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

by Anne Cleeland

  “I think not,” he said only, and her scalp prickled.

  “Right then. Who would you like me to take? The housekeeper?” It was a basic police interrogation technique to immediately separate all the witnesses, so that they couldn’t listen to what the others had to say. Not that they might lie—which they might—but because it was an interesting truth-of-human-nature that witnesses tended to be influenced by other witnesses.

  “No; in this situation, I think it best to take them as a group.”

  His words rang true, and it gave her pause. I have the very strong impression, she thought with some surprise, that my husband does not want me to ferret out exactly what is going on here, and so he doesn’t want me doing any one-on-one interrogation.

  Before they entered the housekeeper’s sitting room, Acton paused, and lowered his head to hers. “Keep me apprised,” he said, apparently referring to the ghosts.

  “Only if you’ll keep me apprised; it’s a two-way street, my friend.” She met his eyes, hoping to convey a message that, whilst she had his back, she was aware that he was playing least-in-sight, and that she didn’t much appreciate it.

  “I will tell you,” he said quietly. “You have a right to know, after all. But only once we are outside the house, and cannot be overheard.”

  Annoyed, she shook her head slightly. “Do I have to take a blood oath, or somethin’? Honestly, Michael—it’s just me, remember? None of this matters a pin to me.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But you—and Edward—matter a great deal to them. Shall we go in?” He opened the door, and held it for her.

  26

  The Crown’s ministers are plotting against him, and all will be lost, unless she can be made to see. Back! Back, you rogues and whoresons! This cursed allegiance must be broken!

  The three household servants were gathered in the housekeeper’s sitting room, looking nervous and unhappy, as people at a murder site were wont to be. Acton began his introduction, but the housekeeper recognized Doyle, and exclaimed, “Why, you’re the police woman who jumped off the bridge, aren’t you?”

  “That I am,” Doyle agreed, trying to ignore the clashing swords above her—faith, the knight was a scrapper, you had to give him that.

  “They should put you in charge of Scotland Yard, instead of all those awful people,” the young woman continued with all sincerity. She was in her mid-thirties, and the type of woman who oftentimes fell in with the wrong crowd, or was beguiled by the wrong man—very naïve, and not very bright. One ran across many such women in the course of detective work; women who were utterly shocked to find out that someone had taken advantage of them.

  “Not everyone is awful,” Doyle informed her rather defensively.

  “No—of course; sorry, I meant no insult. Perhaps I could have a snap,” the woman suggested shyly, “—after we’re done with this.”

  “A woman’s been murdered,” Acton reminded her in a stern tone. “I’m afraid I must ask you some questions.”

  “Of course, sir,” the housekeeper assured him, flustered. “It’s just that she’s such a hero—”

  “Heroine,” corrected the elderly butler.

  “It was nothin’, truly,” Doyle protested.

  “Shall we start again?” asked Acton.

  Responding to his tone, everyone fell quiet, including Doyle.

  “Tell me what you know of Ms. Masterson’s work, here.”

  He addressed the butler, who readily replied, “Lord Aldwych hired Miss Masterson to organize the archives.”

  “When was she hired?”

  The butler thought about this. “A month, perhaps? I could check the accounts, to verify when she was retained.”

  “How often did she come?”

  “She was on site perhaps two or three days each week.”

  “Did she bring anyone with her?”

  The man shook his head, slightly. “No; she always came alone.”

  Doyle listened with interest, having the certain conviction that Acton already knew the answers to all these questions. So—he must have been keeping tabs on Masterson, which was only prudent, being as the woman was a deceitful brasser, with a world-class grudge against him.

  Acton addressed the butler again. “Were you aware that Masterson was still in the study, after you turned off the lights, last night?”

  “I was not,” the butler replied, very much on his dignity. “I thought she’d left—she never stayed into the evening.”

  “You did not normally see her out?”

  The older man shook his head again. “No sir; she came and went as she pleased.”

  “She had a key?”

  “She did.”

  It suddenly occurred to Doyle that Acton hadn’t asked the Coroner to estimate time of death, which was normally the first fact that had to be established in any investigation, so that alibis could then be checked. On the other hand, the murder must have been during the previous day, if the body was starting to smell of decomposition. The butler must not have noticed that she was there, on the floor, when he pulled the drapes last night, which also meant she’d died before she’d turned on a lamp. That, or this professional killer had turned off the lights.

  Acton asked the three, “Did anyone hear anything unusual, yesterday?”

  “No,” said the housekeeper, with wide eyes. “Although the house is very creaky.”

  Not a surprise, thought Doyle, who fought an inclination to duck her head, as the fracas above her continued apace.

  “Have there been any visitors, lately?”

  “No,” the butler replied with certainty. “There have not.”

  Before Doyle even had a chance to raise her hand to her forehead, Acton countered, “I believe you had a visitor this morning. Shall we try this again?”

  Everyone was silent for a moment, including Doyle, who was trying to keep up.

  “Sir Stephen Waite,” Acton continued. “After the body was discovered.”

  Whilst Doyle tried to hide her extreme surprise at this reference to Acton’s current heir, the housekeeper stammered, “Oh—oh, I’d forgotten—”

  “Quiet,” snapped the butler, who then addressed Acton in a more conciliatory tone. “I beg your pardon, sir; we thought you meant any visitors before the murder. Sir Stephen is an old friend of Lord Aldwych’s, and came to offer his support, once he heard the news.”

  “One more attempt to obstruct justice, and I will bring you all in for an overnight hold,” Acton threatened, at his most menacing.

  Doyle surmised he was going after the housekeeper, who was staring at him in silent dismay, and who would presumably wither the fastest. Willingly, Doyle fixed her own stern gaze on the woman, and tried to convey the bridge-jumper’s extreme disapproval that she was willing to cover for these other two.

  “A woman’s been murdered,” Acton repeated “We owe her nothing less than justice.”

  This last, of course, was an out-and-out lie, but Acton was on to the next question. “Did Sir Stephen remove anything from the house?”

  The three shook their heads, but Acton continued, “I’ll need a separate response from each of you.”

  Doyle realized that this was the important question, and duly brushed her hair from her forehead when each of the three servants claimed that nothing had been removed—the housekeeper looking very conscious and uncomfortable, as she offered up the lie. Doyle felt a bit sorry for the groundskeeper and the butler for having to depend on such a weak link—any barrister worth his salt would have the woman recanting and weeping on the stand within five minutes, tops.

  Bringing her mind back to the task at hand, Doyle surmised that Acton wanted to verify that Sir Stephen had taken whatever it was that was in Masterson’s blackmail file—the file that was missing. This only seemed prudent; Acton wanted to know who had it, as he apparently already knew what was in it—something that showed he was not the true Lord Acton.

  She suddenly paused, struck by another thought. If Sir Stephen and Lord
Aldwych were up to no good, it was almost surprising that they hadn’t quietly buried Masterson in the back garden—obviously, they’d not called the police immediately. Instead, they’d carefully considered their options, and Sir Stephen had come over to remove whatever documents were important to the expose-Acton-as-an-imposter plot. On the other hand, they knew that calling in Acton was perhaps their only chance to keep it under wraps—he was not going to embroil his current heir in a murder investigation. That, and now they’d owe him a favor.

  She was distracted from her train of thought, because the overhead fighting had finally stopped, and the Trestles knight, now staggering a bit, clambered over to point his sword with an impatient gesture. He seemed to be indicating the groundskeeper, who’d said little up to this point. Frowning, Doyle tried to remember if she’d ever met the nondescript man, but then realized that it didn’t matter whether or not she’d met him, since the knight knew him, and that could only mean one thing. “Excuse me,” she interrupted suddenly, addressing the groundskeeper. “I believe you were visiting Trestles, recently.”

  The man stared at her for a long moment, and then leapt up to brush by Acton, and make a dash for the door. Acton let him go—being as they didn’t have a support team with them—but the man didn’t get far, seeming to trip over nothing in particular on the outside landing. He then went down hard, knocking his head against the stairwell’s bannister, and lay still.

  Silence reigned. Acton turned to Doyle. “May I have your cuffs, Sergeant?”

  Above them, the knight sheathed his sword.

  27

  Fah, but she was a foolish weathercock. And he—the man was a fool, to fall in league with a Frenchman. It would all come undone, and soon, unless she could be made to see.

  After the groundskeeper had regain consciousness, they’d hauled him into the dining room, where he now sat, handcuffed to an antique chair, and contemplating his fate.

  “Are you goin’ to bring him in?” This asked with no real hope; Doyle recognized the signs—Acton was never going to let this little episode see the light of day. Not to mention they had no one to take him in, even if they wanted to. She wondered again why Acton didn’t want Williams to be a part of this particular adventure.

  In response to her question, Acton replied, “I’ve nothing to charge him with—he hasn’t obstructed justice, and he’s not the shooter.”

  “No,” she agreed. “None of them are.”

  The butler and the housekeeper had been released back to their duties—even though no statements had been taken—and Doyle and Acton were standing in the drawing room doorway, waiting for the Coroner to declare that the scene could be cleared. As he zipped up Masterson in a body bag, Dr. Hsu asked, “How quickly do you need a preliminary?”

  “No deadline,” said Acton. “Cause of death is evident, so ordinary course of business is acceptable.”

  Hsu nodded, having received the unspoken message. “Next of kin?”

  Acton tilted his head. “I’m not certain whether there is any known next of kin.”

  “She was married, I think,” Doyle offered. “At least, at one time.”

  “Yes—I believe she was a widow,” Acton replied. “She was formerly employed by the London World News—they may have her personal information on file. Leave it to me.”

  “Right, then,” said the Coroner, and with no further questions, he and Acton loaded the decedent onto a gurney.

  As Doyle watched, Masterson was finally and permanently wheeled out of their lives. I should feel sorry for her, she thought; but I don’t think I’m that charitable. And I think I should be a bit more worried that this case is clearly destined to go cold, when it probably shouldn’t—the knight is still ranting about something that I’ve missed—and Acton doesn’t seem overly concerned about having uncovered a groundskeeper-spy at Trestles. You’d think he’d throw the man in the nearest dungeon, at the very least.

  Glancing up at her husband, she asked, “How did you know about Sir Stephen’s bein’ here this mornin’?”

  “It wasn’t a difficult guess,” he replied. “Since they were lying about a visitor, it only made sense that it was he.”

  “Well, you were two jumps ahead of me.” This said in a dry tone, as it was clear her husband was holding his cards very close to his vest, and not sharing his thoughts with his long-suffering helpmeet. “Of course, I didn’t know there was a Masterson-Sir Stephen-Aldwych connection to begin with, and I must say that I’m that surprised to behold one.”

  “No doubt,” he commiserated.

  Biting back a flippant remark, she persisted, “So—where are we? Mayhap we’ve a fallin’ out amongst thieves, and Sir Stephen decided to kill Masterson, for some reason? Mayhap she was trying to double-cross him? That would explain why they agreed to call you in, so as to keep it all quiet.” She paused, thinking about this. “Aldwych didn’t want her dead, so he wasn’t in on it.”

  Acton agreed. “No. Instead, he wanted her alive, so that she could present her findings.”

  Doyle glanced toward the office, and lowered her voice. “The findin’s from the archives—about you bein’ an imposter?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited for a couple of beats, but as nothing further was forthcoming, she decided she may as well ask. “So now there won’t be a case?”

  He tilted his head. “It would not be, strictly speaking, a court case. Instead, the Crown Office arranges for a committee hearing, in Parliament. A Committee of Lords is usually appointed to sort out succession matters.”

  Doyle shook her head in wonder. “Saints and angels, Michael; if that was their plan, they must have been fit to be tied, when they found her dead.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and her scalp prickled.

  She ventured, “So, are we worried about Sir Stephen’s sneakin’ somethin’ away, and that they’ll try to use whatever-it-is to move forward, anyways?”

  “Not particularly.”

  This was the truth, and it was reassuring. After all, it seemed clear that Acton had been well-aware of this plot before today, and that he had the situation well in hand. The only loose end—or the biggest loose end out of many, more properly—was that Doyle would bet her teeth that this killer and the records-room killer were one and the same. It was nothing short of incredible to think that these murders were somehow connected—and that Acton knew of the connection. But her instinct was doing the equivalent of poking her with a sharp stick, because, apparently, there was a connection. And the knight, too—he was doing a bit of poking, himself, and pestering her to try and understand what was afoot, here.

  She ventured, “I know you’d rather I didn’t know whatever it is that I don’t know—but who’s to say that the known unknowin’ is better than just plain knownin’?”

  “You’ve lost me,” he admitted.

  “Me, too.” With a sigh, she pressed his arm, briefly. “I trust you, Michael—I truly do. But nothin’ is makin’ much sense.”

  “It will,” he promised, glancing toward the doorway. “But first, let’s clear the scene.”

  “Right behind you,” she agreed with fervor.

  They were interrupted by Aldwych, standing stiffly in the drawing room entry. “Will you be leaving, now?”

  Acton answered in a level tone, “Allow us to conduct a search of the grounds, first. If we find anything of interest, we may need to question the staff again.”

  “Very well.” Then, after a visible internal struggle, the elderly man offered, “I shall have the housekeeper pour out a tea.”

  “Thank you; it would be very much appreciated.”

  All in all, I think I prefer the sword-fighting, thought Doyle; it’s more honest.

  As Aldwych made his way toward the kitchen, Doyle watched him go for a moment. “Let’s gird our weary loins, and have that discussion, husband.”

  “All right.” He held out a hand to her. “Shall we search the grounds?”

  28

  Doyle and Acton w
ere outside on the manor grounds, walking along the narrow pathway that wound through the garden. They weren’t conducting much of a search, but Doyle already knew that Acton had no intention of prosecuting anyone for this particular murder, and although it made her very uneasy, it certainly made evidence-gathering less of a chore. He also seemed disinclined to bring up any of the subjects that needed to be addressed, and so Doyle thought she may as well open the conversation as tactfully as she could. “Lord Aldwych hates every last hair on your handsome head.”

  “I can assure you that the animadversion is mutual.”

  She didn’t even bother to ask what the word meant—it hardly mattered. “Michael, I always find out anyways—please let’s save ourselves a lot of time and trouble, and just tell me what’s afoot. And no ten-pound words—I need to understand what it is you’re sayin’.”

  “It goes back several generations,” he warned.

  “Oh—d’ye want to draw stick figures in the sand, then? It’s a simple creature, I am.”

  He smiled. “I beg your pardon, and there is nothing remotely simple about you.”

  “Well, I’m that flummoxed,” she reminded him. “Let’s hear it.”

  He paused to collect his thoughts, and began, “The casualties of the First World War depleted the ranks of many aristocratic families, and the reconstruction after the war meant that heavy tax burdens were laid upon the landowners—war is expensive, and money was scarce. If the families who owned great estates were unable to pay the taxes, the land was given over to the National Trust.”

  She nodded, to show she understood, even though she wasn’t much for history—especially English history. “Trestles survived, though.”

  Out of habit, he took her hand, and threaded it through his arm, even though they were supposedly on-duty. “Yes, but it was heavily mortgaged, and my grandfather had few options left. To add insult to injury, he had no children—”