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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Never,” she teased in mock-astonishment.

  “No one is more surprised than I,” he agreed.

  24

  Anon; she comes.

  It wasn’t your ordinary crime scene, but then again, Doyle didn’t expect it to be, given the exalted standing of the prime suspect. The manor house was behind a high hedge with a gate, so that it was only when you approached up the drive that you saw the elegant grey stone building; tall, and with the small, narrow windows that indicated to Doyle that it was old—she wasn’t very good at guessing exactly how old.

  “It’s quiet,” she remarked, as Acton parked the car on the flagstone drive. In the usual course of events, some poor soul would be stationed out in front, anxiously awaiting the police.

  “I imagine Lord Aldwych would like to keep it that way.”

  “Does he outrank you?” she teased. “Should I curtsey?”

  Oddly enough, the question seemed to throw him for a moment. “No need,” he replied briefly, as he parked the car.

  Wondering at his distraction, she observed lightly, “Well, even if he does outrank you, Michael, you win the battle of the estates; this place can’t hold a candle to Trestles.”

  “Definitely not,” he agreed, as they approached the house, and she wondered why her scalp prickled.

  As Acton rang the bell, it occurred to Doyle that there was something very strange afoot—starting with her husband’s reaction to these events—and so she asked cautiously, “Are we callin’ in the Coroner?” Perhaps Acton wasn’t planning on taking even this fundamental step.

  “Yes; he’ll be here shortly. We can count on his discretion.”

  She nodded, as this went without saying. Acton had done a huge favor for Dr. Hsu, and the man was nothing if not loyal. She wondered, for an alarmed moment, if Acton would have the Coroner deem the death an accident, and whether she’d have the wherewithal to object, if it clearly wasn’t.

  The door opened to reveal an elderly man—Doyle guessed he was knocking on ninety—tall and thin, with a hawkish nose, and sparse, white eyebrows. Doyle stared at him in surprise, because his impassive expression concealed his extreme dislike of her husband.

  Neither of the two men spoke for a few moments, which was a little odd, until Doyle realized that Acton returned the other man’s dislike in equal measure. The two had some sort of history, then, which was not much of a surprise—these aristocrats always seemed to be nursing past grievances, with Acton’s ghostly ancestors serving as an excellent case-in-point.

  “Good morning,” the other man said stiffly. “Won’t you please come in?”

  Acton indicated Doyle. “Allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Doyle—”

  “Do you think me a fool?” the man interrupted, almost savagely. “Do you think I don’t know who she is?”

  “How do you do?” Doyle interrupted hastily, before Acton was inspired to mill down an octogenarian. “I’m that pleased to meet you.”

  With a visible effort, the man bowed over Doyle’s hand, and replied in freezing tones, “A pleasure, my lady.”

  I wonder if I’m here to prevent a donnybrook, thought Doyle, struggling with the thickness of the emotions that swirled around her. Perhaps that’s it—Acton knows they’re both too well-bred to come to blows in front of a female.

  As Acton stepped into the house, his gaze surveyed the entry hall. “Have the servants been dismissed?”

  The other man replied stiffly, “They’re upstairs, in the housekeeper’s sitting room; I thought you’d like to speak with them.”

  “How many have you?”

  “My manservant went down in the morning to open the draperies, and it was he who found—who found the poor woman. He’s upstairs, along with the groundskeeper, and the housekeeper. That accounts for everyone on the premises.”

  Doyle was aware that Acton’s gaze rested on her for a moment, to ascertain if this was the truth, which it was.

  Acton continued, “What do they know?”

  “They know nothing,” the other returned, a wealth of meaning behind the words, and Doyle was aware they were not speaking of the murdered journalist. There was a secret, then, and Acton and Aldwych were at loggerheads about it. Not to mention that Acton didn’t want his bride in on the gif, either, so obviously, this was going to take some careful maneuvering on the part of the renowned Chief Inspector, because the aforementioned bride was mighty good at winkling out his secrets.

  Acton glanced at the crown molding above them. “Is there any surveillance in effect?”

  “Only outside; nothing inside.”

  Acton’s gaze rested on Doyle again, to ascertain the truth of this, and then he said, “I’ll need your groundskeeper to turn over any recordings, then.”

  The elderly man bowed his head. “We’ve been having some technical difficulties, lately—nothing I understand, I’m afraid—but I shall make the request.”

  Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead.

  “Have you had any visitors, lately?”

  “No,” the man replied, and again, Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead, switching hands, just to change it up a bit.

  “Very well,” said Acton, with a brisk nod. “Take us to the victim, if you please.”

  With a stately tread, Aldwych turned to lead them through the entryway, and into a narrow, oak-paneled drawing room, with creaking wooden floors that were covered in oriental rugs. The atmosphere was thick as soup, and the place felt unnaturally still to Doyle—still, and far-removed from London, or any paltry concerns like murder.

  With a sense of foreboding, she was compelled to raise her gaze to the high ceilings, and felt the same sort of scrutiny she’d felt at Trestles—of ghostly ancestors, watching her with a lively interest. Not as many, here, but annoying, just the same.

  Aldwych led them toward a smaller room that adjoined the drawing room, and it was apparent that this room served as the study. There was a massive mahogany desk in its center, and on the far side, an unlit fireplace, bordered by velvet-draped windows. The atmosphere was still and somber, and Doyle wished the diamond-paned windows allowed for more light—a bit creepy, it was.

  Aldwych stood aside to allow Acton to enter the room, and then, as Acton passed him, the older man ground out with barely-concealed hostility, “I thought you’d never marry.”

  “You were mistaken, then.”

  This seemed an odd conversation to be having, given the circumstances, and—fearing that at any moment the ornamental swords would be yanked down from the wall—Doyle stepped between them, and lowered her gaze to observe Masterson’s body, which was lying on the floor between the desk and the fireplace. It was indeed she, and Doyle felt a small pang of compassion; no matter Masterson’s sins—and they were legion—no one deserved such a sad, miserable death. She felt the flutter of agitated movement above her, and glanced up in exasperation.

  Her husband did not come forward, but remained standing silently behind her, and— thinking that someone should probably go through the motions—Doyle carefully crouched down to scrutinize the remains of the woman in her thirties, who’d clearly met a bad end. Masterson had been shot in the back of the head, execution style; the congealed pool of blood—not very large—indicated she’d been shot in place, and had died almost instantly. It seemed apparent that it was a professional hit, unless the elderly Lord Aldwych moonlighted as an assassin, which seemed unlikely. The wound was administered at close range, and the size of the entry wound would indicate a 9mm, which was the weapon of choice for professionals. The bullet casings had been removed, which was also the sign of a professional hit—it brought to mind the professional hit in the records room at Holy Trinity Clinic, which also involved a 9mm.

  Her scalp prickled, and Doyle frowned, trying to figure out why it would. Surely, there was no link between the two murders? Although here was a blackmailer who’d met a bad end, and the records-room murderer may have been the same; someone who’d tried to cut in on the corruption rig wi
th a little blackmailing of his own, on the side.

  She raised her gaze to the fireplace stones for a moment, thinking this over, and wondering why her instinct was prodding her. Surely it would be a coincidence too far—to think that Aldwych had randomly hired the same hit man to kill Masterson. And besides, if Masterson was blackmailing the elderly lord, he’d want to cover up this little tangle patch, not expose it, by calling in the coppers. And not just any copper; a fellow peer, with some sort of bad blood betwixt them—

  Her train of thought was interrupted when Acton addressed Aldwych. “If you would please wait outside.”

  The man drew himself up, and protested with full scorn, “Why? I didn’t want her dead. You must know this is the last thing I’d want, to have to ring you up.”

  “Yes,” Acton agreed. “I know you didn’t. But someone is needed to show the Coroner back, and I’ve brought no PCs.”

  Doyle noted with due interest that this was the truth—her husband didn’t think Aldwych was involved in this murder. She then remembered the card that Acton had taken out of the victim’s wallet at the clinic, and eyed him sidelong.

  Aldwych departed toward the front door, and Acton crouched down beside Doyle. Given the strange situation, she had all variety of questions, but decided—for once—that she’d best press carefully. “Why d’you think he’s not behind this? It does look like a professional hit, but he could have easily hired a professional, if she was blackmailin’ him.”

  Her husband didn’t answer for a moment, as though debating what to say. He finally said, “Because it wasn’t in his best interests to kill her. Instead, I believe he was hoping she’d right all wrongs.”

  As he offered nothing further, she decided she may as well ask—honestly, it was like being married to the sphinx. “And what wrongs are those, my friend?”

  Her husband calmly replied, “That Edward will have green eyes.”

  25

  Rogues and whoresons! Have you no pride, to have thrown in with such as he? God’s blood, does no one remember Agincourt?

  Doyle stared at Acton, utterly astonished, and not at all certain that she’d heard him aright. “What on earth does that mean, Michael? What does Masterson have to do with Edward—or the color of Edward’s eyes?”

  He rested his forearms on his thighs, and contemplated the corpse for a dispassionate moment. “When you saw Edward in your dream, you mentioned that he will have green eyes.”

  “Aye—he’ll have m’mother’s eyes.”

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Your father, on the other hand, had brown eyes.”

  This seemed off-topic. “Did he? I don’t remember.” Doyle’s father had left her mother when she was a baby, but then had recently turned up again as a murder victim, in London.

  “He did, and there is no doubt someone who will remember. My mother and father had brown eyes, and you and I have brown eyes.”

  The penny dropped, and she stared at him. “Are you sayin’—are you sayin’ it will be made clear that you are an imposter?”

  “Yes. For anyone who wants to dig a bit, and who understands genetics.”

  But she shook her head in bewilderment. “But no one knows about Edward’s eyes yet, Michael—only you and me.”

  “They will—and it will only add fuel to the fire.”

  Her husband turned his head to contemplate Masterson’s remains again, and Doyle made a mighty effort to understand what was afoot, here. Acton had invited the wife of his bosom to this strange and unnatural murder scene because—it seemed—he needed to know whether Aldwych was telling him the truth, which, by and large, he wasn’t. And somehow, it was all connected to the battle over Acton’s estate, with Masterson once again plotting against Acton, this time with an extra helping of vengeance on the line, since he’d so thoroughly double-crossed her. Except that she’d been murdered, before the plot could come to fruition.

  Aldwych called out, “The Coroner has arrived; I shall escort him back.”

  “Thank you,” Acton called out in return, and then rose to stand, helping Doyle to her feet.

  Doyle glanced through the doorway toward the front hall, still trying to puzzle out her husband’s careful and strange revelations. Aldwych’s dislike of Acton had apparently led him to team up with Masterson, so as to expose Acton as an imposter—although why such an old man would go to such lengths was unclear. She decided to think about it later, and fell back on the familiar routine of homicide procedure, which seemed the easier path, at present. “What’s the protocol?”

  “The normal protocols are in place.”

  She eyed him yet again. “We don’t have enough personnel here, for the normal protocols.”

  “Unfortunate,” he acknowledged, without a shred of concern.

  She glanced down at the corpse—which was beginning to smell faintly of decomposition—and decided there was no harm in throwing a dart at her maddeningly mysterious husband. “Did the killer leave a callin’ card for you, this time?”

  Ah—now, there was a bulls-eye. Acton stood very still for a moment, and then said softly. “You are nothing short of amazing.”

  “I’ll amaze you one, I will. Come clean.”

  But the other men were approaching, so he said in a low voice, “I will tell you what I can, Kathleen, but in the meantime, please be wary; much is at stake.”

  As Doyle watched Aldwych approach with the Coroner, she was surprised to discover that the ghostly knight from Trestles was hanging about—quarreling with two of the Aldwych ancestors and generally causing trouble, overhead. I am that tired of being gob smacked, she thought with extreme annoyance. For two pins, I’d take a flamethrower to all of them.

  “Officer Doyle,” said Dr. Hsu respectfully. “How nice to see you again.”

  She nodded politely, not certain how to respond, since the last time she’d seen the Coroner, he was trying to stab Acton with a bloody scalpel.

  “The victim may have surprised a burglar, who then panicked,” Acton informed the Coroner. “It is not clear.”

  The Coroner didn’t even bother to crouch down, as he’d seen more than his share of professional hits. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Do we have an ID?”

  “Cassie Masterson. She was doing some secretarial work for Lord Aldwych.” Acton paused delicately. “Your discretion would be appreciated.”

  Doyle had to hide a smile at the implication—that Masterson was Lord Aldwych’s flight o’ fancy. Still, such a May-December relationship was not unheard of, especially when a titled man was involved, so the story was plausible. Not to mention Aldwych’s cheeks had reddened—the Coroner wouldn’t know that the man was flushed with anger, and not embarrassment.

  Acton turned to Doyle. “Let’s interview the staff, and after they have been dismissed, we can search the grounds. The murder weapon may have been abandoned outside.”

  Doyle nodded; Acton didn’t believe for a moment that he’d find the murder weapon, but apparently, he was willing to give his exasperated wife a much-needed a debriefing, now that said wife had twigged onto the strange fact that the same killer was involved in this case and the records-room case.

  Acton nodded to Aldwych. “If you will remain in the drawing room, I will let you know if anything further is needed.”

  Aldwych nodded, and as he turned to leave, Acton added, as though it were an afterthought, “Did the victim keep any notes, or records here, on the premises?”

  “No, she always took everything home with her, in a portable file,” the older man replied, and Doyle brushed her hair from her forehead.

  Acton glanced around. “I don’t see a portable file.”

  “The burglar may have taken it,” Hsu offered helpfully, even though he didn’t believe for a moment that a burglar had committed this crime.

  “Unfortunate,” said Acton. “Her records might have cast some light on the motivation behind her murder.”

  This seemed a strange thing to say, since—if Acton’s theory was corre
ct—the missing records might reveal that Acton wasn’t really Acton. Perhaps he was putting up a misdirection play, so as to see how much Aldwych knew.

  “I cannot say,” Aldwych replied, and then turned to retreat to the drawing room.

  With the air of someone merely going through the motions, the Coroner knelt beside Masterson’s remains, and opened his kit.

  Acton indicated that Doyle should accompany him up the back stairs—the house was old enough to have a servants’ stairwell. “Come, let us see what the servants have to say.”

  “Lead on,” she replied. “Although I need to tell you somethin’, and I hope you’ll not think me barkin’ mad.”

  With some surprise, he paused in his ascent, and bent his head to hers. “What is it?”

  She blew out a breath, and decided there was nothin’ for it. “Well, there are quarrelin’ ghosts about, and I’m not sure who to believe, but the one I’m inclined to believe seems to think you need to put a stop to whatever is goin’ on, here.” She paused. “He’s upset with you about somethin’, and thinks you need to be very careful, or somethin’ terrible is goin’ to happen.”

  Acton assessed this rather startling news as though it were an ordinary report, his gaze holding hers. “Are you in any danger?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not a trap, I think. From what I gather, it’s more about some plot that’s underway, and—and some battle in France, from a long time ago.” Crossly, she added, “He’s that aggravated, so I’m havin’ trouble understandin’ him.” Best not mention that there was an all-out donnybrook going on along the rafters, and that it was making it difficult for her to concentrate. Mental note: avoid old houses, whenever possible.

  “Right, then.” Acton raised his head for a moment, thinking. “Please let me know straightaway if you think we have a category one.”

  This was a police term for immediate evacuation, and she nodded, carefully refraining from pointing out that she never seemed to know when she was walking into danger, and that there were several specific examples from the recent past which would demonstrate this unfortunate fact. Instead, she suggested, “Should we call in Williams, for back-up?” Presumably, Williams could be trusted to keep all the House-of-Acton-goings-on under his hat, and it would be nice to have reinforcements, or at least another able body, to secure the perimeter.