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

by Anne Cleeland

  There was an incredulous pause. “No. Why?”

  She blew out a breath. “Nothin’. I’m just throwin’ out wild conspiracy theories, I guess.” She didn’t dare say anything about the murderer’s having immunity, as it seemed clear Williams knew nothing about it. Neither did she, for that matter.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at my desk, sloggin’ away like a good soldier. Where are you?”

  “Same. What does Munoz want, that she’d bring me a Danish this morning?”

  Doyle smiled into the mobile. “That’s actually an excellent sign, Thomas. She was datin’ someone inappropriate, and now hopefully she’s not.”

  “I’ll not fall victim, you know.”

  “Of course I know, but if you wouldn’t mind doin’ a bit of mild flirtin’, it may help her along, poor thing.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort. I draw the line.”

  She arched a brow. “Oh? How’s our Ms. Percy?” Percy was a defense solicitor who was smitten with DI Williams, although it was as yet unclear whether the smitten-ness was reciprocated.

  “She’s defense counsel in one of my new cases.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s a bit awkward; will she cross-examine you?”

  “Hopefully not,” he replied in a dry tone. “Its white-collar embezzlement, so maybe a deal can be struck, to save everyone the embarrassment.”

  “And obviously, the perp can afford a fine defense.”

  “And the perp can afford a fine defense,” he agreed. It was a sad truth that prosecutors didn’t like to engage in a trial with high-quality defense barristers, and were thus more willing to make a deal, so as to avoid what could be an embarrassing defeat.

  “Who’s taken Moran’s place, as the senior barrister at chambers?” she asked. Percy’s boss had recently died.

  “Savoie,” Williams joked.

  Laughing, she conceded, “Nothin’ would surprise me, nowadays; the world is topsy-turvy.”

  “How is your case load? Anything I can help you with?”

  She quirked her mouth, because Williams was up-to-his-neck in cases, but he was another man who wanted to smooth her way, despite the fact that she was well-tired of being wrapped in cotton wool by the men folk. “My own case load is bein’ sadly neglected, thank you very much, because I’m still tryin’ to come up with leads on the nun-killer and the psycho-mother, who may or may not be the same person, and who is probably a man. ‘Day’s End’ was a dead end.”

  “Now, there’s a good turn of phrase.”

  “Gallows humor, more like; these crimes hit a little too close to home, for me. Do you have any ideas about this killer?”

  “Only that he’s obviously a psycho.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to you, my friend, but there are a lot of them out there.”

  “And we’ve met most. Mind if I ring you later?”

  Thoughtfully, she hung up, thinking that it certainly didn’t sound as though Williams knew that his mysterious task during Acton’s retreat was in any way connected to these cases. And it may not be, after all; it did seem as though her trusty instincts were going a bit haywire, lately. Perhaps instead of trying to read the tarot-cards, she should embark on a bit of old-fashioned detective work, and see where it led her.

  With renewed determination, she pulled up PC Shandera’s preliminary report on the latest psycho-mother murder, and read through it—carefully, this time—so that she didn’t miss anything. And yes—there was something she should have noticed the first time; in the witness accounts, one of the neighbors said she’d thought one of the victim’s most recent visitors had a noticeable accent.

  Trying to tamp down a sense of foreboding, Doyle rang up the Family Center volunteer yet again, and the woman answered cheerfully. “Why, Officer Doyle; how nice. I told the other volunteers that I’d spoken with you, and we would all love it if you would let us take you to lunch, someday.”

  Despite her automatic urge to decline, Doyle suddenly saw a way to kill two birds with one stone. “I’m to visit your Center to give a talk at a youth outreach on Friday; if you could round up some youngsters, I’d be that happy to meet with all of you there.”

  “Oh—what a wonderful idea. I’ll put up a flyer; it will be so exciting for everyone.”

  After Doyle gave her the particulars about the upcoming event, she added, “About Sister Carmella’s murder—I’m afraid I didn’t follow up on somethin’ else you said, and I should have. You were worried that I might be coverin’ for the man who was arguin’ with the victim, and I’m wonderin’ why you would think such a thing.”

  In a stricken tone, the woman immediately apologized. “Oh—I’m so sorry; I was angry about the scandals, I suppose, and it seemed to me that no one cared about Carmella—”

  “Was there any reason—” Doyle interrupted, “—any reason in particular that you were suspicious of me?”

  “I suppose it was your accent,” the other woman admitted. “I thought you might be related to him.”

  Doyle closed her eyes, briefly.

  “It was silly of me, Officer Doyle. Silly prejudice, I suppose.”

  “No—my fault for not doin’ my job properly. Thanks so much, this will help.”

  After she rang off, Doyle rested her head in her hands. It couldn’t be true; there must be some other explanation. Unbidden, she remembered last night at the church, when she’d had the sense that Father John was troubled about something. He’d just been meeting with Acton, and he was troubled. Then, when she and Acton had taken their walk, Acton seemed confident that the whole matter would soon be resolved.

  He’s warned him off, she concluded, lifting her head. Acton has warned him off—although it’s not clear what Williams is supposed to do, during the retreat. So now—now, it’s up to the fair Doyle to turn the good Father in to the police, and let him take his lumps. And after all my fine talk about faith in the justice system, how can I not? But the scandal would be horrendous, and would probably ruin my poor church.

  She closed her eyes again, sick with misery. St. Michael’s was not a large parish, but it had stood, small and unshakable, for over two hundred years; since the time of Napoleon, Nellie had told her. Over two hundred years.

  She was so distracted that she hadn’t noticed that Habib, her supervisor, had paused in her cubicle entry way. “DS Doyle? Are you unwell?”

  Lifting her head, she turned to him. “Oh—oh, no, sir. I’m just—I’m just restin’, for a moment.”

  “Do you need to go home?” This said in a stoic manner, as Habib was awash in cases, himself.

  “No, sir. I am fine—truly.”

  “I wished to tell you that I am to be married.” Unable to help himself, he smiled.

  “Oh—that is wonderful news, sir.” She wasn’t certain what else to say, as she wasn’t certain how much she was supposed to know. And as it seemed inappropriate to give her supervisor a hug, she offered her hand. “My congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” he said gravely, taking her hand with a formal gesture. “I’m afraid it will be a small ceremony; I mean no disrespect to you, or to the Chief Inspector.”

  He stood before her, proud, nervous, but resolute, and she suddenly began to cry; sinking her face into her hands, and sobbing.

  “Oh, my goodness—DS Doyle; please—shall I ring up your husband?” Habib hovered awkwardly, mortified as only a lifelong bachelor can be when confronted with female tears.

  “No—no; I’m all right.” With a mighty effort, she wiped her cheeks on her palms, and attempted a watery smile, as she looked up at him. “I’m just weepy, I guess. It’s the baby.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, fascinated by this glimpse into the future. “I see.”

  She took a deep breath, and gazed at the ceiling for a moment, embarrassed, and trying to collect herself. “Everythin’ seems so—so complicated, I suppose. It’s so hard to know what’s best to do.”

  But he shook his head slightly in disagreement, and offere
d a small, reassuring smile. “To know what is best is simple, DS Doyle. It may not be easy; but that does not mean it is not simple.”

  “Oh—you’re goin’ to be such a good father,” she said with all sincerity, wiping away more tears. “I’m so worried that I’ll completely flub the dub.”

  “Nonsense,” he said stoutly, but was spared having to say anything further by Acton’s appearance beside him.

  “Good morning,” said Acton. “Do you mind if I have a word, Inspector?”

  “Of course not, sir,” said Habib, who then turned to make a relieved and measured retreat away from the semi-hysterical female.

  “Everything’s a nine day’s wonder, around here,” Doyle reflected, watching him go. “And I forgot I shouldn’t have mentioned that I know he’s goin’ to be a father.”

  “Small matter,” said Acton. “Are you available? I’ll need you to listen in to a conversation, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  This was asked rhetorically, as he was already lifting her rucksack and coat in preparation for leaving—in a bit of a hurry, he was. She was dying to speak with Father John, but it appeared that she would have to possess her soul in patience—Acton wouldn’t have asked, if it wasn’t important, and her poor husband had a plateful of major crimes to sort through. “Lead on,” she agreed, and resolutely wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

  23

  She’d not be to his own taste; too skinny, like a pretty weathercock. But she was fair doughty, and it was past time to rend this inglorious partnership asunder. Otherwise, ’twould be the undoing of them all.

  A short while later, Doyle was seated next to her husband, as he navigated the Range Rover away from the central London traffic. Something’s up, she realized; he’s not saying anything about whatever the case is that we’re investigating. As a matter of fact, I think he’s trying to decide how much to tell me about whatever it is we’re doing. With an inward sigh, she waited to hear why her husband needed a truth-detector, and hoped it had nothing to do with mothers, babies, Frenchmen or nuns; a body could only bear so much.

  “So; Inspector Habib is making you cry?”

  She smiled at the picture thus presented. “No, Edward is makin’ me cry. Habib was announcin’ his comin’ weddin’. And don’t get your hopes up; we’re not invited.”

  “Just as well.” He offered nothing further, and she decided that was—all in all—just as well, too.

  With a small crease between her brows, she gazed out the window. “I’m not sure why I got weepy, Michael; I think it was because he was so matter-of-fact about it all.” It was on the tip of her tongue to repeat what Habib had said—that doing the right thing was simple, even though it wasn’t always easy, but she decided that wasn’t necessarily a good topic of conversation to bring up with Acton—although, no doubt he’d have a different definition of what constituted “the right thing,” and would therefore approve of the sentiment wholeheartedly.

  She decided to turn the subject to more mundane matters. “Faith, Michael; I’ve no idea what one gives as a weddin’ gift in this situation—can’t imagine givin’ them a rice cooker, or somethin’.”

  “Reynolds will know.”

  She laughed. “Indeed, he will; it’s a shame that I can’t ask him what to give him for Christmas.”

  He took her hand. “I, for one, am looking forward to my tin of toffee.”

  “Well, I’ve somethin’ much better in mind.” Mental note, she thought with a flare of panic; better get cracking on the Christmas presents.

  After a moment, she decided she may as well ask. “You’re bein’ a bit mysterious, husband; where is it we’re headed?”

  He bent his head forward slightly, watching the road. “We are headed to an address in Surrey. I’m afraid I must ask you to keep this particular investigation quiet, and in the unlikely event that you are asked about it, please refer all questions to me.” He glanced at her for a moment. “I’m sorry to bring you into this, Kathleen, but it’s a delicate matter, with much at stake.”

  For an anxious moment, she thought their visit might involve Father John, but then she realized they were headed away from town, and was cautiously optimistic that such was not the case. “Oh? Is a politician in trouble?” Hopefully, Howard hadn’t decided to murder someone, in the midst of his election campaign—although nothing would surprise her, anymore.

  “No. But this case does have a twist.”

  She raised her brows at his reluctance to tell her outright. “All right, then; I’ll bite. What’s the twist, or do I have to keep playin’ twenty questions?”

  He said evenly, “The victim is Cassie Masterson.”

  This was indeed a twist, and she stared at him in open astonishment for a moment. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael—your girlfriend?”

  He tilted his head. “For the record, I would like to point out that she was never, in reality, my girlfriend.”

  Slowly, Doyle shook her head in wonderment. “No, I suppose she wasn’t. And neither was I, for that matter.”

  He smiled. “No; you were promoted from support officer to countess, all in the course of an afternoon.”

  Playfully, she shook the hand that rested on hers. “Not a countess, Michael; I’m just a plain baroness, last I checked. You are mixed-up.”

  “Nevertheless; a well-deserved field promotion, if I do say so.”

  She gave him a dubious look. “In all fairness, Michael, I don’t think you’re the best judge. I’m no better at baronessin’ than I am at sergeantin’.”

  “Nonsense; I cannot think of anyone I’d rather have, in either role.”

  At this sincere accolade, she lifted his hand, and soundly kissed its back. “Well, at least nasty Masterson will never make the cut as the next baroness; the faithless brasser—although I suppose I mustn’t speak ill of the dead. Who killed her? I imagine there’s a long list of potential suspects, bein’ as she dabbled in blackmail.” Then, struck by a sudden thought, she ventured, “It wasn’t you, was it?

  “No,” he replied, and it was the truth. Then, in a mild tone, “Was it you?”

  Smiling, she turned her head, to contemplate him. “Now, wouldn’t that put the cat among the pigeons, for the illustrious Chief Inspector?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. I would just cover for you, yet again.”

  She laughed aloud. “Good one, my friend. But for the record, no—it wasn’t me. Do we have a suspect?”

  “Her body was discovered this morning at Lord Aldwych’s residence, which is our current destination.”

  Doyle raised her brows. “Oh? Another blackmailin’ victim? Is he a friend o’ yours?” This would explain Acton’s secrecy; he may have been called in to step carefully around a fellow peer of the realm, particularly if said peer had decided to dispatch a pesky blackmailer.

  “No, he is not a friend,” he replied, and his carefully neutral tone made her antennae quiver. “But it is a complicated matter.”

  She frowned slightly, as she reviewed the passing scenery, because she’d the feeling that Acton was not necessarily telling her everything he knew—although this particular homicide would seem fairly straightforward. Cassie Masterson had been working for Solonik, the now-dead Russian kingpin who’d been managing various criminal enterprises from afar, and one of her tasks was digging up blackmail material—easily done, in her role as a London journalist. One of their intended victims had been Acton, until he’d neatly turned the tables, and spiked everyone’s guns all ʼround. Solonik had died in prison, still weaving schemes of frustrated vengeance against the House of Acton, and Masterson had been fired in disgrace.

  Thinking on this, Doyle asked, “How did Lord Aldwych know Masterson? Was she tryin’ to marry him, too?”

  “He had engaged her to research and organize his archives.”

  Doyle made a sound of derision. “Same as what she was supposed to be doin’ at Trestles, instead of makin’ eyes at your fine self. Now, there’s a weekend that I’ll not be forgettin’ anytime soon.” She
noted they were headed toward one of the more affluent suburbs, so there were fewer buildings, and more greenery. “I think Solonik was goin’ to have Masterson killed—if I remember my evil schemes correctly—but Solonik is now dead, so someone else had to step up and kill Masterson, and it looks like this Lord Aldwych fellow is the one who answered the bell.”

  “We shall see. If you would, please let me know if he digresses from the truth—in any respect.” He tilted his head. “I am sorry to bring you in, but it cannot be helped, I’m afraid.”

  She nodded. Something’s up, she thought again; Acton is apparently expecting this Lord Aldwych to lie about the murder, but that can’t be much of a surprise, all in all. There must be something else he’s worried about.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Acton said, “I have a small favor to ask.”

  Lifting a brow at him, she teased. “Another small favor, you mean.”

  “Yes—another one.”

  So; not in a joking mood, he was. “Ask away, my friend.”

  “I’d rather you did not fraternize with Mr. Savoie.”

  This was unexpected, and so she took a shrewd guess at what “fraternize” meant, and replied carefully. “I didn’t know he’d be at the church last night, Michael—my hand on my heart. And I know he’s a crackin’ blackleg, but I feel that I should help him out if I can—so long as I’m not breakin’ the law to do it.” She paused, trying to decide what to say. “I think it’s what you’d call a debt of honor.”

  Acton knit his brows in surprise. “A debt of honor?”

  “Aye.” Savoie had saved her life, once, but she didn’t really want to acquaint Acton with the particulars, being as he would probably have an apoplexy on the spot, and she shouldn’t trigger an apoplexy whilst he was driving.

  He considered this for a moment. “I see. Then I am hoist by my own petard.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “Holy Mother, Michael; what on earth does that mean?”

  “It means that I’ve been outmaneuvered.”