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

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle glanced up in surprise. “How can that be, Michael?”

  But her husband gently squeezed her hand against his side, and continued, “He had no son, and so his heir would have been Sir Stephen’s grandfather.” He paused. “It would have meant the end of Trestles, as the heir would have sold off the estate, piece by piece, to pay off his own debts. It would not have been preserved, even for the National Trust.”

  He paused, and she sensed they were coming to the nub of the matter. She prompted, “What did he do, then? I remember you told me that your grandfather was very brave, workin’ with the FAR.”

  “The RAF,” he corrected, with a small smile. “Yes, he was brave, and clever. I wish I’d known him.”

  “Well, you inherited all his good traits.”

  “No,” he replied in a level tone. “We are not related.”

  This was, in fact, not a surprise to Doyle, who’d already put two and two together, with the aid of the various ghosts she’d run across. “How’s that, Michael? And you know it doesn’t matter a pin to me, either way.”

  He lifted his head, to consider the trees for a moment. “My grandfather knew of another family line, one that had emigrated to India, but it would take some time to locate a potential heir, and it would have to be done discreetly, to avoid false claims. Therefore, he brought in a placeholder to take the heir’s place, until the true heir could be located—the placeholder was someone he knew, from his days at the RAF.”

  She frowned, thinking this over. “Sort of a short-term imposter?”

  “Exactly.”

  But this seemed a little too fantastic, even for the British aristocracy. “Wouldn’t everyone know he wasn’t the same man, once the real heir was found, and they switched places?”

  “My grandfather put it about that the heir was suffering from shell-shock, and so the imposter kept largely to himself. England was recovering from yet another war, and Trestles was isolated in the countryside. It would not have been so very difficult, to make the switch.”

  Puzzled, she pointed out another flaw with this plan. “And how would that help with the money troubles—pretendin’ that the heir was still alive?”

  “It was believed that the India branch of the family was wealthy, and therefore the heir would be willing to restore the family fortunes, once he was apprised of his inheritance. But my grandfather died before it could come about, and so the new Lord Acton—the imposter—decided that the most expedient solution to all problems was to maintain the deception, and marry an heiress.”

  She blew out a wondering breath. “Saints and holy angels, Michael; now, there’s some brass for you.”

  But Acton was well-versed in thinking that the ends justified the means, and merely lifted a shoulder. “I don’t think it was a difficult decision to make; either expose his own fraud, and allow Trestles to be destroyed, or continue on with the line, and hope no one was the wiser. And such a thing was not unheard of, after all; English history is replete with men who’d seized another’s honors, and for less altruistic reasons.”

  “No ten-pound words,” she reminded him. “But I get the general gist.”

  “Sorry,” he apologized, and squeezed her hand against him again.

  He was using high-flying words, because this confession was not an easy one for her husband, who never felt the need to explain anything to anybody. To keep the recitation going, she asked, “How did he manage to convince anyone to marry him? I thought he was supposed to be a shell-shocked wreck of his former self.”

  “It wasn’t difficult to find a wealthy heiress, at that time. Many titled young men had been killed in the wars, and so the marriageable aristocratic women far outnumbered the men. That, and the Acton barony is an old and honorable one, even with its debts.”

  “I’m with you so far,” she assured him. “Your grandfather was tryin’ to save Trestles, and it seemed like the best solution to put up an imposter whilst he looked for a wealthy heir to save the day. Then, when no heir was found, and the old lord died, the imposter decided to marry money, and save Trestles that way.”

  “Exactly.”

  The penny dropped, and Doyle looked up at him. “Masterson knew this—knew that the imposter had stepped in, and had mucked up the bloodline.” It all made sense, now; it would be a spectacular bit of blackmail, to threaten to show that the renowned Lord Acton of Trestles was not really Lord Acton at all.

  But her husband tilted his head in apology. “That is true, but I’m afraid you are getting ahead of the story.”

  Faith, she thought with some resignation; if this gets any more complicated, there’s not a chance in a million that I’ll be able to keep up—may need those stick-figures, after all.

  He continued, “The false Lord Acton was his late forties, and he needed to marry a young, wealthy girl, so as to restore the estate, and beget an heir—or else everything he and my grandfather had done would have been in vain. To this end, he married my grandmother, who was Aldwych’s daughter.”

  She stopped and stared at him, unable to find her voice for a moment. “This Lord Aldwych?”

  “The very same.”

  “Then he—holy mother, Michael; Aldwych is your grandfather.”

  “Great-grandfather, technically speaking.” He took in her extreme astonishment with a glimmer of amusement. “Shall we continue?”

  29

  With a sense of unreality, Doyle glanced back at the silent, brooding manor house, and leapt to the obvious conclusion. “And Aldwych must have found out that it was all a sham—that he was hoodwinked into marryin’ off his blue-blood daughter to an imposter. That’s why he hates you.”

  “He would very much like to prove it, yes.”

  She walked a few paces in silence, mulling over this latest wrinkle in what seemed like a long line of them on the Acton family tree—although trees didn’t have wrinkles, so that wasn’t a very good metaphor. “Who told him? Masterson?”

  “My father is the one who told Aldwych.”

  Here was yet another twist to this strange tale, and Doyle could feel the tension emanating from Acton, despite his effort to suppress it—she’d felt it on those very few occasions when he’d mentioned his father, the father he’d killed.

  “My father was—”

  He paused, struggling a bit, and so she quickly stepped in. “Let’s agree he was a crackin’ blackheart, Michael; you needn’t go into the details.”

  But he’d regained his equilibrium, and continued. “The original imposter thought it was important that his son—my father—be made aware of the subterfuge, in the event the matter ever came up. Unfortunately, my father was rather unbalanced, and used this information to threaten his family with exposure, and with the loss of the estate.” He paused for a moment. “He spent all of my grandmother’s settlements, and blackmailed Aldwych for even more money.”

  “Faith; a charmin’ fellow.”

  It was just the right touch to settle his emotions, and Acton smiled, slightly. “A crackin’ blackheart.”

  Fondly, she squeezed his arm. “It doesn’t sound the same, when you say it, Michael.” With an abundance of tact that was unusual for her, she refrained from asking any questions about exactly how Acton had murdered his father, and instead considered all the other players in this little holy show. Saints and holy angels—she used to think his family was like a Greek play, but truly, it was more unbelievable than a Greek play, when you thought about it. “I suppose Sir Stephen has an eye on the prize, too. That’s why he’s in cahoots with Aldwych and Masterson.”

  “Sir Stephen’s branch of the family has always suspicioned that theirs is the true hereditary line.” He paused. “However, it is unclear whether that is the case.”

  “Bein’ as he may be from the wrong side of the blanket.”

  He glanced at her. “Where did you hear this?

  “Reynolds. Reynolds probably has the House of Acton’s hereditary chart embroidered on his pillow.”

  He smiled, and
made no response, and it suddenly occurred to Doyle that it would be just like her husband to spread such a rumor, casting doubt on Sir Stephen’s legitimacy—it was clear he had some sort of hold over his hateful mother, and his hateful heir. What a family, where everyone was struggling to take the others down—even Lord Aldwych, who was still conniving despite having one foot in the grave.

  She offered, “It’s not your fault that all this happened, Michael; it was your pretend-grandfather’s fault. And why does Aldwych care so much? He should be happy to let sleepin’ dogs lie—there’s no denyin’ that you’re his blood kin, after all.”

  “He has good reason to be resentful, I’m afraid. He had only the one daughter, and no other male heirs. Under the rules of primogeniture, his son-in-law succeeds to his title.”

  She thought about this. “Your grandfather, the imposter, was his son-in-law.”

  He bowed his head. “My grandfather.”

  “Who is dead.”

  “Who is dead,” he agreed.

  “So, then it would go to your father, the crackin’ blackheart.”

  “Yes.”

  “That means—saints and holy angels, Michael; that means you are Aldwych’s heir.”

  “Indeed.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “So—you are his heir, will-he or nil-he, and he’s not happy about bein’ hoodwinked. But that just goes to show you that he’s another bad father, Michael; he shouldn’t blame you for what your grandfather did, and he shouldn’t blame you for your father’s nasty works, either. He’s just a bitter, spiteful old man, and I’m glad that his guns have been spiked.”

  They walked for a few more paces, and, suddenly struck, Doyle observed, “It’s ironic, is what it is—you’re not truly a lord on one hand, but you ended up bein’ a lord on the other hand, thanks to the imposter’s marryin’ up.”

  “That is true,” he agreed, lifting his head to regard the trees again. “I confess I’ve never looked at it in quite that way.”

  Of course not, because Acton clearly wanted the best of both worlds—and both titles; she hadn’t know him very long, but she knew her husband very well indeed. “So—you don’t want any of this to come to light, because you don’t want anyone to know about the troubles with the Acton title. I can’t hardly blame you, what with Trestles at stake.” This said to humor him more than anything else; he was much attached to his estate, and small blame to him, after the heroic efforts by all concerned to keep it intact. “I don’t even know how these things work, Michael; do you have to choose which title, or are you allowed to be a double-baron?”

  “That wouldn’t be the case in this instance, because Lord Aldwych is an earl.”

  Upon hearing this news, she stopped, dead in her tracks. He walked forward for a few steps, then turned to face her.

  “No,” she said in horrified protest, raising her hands to her cheeks. “No, no, no, no.”

  He was amused. “I think you are the only woman in the world who would have such a reaction. Come; it will not be so bad.”

  But Doyle would not be consoled, and protested with some heat, “For heaven’s sake, Michael; I can’t be a countess—I’m not even a decent baroness.”

  “It doesn’t matter a pin to me,” he teased, quoting her.

  But she wasn’t paying attention, being as she’d thought of yet another downside. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael; please don’t tell me there’s another estate somewhere, with stupid ghosts—I won’t have it. They don’t like me, and I don’t like them.”

  He walked back to tuck her hand in his arm again, so they could proceed down the path. “No, Aldwych was forced to sell off his estate, after my father blackmailed him. He has very little money, actually.”

  There was a nuance behind the words, and she knew there was more to this story; Acton was not one to sit idly by, waiting to be exposed as an imposter. “All right then; tell me why he’s never moved against you.”

  In a level tone, he replied, “There is a rumor that Lord Aldwych was involved in my father’s death. They’d openly quarreled, and on more than one occasion.”

  So; this was how Acton had Aldwych over a barrel. “I see. And the same rumor is goin’ around about your mother—that she was involved, too. Faith, even the insurance company wouldn’t pay, and so she is dependent on you for her livin’.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  This was an out-and-out lie, and she eyed him sidelong. “And poor Sir Stephen, with that rumor that he’s illegitimate.”

  “A shame,” he replied briefly, and it was also a lie. “Shall we return?”

  “Not yet, I’ve some scoldin’ to do.” She leaned into him for a moment, and sighed as she gathered up her scattered thoughts. “Maguire once said to me, ‘I’d never want to cross your husband,’ and I think he had the right of it, my friend. But you must see, Michael, that in the end, you are doin’ the same thing your vile father did, makin’ everyone dance to his tune. You can’t be the one who decides that your motives are more honorable—either in this situation, or in the—the other mastermindin’ that you do. I know the system is frustratin’ at times, but we all have to agree on the rules, and then play by them. Otherwise, justice is—well, it’s just a matter of who has the most money, or the biggest arsenal. You may believe that you are justified, but your opinion is not important a’tall—that’s why they invented juries.”

  He glanced down at the walkway. “Surely you can’t expect me to come forward, now?”

  She squeezed him arm. “No. I’m on your side, remember? And I will never, ever forsake you, Michael, my hand on my heart. But I worry about how you tend to wield power to suit yourself—there’s no such thing as an honorable murder, my friend. I’m afraid that there’ll be a reckonin’, someday.”

  Slowly, he replied, “I want nothing more than to make you happy, and keep you safe. You and Edward.”

  This was true, and she assured him, “I’ll be happy as long as I’m with you. And I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

  He smiled. “Good on us.”

  “So; what’s next?”

  “Lunch,” he replied. “Let me wrap up.”

  They walked back to the house in silence, and Doyle debated whether she should make more of a push to convince her exasperating husband to mend his ways—she was the only one who could, after all. It did not help matters that the stupid knight from stupid Trestles would be in complete agreement with her exasperating husband, having himself taken the Acton title by force of arms. She decided it was best that Acton never know this little fact—heaven only knew what would happen if the two of them managed to join forces. Not on her watch.

  30

  Acton was having a quiet conversation with the groundskeeper in Lord Aldwych’s dining room, and Doyle wondered what tack he would take; knowing her wily husband, he would turn the tables by enlisting the man to turn coat—Acton had a history of recruiting his enemies, so as to keep an eye on them. Although now that the plot was exposed, there may be no need to have a double agent, so to speak, positioned at Trestles. Or at this miserable place—faith, the Aldwych ghosts were all sulking to beat the band; hurling insults and complaining, now that the knight from Trestles was no longer around to give them what-for. A paltry bunch; they were the ones who’d been wronged by all this, after all—you’d think they could muster up some resistance, at least.

  Acton had asked her to caution the other two staff members—as this was supposedly an ongoing investigation—and to ask them to contact her, if they remembered anything that might be of interest. The housekeeper listened to the rote recitation, and nodded her understanding. “Who will tell Miss Masterson’s boyfriend? He seemed like such a nice man.” The woman seemed half-hopeful that she could break the sad news to the boyfriend herself, and offer whatever comfort she could.

  There seemed little chance that Masterson’s latest boyfriend was in any way involved, but Doyle dutifully pulled her tablet, to make a note. “D’you know his n
ame? When d’you think she saw him last?”

  “I don’t know his name,” the woman admitted, with a nuance of regret. “He came to visit two days ago, to bring her some coffee, even though Lord Aldwych doesn’t allow visitors.” She looked a bit wistful. “He was French; he has one of those accents you could listen to all day long.”

  Slowly, Doyle sat back into her chair. Truly, it had been a long day already, and it was only noon. She swallowed, filled with a sense of foreboding. “Tell me what he looked like.”

  “He was perhaps thirty-five. Blond, short hair. He had a crooked nose, and a scar.” She traced a finger down her cheek, remembering. “He was very charming, and swore me to secrecy.”

  Doyle was having trouble finding two thoughts to rub together, and so she fell back on protocol. “Did they quarrel?”

  “Oh, no. She was flirting with him.” This said with palpable envy. “Then they closed the door, so I didn’t hear what was said. He didn’t stay very long, though—she would have gotten in trouble with the master, if he’d found out that her boyfriend was here.”

  “Thank you. I’ll follow up.” Absently, Doyle watched the woman retreat back into the kitchen, and then leaned forward to rub her temples. I have a wily, wily husband, she thought for the thousandth time. He knew I was going to demand some answers about this card-leaving killer, and so he completely distracted me with tales of intrigue and unexpected titles. Good one.

  So—Savoie, of all people, was the killer, and Acton didn’t want her to discover this interesting little fact. But why?

  Suddenly, she lifted her head from her hands. It was apparently time to go back to her original working theory; Savoie also killed the records-room clerk, so there was a connection. What was the connection? The two crimes seemed wholly unrelated. Although—although she’d already noticed a similarity; both crimes had put paid to a blackmailing scheme.

  With a small frown, she recalled how Acton and Savoie had conferred briefly, at the church, and decided, in wonder, that it all fell together, after a fashion. On the sly, Savoie was helping the Home Office with the government corruption scandal, so he must be the one who’d been given immunity. And Masterson must have been killed because she was knee-deep in the corruption plot, in some way. So—putting it all together—Masterson’s death was not related to the expose-the-current-Lord-Acton-as-an-imposter plot, it was just a coincidence; instead she’d been killed in connection with the massive corruption scandal.