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

by Anne Cleeland

  But Acton was not the sort of person to think that any kind of compromise was ever warranted, on any subject. “You needn’t ever see her, Kathleen, and you have no reason whatsoever to feel guilty. My mother is a very difficult person.”

  As they stepped off the curb to cross the street, she observed, “And you have some sort of hold over her, I think.”

  There was a small pause, whilst she could tell that he was debating what to tell her. “My mother has no dower rights, and so she must toe the line.”

  With a small sigh, Doyle rested her head against his arm. “I haven’t a clue what that means, Michael. Recall that I am of lowly peasant stock.”

  He placed his other hand on hers. “Ordinarily, when a peeress marries, as part of the settlements she is given a house, and a living that comes to her if her husband predeceases her. My mother, however, has been stripped of those rights.”

  Doyle raised her head, intrigued. “Because of your father’s disappearance?”

  “Yes.”

  Their footsteps echoed in the quiet street. “Does she know what happened to him?”

  “No.”

  Doyle nodded, and decided she’d ask no more questions, as she was lucky he’d told her even this much. She’d always had the impression that Acton’s mother—and Sir Stephen, his heir until Edward was born—didn’t dare cross Acton, and now it appeared that this was because he had the upper hand in matters monetary. And—as Doyle was well-familiar with her husband’s way of arranging things—she could easily guess that he’d framed his mother for his father’s murder; just enough to keep her in line, without sending her to prison. Don’t ever get on Acton’s bad side, she thought for the thousandth time; mental note.

  As he held the church door open, her husband interrupted her thoughts. “You have dower rights, too.”

  She glanced up in surprise, as she passed under his arm. “Do I? Fancy that.”

  “You won’t need them; when I die, you will be a wealthy woman.”

  “Well, don’t die, Michael; I’ve no desire to be a wealthy widow, and I’m not very good with money, anyways.”

  “That’s true; I’d forgotten.” With his half-smile, he put a hand to her back, and guided her down the aisle.

  “Ah—down an empty aisle, in an empty church,” she teased. “Reminds me of our weddin’ day.”

  “Unfortunate, but necessary,” he replied. “I’m afraid my strategy was matrimony by ambush.”

  Laughing, she turned to smile up at him. “And done to a trump, I must say—I was that befogged, and had no idea what’d hit me.”

  “You were enchanting,” he assured her, and in this convivial mood, they walked down the short hallway into the church annex, and found Father John in his office, meeting with the deacon and the facilities manager.

  Upon perceiving the gleam in Father John’s eye, Doyle made hastily to excuse herself, but the priest was not going to let her wiggle off the hook. “Can I be markin’ you down for the Everyday Heroes presentation, Kathleen?”

  “I suppose,” Doyle hedged. The priest was involved in an outreach project that targeted urban youth—the idea being to soften up potential converts, by entertaining them with tales of the saints, mixed in with stories of current-day bravery, and featuring speakers such as fire-fighters, or soldiers. Naturally, he’d requested that she recite the oft-told tale of the bridge-jumping incident, but she was reluctant, being as she hated being the center of attention, hated crowds, and hated telling the stupid story, and not necessarily in that order.

  “Ye should witness, if I may say so, lass,” the elderly deacon respectfully reminded her. “Especially to the young lasses; we can’t let them feel that they’re not called to be brave, just as much as the boys.”

  “A good point,” Father John immediately seconded. “We’ve been targetin’ the boys, but we mustn’t neglect the at-risk girls.”

  “All right,” Doyle agreed with poor grace. “Just let me know when, and where.”

  The priest promptly replied, “The Community Family Center, Friday at five o’ clock. We’ll serve snacks and treats, as an added incentive to get the children to attend.”

  “I’d be happy to drive ye over,” the deacon offered. “If yer husband is unavailable.”

  “Not at all necessary,” Acton demurred. “I will be pleased to attend.”

  “Grand,” Doyle groused, profusely wishing that she’d ducked this little meeting. If Acton was truly willing to come to the stupid outreach, it would add a whole ʼnother layer of shame to the general humiliation.

  Acton had apparently decided to move things along, and steered her toward the door. “We shouldn’t be more than a half-hour. Don’t go far, Kathleen.”

  “Thank you, lass,” said the deacon, who’d taken his cue, and followed her out. “Every soul is a soul worth saving.”

  “Amen,” chimed in Father John from his desk, as Acton firmly closed the door.

  They’re right; I should try to use my experience for the greater good, and stop being such a baby about it, thought Doyle, as she made her idle way back toward the church nave. Why, even the Detective Chief Superintendent, currently in prison for attempted murder, had taken to evangelizing the other prisoners. Since any professed religious conversion had no chance of affecting his punishment, it could only be presumed he’d truly turned his heart, and repented—even though this seemed very unlikely; Doyle had taken her measure of the man on that fateful night at Trestles, when he’d tried to frame Acton for murder. It was all very ironic, when you thought about it—there no need to frame Acton for murder, if they’d only known how many he’d committed outright.

  And hard on that thought, she came face to face with Philippe Savoie, patiently waiting in the front pew, a small boy seated beside him.

  19

  After standing for a moment in surprise, Doyle took a deep breath, and approached the two figures. “Oh; oh—hallo, Philippe. And this must be—”

  “Emile,” Savoie said firmly, with a sideways nod toward the boy.

  “I am pleased to meet you.” With conscious courtesy, Jonathon-who-was-now-Emile stood to hold out his hand to Doyle, but then broke role when he recognized her. “Oh—I remember you; you were at the big house, and your face had scratches all over it.”

  “Well—yes; a window fell on me.”

  With gathering enthusiasm, the boy continued, “You are a police officer. Papa says you are très courageux.”

  Doyle wasn’t certain how to respond. “Your papa says a great many things.”

  Savoie warned, “Less talk, Emile.”

  With a mischievous look at Savoie, the boy sat, ducked his head, and began studiously swinging his legs under the pew.

  Doyle lowered her voice, and took a glance around. “I’m a bit surprised, I must say. How do you always know when I’m here?”

  Savoie’s pale eyes glinted up at her. “Acton comes for the visit, yes?”

  Suspiciously, she drew her brows together. “Never say you are goin’ on the retreat, too?”

  “Me, I do not know what this means.” He leaned back, and spread out his arms on the pew’s back. “Quel est-ce ‘retreat’?”

  “Never you mind,” she said hastily. “I looked into the schools for you, like you asked me to.”

  He brought his head forward. “Bien.”

  Unable to repress himself, the boy piped up, “I’m going to school soon, here in London. Papa says that everything has to be put in order, first.”

  Emile’s papa gave him a look, and the boy giggled, covering his mouth with both hands, then went back to studiously swinging his legs.

  Doyle continued, “St. Margaret’s seems to be the school of choice for a boy his age. I don’t know much about it, myself, but I have it on good authority.”

  “It is here? In London?”

  “Yes.” With a sinking feeling, she decided that she may as well ask. “So—how long is it that you’re plannin’ to stay?”

  “I come and I go,”
he answered with a sidelong glance. “Me, I am very busy.”

  The boy leaned in to ask a question in French, and Savoie replied in kind, making a gesture toward the prayer books, scattered along the pew. The boy leapt up importantly, and walked along the pew, lining up the books in neat stacks.

  Doyle ventured, “Truly, Philippe, I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done for me—”

  “Many, many things,” the Frenchman interjected. “Some, you do not know.”

  This, no doubt a reference to the fact Savoie had been working hand-in-glove with Acton in the sting operation that brought down the government corruption rig. Being as Doyle couldn’t remember whether she was supposed to know about Savoie’s involvement or not, she hurried on. “You’ve been a rare treat, Philippe, but you must see that the likes of me cannot be seen hangin’ about with the likes of you.”

  “I know this, yes,” he agreed, as though speaking to a simpleton. “We cannot be cahoots, you and me.”

  “Yes. And Acton is due at any minute—”

  The man glanced over his shoulder at the boy, who was making his way up the pews, busily straightening the books in each. “Emile is a very smart boy—do you see? Très intelligent.”

  “Yes, I do,” she replied a bit crossly. Small wonder, of course, since Solonik, the boy’s late, unlamented father, had been a dastardly mastermind. Faith, it was nothing short of amazing that Savoie, of all people, had taken in the child of such a miserable excuse for a person. With a mighty effort, Doyle begged pardon for her uncharitable thoughts, and said to her companion with all sincerity, “The change in him is extraordinary; you must be a good father, Philippe.”

  With a Gallic shrug, Savoie explained, “Me, I did not have the good father, so I think of how I would have liked him to be with me.”

  “Good on you, then.” It did give one hope in humanity, if a blackleg like Savoie could turn such a good deed, despite having no role model. Come to think of it, they were all in the same boat; Doyle had a bad father, as had Acton. I’ve had my fill of all this, she thought in exasperation; bad mothers, bad fathers, the Met in a constant state of distress, and Savoie—of all people—taking in orphans, and moving heaven and earth to put them into good schools. Munoz is right, the world has gone mad.

  Her scalp prickled, and she frowned, trying to figure out why this would be, when she was interrupted by Munoz, herself.

  “Doyle.” The other girl stood beside her pew, escorted by none other than her current beau, Gerry Lestrade.

  It wants only this, Doyle thought in a panic; Savoie and Lestrade were brothers, but Munoz was unaware of the family connection—in large part because Savoie was a notorious criminal, and the last person one would expect to see hanging about in a church with the fair Doyle.

  Resisting an urge to make a run for it, Doyle faltered, “Oh—oh, hallo, Munoz; I’d forgotten you were comin’.”

  “You remember Gerry?” Munoz indicated her companion, who was carefully not looking at Savoie, and doing only a fair job of hiding his extreme amusement.

  “Why—yes; hallo, Gerry. And this is—this is—”

  “Philippe Savoie,” said Savoie, who was not at all amused. He did not rise.

  There was a small pause. Munoz said, “How nice to meet you, Mr. Savoie,” and then turned to address Doyle. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Doyle; but do you have a moment?”

  The other girl didn’t wait for a response, but walked toward the side aisle, with Doyle forced to follow behind, hoping that the brothers weren’t going to come to cuffs in the middle of St. Michael’s—perhaps if they shouted at each other in French, no one would be the wiser.

  Munoz turned her back to the others, and lowered her voice. “Doyle, you idiot, Philippe Savoie is on the Watch List. He’s a very bad actor.”

  Doyle stammered, “Yes—yes, well, I think he may be a friendly.” In police lingo, a “friendly” was an informant.

  Munoz gave her a look of disgust mixed with incredulity, and reached for her mobile. “Good God, Doyle; he’s not a friendly, and we can’t just let him walk away. You go stall him; I’ll call Acton, and get a protocol.”

  Doyle swallowed. “Actually, Munoz, Acton is here. In fact—in fact, I think Savoie is waitin’ to speak to Acton.” Hopefully, this would be enough to convince Munoz that she should leave, posthaste.

  As her fingers stilled in the act of scrolling, Munoz stared at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well—no, I don’t either, actually. They’re keepin’ it very quiet, but I think Savoie has some sort of immunity.” As soon as she said the words, Doyle started, and knew that it was true—Holy Mother of God, of course Savoie was the one who had immunity, and that was why he was hanging about London, as though he owned the place. It must have been Savoie who killed the records-keeper at Holy Trinity clinic—it was all connected to the corruption rig, after all. Except—except there was something she was forgetting—something Acton had done on the scene—

  Munoz interrupted her thoughts. “Well, how can we be certain? I think we need to inform Acton, just in case.”

  But Doyle pleaded, “I think Acton doesn’t want anyone to know Savoie has immunity, Munoz—not even me. If you call him on it, you’ll be puttin’ him on the spot.”

  The other girl frowned, turning this over in her mind. “Oh, I see.”

  “Mayhap you and Gerry should leave, before Acton shows up.” This, of course, was to be fervently hoped for, but given Doyle’s run of luck, lately, unlikely to happen.

  With one accord, both of the girls turned their heads to look at Savoie, who had not deigned to look at his brother, but instead slid his malevolent gaze over to meet Munoz’s.

  The girl quickly looked back at Doyle in alarm. “Oh—he looks angry. How do we know he’s not carrying?”

  “The boy is with him, Munoz; for heaven’s sake, he’s not goin’ to start shootin’ up the church.”

  “I’ll stay until Acton comes,” the girl decided. “I’ll act like I’ve not twigged Savoie, and wait to see what happens. If he’s not a friendly, Acton may need reinforcements to take him down.”

  Doyle felt she had no other option but to nod in agreement, and admire the girl’s fortitude. I feel like I’m in one of those raree shows they used to have on the docks, she thought in extreme dismay; only I’m the one who’s the stooge.

  And so, they waited for Acton; the two girls seated at one end of the pew, Savoie seated at the other, Emile continuing with his circuit as he neatly stacked all the books in the church, and Lestrade idly walking forward to examine one of the gold-chased candlesticks on the altar, a move that raised no small alarm in Doyle’s breast.

  20

  Munoz pretended to engage in idle chit-chat, and lowered her voice. “Were you talking to Savoie? What did he say?”

  “We were talkin’ about his little boy. Oh—oh, Izzy; I’m that sorry about Elena. I’d forgotten about it, in all the excitement.”

  Munoz closed her eyes for a long moment, and Doyle was duly alarmed—faith, if stumbling across Philippe Savoie hadn’t shaken the tough-as-nails Munoz, what on earth would? “What? What’s happened, Izzy?”

  Munoz took a breath. “Habib overheard us talking about Elena today, and he’s—” she paused. “He’s asked Elena to marry him, and has offered to raise the baby as his own. He says he won’t even adopt—they will just tell everyone that the baby is his.”

  For several beats, Doyle could only sit and stare. “Holy Mother—”

  “Shhh; lower your voice. My mother is beside herself, of course.”

  Doyle shook her head in astonished wonder. “What’s Elena goin’ to do?”

  “Whatever she wants to do—there’s nothing we can do to stop her. We are trying to get her to wait, and think about it, but I think she’s going to go ahead with it.”

  Doyle’s gaze rested on Emile, making his busy and self-important way toward them, row by row. “It would probably be the best thing for the baby.” Her scalp prickled.
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br />   Rather than knock her down, Munoz instead indicated a grudging agreement. “I know. It’s just—it’s just so unfair, I guess. To have all your options taken away, so that the only ones left are not very good ones.”

  “Whist, Munoz,” Doyle said slowly, her scalp prickling like a live thing. “We need to muster up some faith. The people who want to decide for themselves what’s fair and what’s not fair are the people who wind up in the dock, charged with murder.”

  “Said the peeress, living in luxury, and expecting an heir.”

  Doyle forgave the bitter comment, because it was true; oftentimes life didn’t seem fair, and it was hard to cast judgment without looking like a hypocrite.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” Munoz offered in a constrained tone. “Sorry.”

  But Doyle shrugged it off. “That’s all right, Izzy; I know you don’t truly mean it, and you’ve earned the right to lash out.”

  But Munoz reluctantly admitted, “I shouldn’t lash out, though—not at you. You fished me out of the Thames, after all.”

  “We’re not to speak of it, ever again,” Doyle mock-admonished her. “Although—I don’t suppose you’d want to come with me to a church outreach, for inner city youth? I’m slated to tell the miserable story.”

  “No.”

  Doyle wheedled, “C’mon, Munoz; you’re better at this than I am, what with all your PR experience.”

  “No.”

  “—and you’re a minority, to boot. Bein’ a redhead doesn’t seem to count, for some reason, even though that’s a true minority, if I ever saw one.”

  “Interesting argument, but no. You’re on your own.”

  “You could show them your sketches.”

  There was a small pause, and Doyle pressed her advantage. “They’re so beautiful, Munoz; and it would encourage the kids who have a similar gift.” As a hobby, Munoz sketched religious artwork, although she tried to keep it very quiet, because to be seen doing something so worthwhile might cause damage to her reputation as an unprincipled brasser.

  “Gerry thinks I should start a side business—making lithographs, and selling them on the internet.”