

  As she stood at her desk, she could see from the corner of her eye that Munoz’s head had appeared over the wall of her cubicle, across the way. “Can you go for a break?” the other girl asked, in a low voice.

  She was emanating grave unhappiness, and Doyle remembered that she’d spent the morning with Elena, helping the girl come home from the hospital. “I’d like to, Munoz,” Doyle replied gently, “but I’m leavin’ on an interview, and then I’ve got to type up your witness report.”

  This caught the other’s attention. “Anything of interest?”

  “I’m not sure, yet,” Doyle answered honestly. “I’ve got to follow up on a few things she said.”

  “Did the nun really have a boyfriend?”

  “It doesn’t sound like it to me, but the witness said she was arguin’ with a man, and that does seem significant, since she was murdered a few days later.”

  “Yes, it does. After all, who’d argue with a nun?”

  “Someone who wasn’t RC,” Doyle replied with certainty, “and who didn’t respect her callin’.”

  “Obviously,” said Munoz with heavy irony. “Since he up and killed her.”

  But Doyle had learned a thing or two from Acton, and warned, “We don’t know that for certain, Munoz; we shouldn’t be leapin’ to conclusions. I’ll go see what I can find out.”

  “All right; keep me posted.”

  Since Munoz offered nothing further, Doyle ventured, “So how is Elena?”

  Munoz bent her head forward, so that the fall of her hair obscured her face.

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle; not good. No doubt the poor girl would never fully recover from her ordeal—she knew a high percentage of those who were rescued from thi
s sort of situation ended up taking their own lives.

  “She’s pregnant.” Munoz lifted her head. “Elena’s pregnant.”

  Thoroughly shocked, Doyle stared at her. “Oh—oh Izzy—how miserable for her.” It was so unfair; so very unfair. “I’m that sorry.”

  Munoz traced an unhappy finger along the cubicle wall. “Elena’s fighting with my mother and my grandmother—that’s why they wanted me there when she came home, to try to talk to her. My mother wants her to put the baby up for adoption—we have some cousins in Spain—but Elena wants to keep it. She says it’s not the baby’s fault.”

  Doyle could only shake her head. “Faith, what a mess.”

  “We have to make her see that adoption would be best—both for the baby, and for her.” Munoz paused, emanating waves of misery. “The counselor said she needs some time to recover, and that we shouldn’t press her, just yet.”

  “DS Munoz,” said Habib from behind them, startling Doyle so that she jumped. “It is good to have you back at work.”

  “I’m happy to be back, sir,” said Munoz, not batting an eye at coming face-to-face with her sister’s benefactor. “I understand we are short-handed; I’ll be happy to take on more assignments.”

  Doyle tried to match the other girl’s matter-of-fact manner, but wasn’t sure if she was entirely successful. “We were speakin’ on the nun-killer case, sir. I’m worried that there’s another victim.”

  “Are you?” asked Munoz in surprise, turning to her. “Who?”

  “Oh—oh, well, there was another nun who’d left the convent,” Doyle admitted. “No one’s heard from her.”

  Munoz frowned. “Isn’t that to be expected?”

  “I don’t like it,” said Doyle a bit vaguely, and decided it was a good time to take her leave—she didn’t know where to look, what with Habib standing there, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. “I must go—I’ll get you that report, Munoz.” She paused, feeling a bit craven, and as though she hadn’t been of much comfort. “I’ll be at the church tonight, if you’d like to stop by.”

  Munoz raised her brows. “Is there another vigil service?”

  “No; but I’ll be there, doin’ busy-work, and I’d love some company.” She met the other girl’s gaze for a moment.

  Munoz nodded. “Right then; I’ll see where I am.”

  16

  Dr. Timothy McGonigal smiled a welcome, as he opened the door to his flat. “May I offer you anything, Kathleen? Have you lunched?”

  With a shake of her head, Doyle declined. “I had a quick lunch at Acton’s desk—I managed to catch a moment, in between the more important personnel who were filin’ through.”

  “Well, none more important that you, certainly. How are you feeling? Has your appetite returned?”

  “With a vengeance; I’m eatin’ like a horse.”

  “Oats and bran?” he joked. He was the sort of person who would make that sort of joke, and Doyle was hard-pressed to believe he was also the sort of man who would argue with a nun, let alone kill one. She recalled that he was RC, and took heart; unlikely that a Catholic would have the wherewithal to murder a nun.

  With this in mind, she asked with a casual air, “How are things at the clinic? Is everyone shaken up by the murder?”

  “Which murder?” he asked genially, as they made their way into the sitting room. “We’ve had more than our share.”

  This seemed an odd thing to say, and so she offered carefully, “Well, Acton and I stumbled across the one in the records office—a Mr. Traynor.”

  He paused to face her, his brows raised in concern. “Oh? I didn’t know a staff member had been murdered. I was referring to the clinic—often we see murder victims come in as patients.”

  “Of course, you do—that’s what you meant,” she agreed with some relief. “I remember the Met had to respond to a stabber, not too long ago.”

  “Drugs,” he said succinctly, as he turned to continue into the other room. “And the attacker is usually someone looking for more—a shame that a staff member fell victim.”

  Seeing an opening, Doyle ventured, “Yes; I remember when I worked there, I was a bit shocked to see so many maternity cases on drugs.”

  As they came to stand beside the grand piano, the doctor sighed, and shook his head slightly. “It is the rule, rather than the exception, I’m afraid. The best we can do is give them information about rehabilitation treatments—we can’t go too hard on them, or they’ll be afraid to come in, in the first place.”

  “I suppose it’s best to leave that kind of pitch to the social workers,” she agreed. “They’re trained at that sort of thing.”

  But he gave a good-natured grimace. “They’re not very helpful, in my experience. The social workers tend to be easily manipulated by the patients.”

  This was true, and when he’d said he didn’t want to go too hard on the new mothers, that was true, also—which presumably meant he wasn’t murdering them. Of course, he might be making a distinction between the new mothers, and those who hadn’t yet given birth.

  Whilst she was trying to decide how best to discover what she needed to discover, he ventured in a hesitant manner, “So—you believe Acton would like a piano?”

  The nuance in his tone caught her attention, and so she willingly switched topics, and ran her hands over the smooth, glossy surface of the instrument. “I’m just turnin’ over some ideas, mainly—I’ve no idea what to give him for Christmas. I remember you’d mentioned that you studied music together, at university.”

  “Yes—although I don’t think he has played in years.”

  With a good-natured shrug, she reacted to his discouraging tone. “Oh—well then, maybe not such a good idea, after all, and I thank you for the warnin’. Does it have somethin’ to do with his father, the musician? It seems to me he didn’t like his father, much.”

  “No—ah, no; they didn’t get along.”

  As he seemed unwilling to offer anything further, she prompted, “I’ve never heard the story—the story about when his father disappeared. What do they think happened to him?”

  Bowing his head slightly, the doctor replied, “No one knows,” and it was not true.

  “I wonder,” Doyle teased in a light tone, “if the wretched dowager did away with him—I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  But this was not, apparently, a joking matter, and her companion shifted his feet. “There was an investigation, but she was cleared of any wrongdoing.” McGonigal’s cheeks reddened, and he fixed his gaze on the piano top. “A terrible time.”

  With an inward sigh, Doyle reconciled herself to the notion that she’d not learn much of interest from Timothy with respect to whatever-it-was that had the ghost at Trestles up in arms, and she was fast coming to the conclusion that the man standing before her wasn’t a crazed murderer—unlikely someone who was loath to engage in as mild a sin as a good gossip, would turn around and murder nuns and mothers. And she wasn’t making any headway on Acton’s Christmas present, either, so she truly hadn’t accomplished much, on this visit.

  Smiling her thanks, she made ready to take her leave. “Well, if you come up with any ideas, please don’t hesitate to slip me a message, on the sly. Acton’s a hard present-person.”

  The doctor lifted his gaze, grateful for the change in topic. “He’d be more than pleased with anything you gave him, Kathleen.”

  She offered a good-natured grimace. “That’s the nub of it, my friend; there’s enormous pressure to find somethin’ worthy of such devotion.”

  Chuckling, he offered, “Well, you are giving him an heir.”

  “I can’t rest on my laurels, Tim; look lively, and help me think of somethin’.”

  He spread his hands. “I will. I’m sorry I poured cold water on your piano idea.”

  “For the best,” she assured him, as she hiked her rucksack up to her shoulder again. “I wouldn’t want to be re-openin’ old wounds.”

  As they walked back toward the flat’s entry, he
asked, “What was the name of the victim, again, the one in the records department?”

  Recalled to this subject, Doyle decided she may as well do a bit of probing, on the off-chance that McGonigal knew something that could be significant. “A Mr. Traynor—although it may very well have been a false name. It didn’t look like a personal crime, so it may have been about somethin’ that was in the records.”

  The doctor nodded. “It isn’t my concern, of course, but they are very fussy about who has access to the records. I suppose you have to be, what with the Privacy Act, and the social workers, who are always trying to delve in where they oughtn’t.” Half-joking, he offered, “I hope one of those radical nuns didn’t kill him.”

  Her scalp prickling, Doyle stared at him in surprise. “Which radical nuns are those?”

  But he immediately regretted the remark. “Oh—oh, I shouldn’t disparage, I suppose. There’s an order of nuns who like to minister to the maternity patients—they’re a bit of an annoyance. Like the social workers, they’re somewhat naïve, and the patients tend to manipulate them.”

  Doyle swallowed. “Was one of the nuns named Sister Carmella?”

  He paused in distress. “Oh, dear—do you know them personally? I shouldn’t have said.”

  “No, but I’m investigatin’ the murder of a nun named Sister Carmella.”

  With a knit brow, he thought about it for a moment, but regretfully shook his head. “I don’t remember their names—shame on me. The staff will, though; they would have interacted more than I would have.” He met her gaze in disbelief. “Who would kill a nun?”

  “Not you,” she replied with certainty. And so, it was back to the drawing board for the fair Doyle.

  17

  Back at the flat, Doyle was propped up on the sofa with her laptop and her occurrence book, reviewing the preliminary reports for the three murders—the pregnant prostitute, the records-keeper at Holy Trinity, and the murdered nun. Technically, she should include the Wexton Prison witness too—the one that got hit by the train—but she worried that if Acton saw that particular victim included in the investigative protocol, he would immediately leap to the conclusion that his better half was on to him. Which she wasn’t, unfortunately; none of this made any sense.