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

by Anne Cleeland

  A bit taken aback, Doyle stared at her for a moment. “Does he? Oh—I don’t know if I could.”

  “No,” said Munoz slowly, “I don’t think I could, either.”

  Tentatively, Doyle heaved a secret sigh of relief, since the bloom was apparently coming off the rose in Munoz’s romance, and not a moment too soon. Her relief was short-lived, however, as Acton appeared, emerging from the passage to the church annex, and accompanied by Father John.

  Unable to help herself, Doyle nervously sprang to her feet. “Oh, oh—hallo, sir.” Don’t call him “sir,” she chastised herself; we’re not at work. “And hallo, Father.”

  Acton’s unreadable gaze took in the various persons assembled in the front pew. “Thank you for waiting, Kathleen; would you care to go to dinner, or have you made other plans?”

  “Dinner,” Doyle agreed fervently. “Let’s go.”

  Acton nodded at Munoz. “Good evening, Sergeant.”

  “Sir,” Munoz replied respectfully. “We were just keeping company with DS Doyle, but now we’ll be off.”

  “I’m all done, Papa,” Emile announced proudly to Savoie. “Can we go now?”

  Savoie had risen to his feet. “A moment,” he said to the boy. “I must speak to the policeman.”

  Emile turned to stare with wide eyes at Acton and Father John. “Which one is the policeman?”

  This had the beneficial effect of making everyone chuckle, and Father John bent down to speak in a friendly fashion to the boy, whilst Savoie came around to engage in a murmured conversation with Acton.

  Munoz turned to Doyle, her attitude one of wonderment, and whispered, “Maybe he really is a friendly, then. Savoie, of all people; no wonder none of the conspirators suspected that it was a sting.”

  Doyle warned, “You can’t say anythin’, Munoz.” She hesitated, then added, “Even to Gerry.” Hopefully, Munoz would break up with the man before she discovered he was Savoie’s brother, and therefore crooked as a dog’s hind leg.

  “No worries, Doyle; I’m not that stupid.” The two girls stood for a moment, as Father John continued his conversation with Emile, and Munoz was reminded to ask, “How’s the nun-killer case going?”

  Doyle blew out a breath. “Your witness said she heard the victim arguin’ with a man who used a word that sounded like ‘Dublin,’ and I think it may be important. Does that mean anythin’ to you? Williams and I have been checkin’ to see if there’s a help center, or a clinic, or somethin’ with a similar name.”

  Munoz shrugged. “Was he Irish?”

  Much struck, Doyle turned to stare at her. “So, you think ‘Dublin’ may just mean Dublin?”

  “Start with the obvious,” quoted Munoz, from their days at the Crime Academy. “Only then do you move to the not-so-obvious.”

  Doyle slowly lifted her face, unseeing, toward the altar. “Faith—I’m not a very good detective.”

  “Not exactly a news flash, Doyle.”

  But Doyle wasn’t listening, because, almost against her will, her gaze moved to rest on Father John—who was Irish—and who had an aura of unhappiness, hovering around him. And who was deeply involved in the at-risk youth outreach, where he’d come into everyday contact with bad mothers. Bad mothers, and radical nuns.

  For a moment, she was so overcome with misery that she placed a faltering hand on the pew for support. Father John is not the killer, she thought, horrified by the very idea. But it certainly would explain why Acton was protecting him—although that protection may not be very long-lasting; Acton was going to have Williams help him with questionable task, whilst on the religious retreat. . .

  “I’ll have to speak with him about it,” she said aloud, deeply distressed. “I can’t let it happen.”

  “Don’t; I won’t let on that I knew it was Savoie.”

  Recalled to the conversation, with a mighty effort Doyle pulled herself together. “I appreciate it, Munoz. They may want to use Savoie again, so we can’t blow his cover.”

  She saw that her husband’s gaze was resting on her face, and so she mustered up a small, reassuring smile. Apparently, it didn’t work, because he made his brusque excuses to the others, and then came over to take her arm. “Shall we go? You look as though you need some air.”

  “Please,” she replied, and they left without saying another word.

  21

  It was mizzling when they stepped outside the church, so Acton hoisted his umbrella, and drew her close to him. “What’s happened?” he asked gently.

  But Doyle had already figured out what had happened, and it was true—she wasn’t a very good detective. She’d been so busy trying to come up with a decent motive for Acton’s cover-up, that she’d forgotten the obvious; she’d forgotten that in Acton’s world, it was always about her. And she’d had a rough time of it, lately, so he was seeing to it that she had nothing but good news, and smooth sailing, even though everything around them was in chaos, and her beloved priest was potentially a horrific murderer. “We’re goin’ home,” she announced abruptly. “You are goin’ to drink scotch, and we’re goin’ to have sex.” She gave him a fierce look. “And plenty o’ both—no more shirkin’.”

  He smiled, as he took a careful survey of the immediate area. “Is that an order, Sergeant?”

  “’Tis.”

  “I should put you in awkward situations more often, then. Did Savoie say something to upset you?”

  She lifted her face to his in amazement. “It’s the strangest thing, Michael. He dotes on Solonik’s little boy.”

  “Yes. Do you think the affection is genuine?”

  So—Acton must find it too hard to believe, and suspect that something else was at play. “Yes,” she affirmed readily. “He truly loves that little boy—has even changed his name to Emile; can you imagine?”

  “No,” he replied briefly. “Why was Lestrade there?”

  She made a wry mouth. “It was a coincidence—and they’re not happy with each other, so they didn’t speak. But I think Munoz won’t be datin’ Lestrade for much longer.”

  “Then that is to the good.”

  “Yes; thank heaven for small favors.” She glanced up at him again, trying to gauge his mood. “What did Father John have to say?”

  As they walked for a few paces, she could sense that he was suddenly wary. “We spoke of the coming retreat, and of my Confirmation, in the spring.”

  This was true, but she knew he was withholding something, and her heart sank. She could confront him outright about her suspicions, but he would just give her equivocal answers, and then redouble his efforts to make certain she never learned another thing. And what did she know? Nothing, really; it was Munoz’s chance comment about Dublin, and the fact that Father John was standing there, right in front of her. After all, she did have a tendency to jump first, and think later—just look at what she’d suspicioned about Timothy. Instead, she needed to take a step back, and set up the same protocol; find a way to speak to Father John, so as to get a read on him. Faith; what ailed her, to be thinking the worst, right out of the gate?

  Having come to this resolution, she decided it would be best to change the subject. “Did you see how they buttonholed me into speakin’ about the bridge-jumpin’ incident? They’re very wily, that way.”

  “You can always make your excuses.”

  But she only shook her head. “Not with priests, my friend. Priests can see right through you.”

  “I will keep that to mind.”

  She frowned slightly, because there was a nuance behind his last remark that gave her pause, and it made her worried all over again—perhaps she wasn’t jumping to conclusions, after all. “Well, I’ll tell the sorry tale just this once, and then be done with it. I asked Munoz if she’d come, but she won’t—which is just as well, I suppose. If we started in on a fistfight, it wouldn’t support the narrative.”

  “Perhaps, but it would certainly boost attendance.”

  Chuckling, she walked a few more steps, and then it occurred
to her that they were not headed toward the car, but that her guileful husband was seeing to it that she took a decent walk. With a wave of affection, she rested her head against his arm, and they walked for a time in companionable silence. “I told Munoz that bein’ a redhead should count as bein’ a minority.”

  He considered this for a moment. “I think there is no doubt of it.”

  She teased, “Mayhap I’ll go brunette, and see what it’s like to be normal, for a change. When you’re red-headed, it’s miles harder to fade into the background.”

  “Don’t do it on my account.”

  “Well, we’re lucky Edward’s not a redhead.” Doyle had seen her son in a dream, and had told Acton he would have chestnut hair, and pale green eyes.

  “I confess that I would have no objection, if he were.”

  “That’s only because you’ve never been a redhead, and have no idea of the burden that is borne.”

  “Then he’s had a lucky escape.” He leaned to plant a kiss on the top of her red head. “Can you tell me what was worrying you, back at the church?”

  Doyle heaved an inward sigh; Acton might be willing to engage in casual conversation, but he always brought it back to his objective—never one to lose sight, was Acton. “I’m worried that you are so busy tryin’ to smooth my way, that you’re actually makin’ my way unsmoother.” She paused. “Less smooth, I think I mean.” After trying to decide how to put it delicately, she gave up, and just said outright, “I always find out what you’re up to, Michael, and it would save a lot of time and trouble if you would just tell me things.”

  “I cannot,” he said with real regret. “I am sorry, Kathleen.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I’d like to smooth your way, too, you know.”

  “You have done more for me than you will ever know.”

  “Whist; the pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Did I mention that we’re goin’ to step it up in the sex department?”

  “You did. And I’m to stop treating you with kid gloves.”

  Trust him to cut to the nub; she rubbed his arm in sympathy. “I know you can’t help it, but sometimes, it’s a teensy bit annoyin’.” In a carefully neutral tone, she added, “And if there’s a crisis that affects me, too, I’d like to participate—it’s only fair that I get to participate in the mutual crisises.”

  But he said only, “Then you needn’t worry; there is no mutual crisis that in any way concerns you. I am putting paid to some debts of honor, is all.”

  This rang true, and very much surprised, she waited for an explanation but—being Acton—he did not elaborate, and just walked on as though what he’d said made perfect sense, which it didn’t.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about, Michael—what debts of honor? You sound like your wretched ancestors, who get all upset about the stupidest things.”

  This amused him, but he explained, “Debts of honor are social constructs that are more important than mere laws; that go deeper than mere laws.”

  Unfortunately, it seemed that they were wandering into the familiar disagreement; Acton felt that the justice system could be disregarded when it didn’t seem to be working very well, while Doyle didn’t think anyone should feel that they were wiser than the weight of the law. “But Michael, the laws are put there so that everyone can decide to agree on the same things—we can’t have everyone decidin’ that they’d like their own version, better. We’d wind up with chaos in the streets, if debts of honor could trump the common law.”

  “I must disagree. Do you remember the Dolphin Square case?”

  She did remember, because it was another black mark against the department. A father had murdered his young daughter’s killer, and the jury had not only let him off, they’d gone to the newspapers to decry a system that would put such a hero in the dock. It was several years ago, but now the Met stepped very carefully when bringing up charges in such a situation. Stubbornly, she insisted, “There’s no such thing as an honorable murder, Michael—and you can’t allow public sympathy to rule the day; even Maguire realized that it was wrong, and tried to fix it.”

  But he tilted his head. “Maguire decided to fix it by working outside the law.”

  “Yes—well, that’s a bad example, then.” She paused. “Remind me again what it is that we’re talkin’ about.”

  Fondly, he leaned his head down close to hers. “You are worrying, and I am trying to convince you that you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Ah. Second verse, same as the first.”

  “Indeed.”

  They walked along for a small distance, Doyle listening to the raindrops patter on the umbrella, whilst she turned over what he’d said in her mind. “I know I’m soundin’ like a broken record, Michael, but you can’t go about killin’ people, even if it’s all tied up in some social conduit.”

  “Construct,” he corrected her, “but you were very close.”

  “I’m very close to knockin’ you in the noggin,” she warned crossly. “Honestly, Michael.”

  “Will it help if I tell you that I understand exactly what you are trying to say, and that I will keep all debts of honor to a minimum?”

  “I suppose.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’ve no idea if I won or lost.”

  “Please don’t worry,” he soothed.

  22

  The next day at work, Doyle straggled in late; she’d forgotten that a hearty bout of sex tended to be sleep-depriving, but it was exactly what she deserved for playing that particular card, and so she could not complain. And she did feel immeasurably better; aside from the much-welcomed hearty bout of sex, Acton had been semi-honest with her, and—being as semi-honesty was the most she could ever hope for—she was less anxious about his involvement in these strange-yet-connected cases. She’d garnered the impression, during their walk, that he was confident the cases were to be resolved in short order, and she’d also gained the impression that the planned resolution did not involve causing a kindly priest to sink from sight. Nevertheless, she needed to make certain; she’d find an excuse to speak with Father John to sound him out, and then work from there.

  With respect to the records-room murder, though, she’d remembered why it didn’t make sense to her that Savoie was the killer. It didn’t make sense because they’d been surprised to stumble across Traynor’s body. If the killer was Savoie—having been given some sort of immunity, with respect to the corruption case—certainly Acton would have known about it, and not been so surprised.

  For a moment, she stilled. Was Acton surprised to find the body, or was she just assuming that he was, because she was so surprised? He’d done something odd, at the scene—what was it? Closing her eyes, she tried to remember, and then opened them suddenly. He’d slipped a card out of the victim’s wallet, and put it in his jacket’s inner pocket. Acton had taken the card, and had not returned it. She’d presumed that he wanted to test out a listed address or phone number for some reason, but now—now it wouldn’t surprise her if her husband had removed something that might help identify the killer—this killer who had been given some kind of immunity. And then, Acton had firmly quashed any further investigation.

  Could it be Savoie? Strange, that her instinct had leapt to the conclusion that he was the immunity-killer. Sometimes her instinct was wrong, though, and she may have gotten her wires crossed. Mayhap it was some other person involved in the sting operation, but that seemed very unlikely—immunity was not handed out ten-a-penny, for the obvious reasons.

  With a mental sigh, she stirred her caffeine-free vanilla steamer—which was a pathetic excuse for a latte—and knew she was shooting down all working theories in a tangle of dubious coincidences, which was not very detective-like of her; she should stick with the known knowns.

  There were at least two different murderers Acton was covering for, for reasons that were not evident, but which seemed to have something to do with what Acton called debts of honor. One was the records-room killer—perhaps Savoie—and the other w
as the nuns-and-prostitutes killer, who—please, God—was not Father John.

  After frowning at nothing in particular for a few moments, she slowly pulled her mobile, and rang up Williams.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself, Thomas. What’s happenin’ with the records-room murder, have you heard anythin’?”

  “No—I think the ACC is keeping a pretty tight lid on it.”

  In a casual tone, she asked, “Is Rowan is still in custody?”

  “I haven’t heard,” he said, and it was the truth. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they charge him with obstruction, and try to pressure him to talk about who may have killed Traynor.”

  Doyle cautioned, “I don’t think he knows much about the murder, Thomas. He was that unhappy that his cohort had gotten himself inconveniently killed.”

  “Oh? Why’d he flee, then?”

  “Well, Officer Shandera thought he might be hidin’ his false identity, which wouldn’t surprise me, since he seemed like an all-around dirty dish.” Doyle was suddenly reminded that Rowan had fled immediately after setting eyes on the PC, and so asked, “What did you think of Shandera? He’s anglin’ for a CID position, I think.”

  “He seems to be a good sort.”

  There was a nuance behind the words, so Doyle prompted, “And?”

  Williams hesitated. “Only they have to be very careful about who they bring in, with the corruption scandal in the headlines, every day.”

  Reminded of this sorry state of affairs, she blew out a breath of frustration. “It’s hardly fair, Thomas; we’re bein’ run ragged, and no one appreciates it, because the public thinks we’re all bent.”

  “It’s a tough time to be a detective,” he agreed. “A good lesson in how important it is not to lose the public’s trust.”

  “I think a lot of people are goin’ to prison,” she ventured. “Acton seems to think they’re goin’ to make an example, to restore the public’s trust.”

  “I think that’s wise.”

  He knew more than he was letting on, but not a gossip, was our Williams. In a casual tone, Doyle ventured, “Have you heard—have you heard whether Philippe Savoie is involved?”