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

by Anne Cleeland

  That said husband would be most unhappy, if he knew what his wayward wife was doing, went without saying; Acton rarely gave her any parameters, but he didn’t want her meeting up with Savoie. He had good reason, of course, but on the other hand, he didn’t know that Savoie was not a threat to her—had helped her out, in fact, and on more than one occasion. And he didn’t know that she’d guessed that Savoie was behind the records-room and Masterson hits. Besides, she was wise to Savoie, and so he couldn’t hoodwink her into doing something she oughtn’t.

  Hard on this thought, Savoie materialized beside her. “Bonjour.”

  Doyle thought she may as well solicit his opinion. “Hallo, Philippe. If your wife gave you a book for Christmas, would you be pleased, or think it grounds for divorce?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I am not the one for books.”

  “No,” she sighed. “Me, neither.”

  Leaning in, he noted in a suggestive tone, “We are very alike, little bird.”

  Crossly, she leaned away. “No, we’re not, and please don’t even start such a rumor.”

  Smiling his thin smile, he gave a quick glance around them, and then lowered his voice. “But it is true, and because it is true, I must ask the favor.”

  This caused no end of concern, considering the reasons she’d called this meeting, and so she asked warily, “What sort of favor? I thought the Home Office was doin’ all the favors for you.”

  “You must not say,” he cautioned her with a look. “This Acton, he tells you too much.”

  “No, he’s not that dumb; I just manage to put two and two together, sometimes.”

  He thought about this, his brow knit. “You mean that you make the sums.”

  “That I do.”

  After eying her with skepticism for a moment, he finally shrugged in grudging concession. “D’accord; you made the sums with Monsieur Solonik.”

  “Excellent case in point—although I wish I’d figured it out sooner; that was a close-run thing.”

  But Savoie was not one to engage in idle chit-chat, and instead cut to the nub. “My favor, it is not of the close-run; it is simple. It is about Emile.” With a nod of his head, he indicated the children’s book section, two aisles over.

  She raised her brows in surprise. “You brought Emile here with you?”

  “Oui. He reads the children’s books. He is très intelligent, and I am filling out the forms for the school—the legal forms.”

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle. “I haven’t had a chance to find out about the doctors, Philippe, but I will, I promise—I’ve been run ragged, today.”

  But with an impatient gesture, he brushed this concern aside, and continued, “The school papers, they ask me, ‘who is the next of kin,’ and I think, that is the close-run question.”

  “You can’t be puttin’ me down as next of kin, Philippe,” Doyle said firmly. “And anyways, no one would believe it for a moment.”

  “Non, non; instead, it makes me think that I must make the legal papers for Emile’s future, if I die.” He shrugged, philosophically. “It is something very possible, is it not? That I die? And then what will happen to Emile?”

  “Philippe—”

  But he leaned in, and continued with quiet intensity. “You know him; you know who he is, and you have Acton, to help you.” He paused. “His aunt—his aunt is still alive, and I do not want her to take him.”

  Doyle stared at him in dismayed silence. It was true; the matron, Solonik’s evil sister, was in a rehabilitation center, slowly recovering from the attempt on her life, and she would be the boy’s next of kin. “Oh, that’s right; I’d forgotten.”

  “You see? I can trust you, but no other. She must not take Emile.”

  “All right,” Doyle agreed with poor grace. “Just don’t be tellin’ anyone, and don’t be dyin’.”

  He tilted his head in reproach, and offered his hand. “You must say, ‘Done’.”

  “Done,” she agreed, and shook on it.

  “Bien.” He was well–pleased, she could see. “Now, you must ask the favor of me—for the two streets.”

  Recalled to her suspicions—honestly, she was standing in as next-of-kin for a cold-blooded murderer—she asked in a casual tone, “Yes—well, I am doin’ an investigation about Holy Trinity Clinic, and whether they have any ties to the corruption scandal. You mentioned that it wasn’t a good place, so I wanted to follow up, and ask if you’ve heard anythin’ about anyone, over there.”

  He shrugged. “The clinic, it is for the poor—les pauvres. Not the place for Emile.” He put his hands in his jacket pockets, and seemed completely uninterested.

  “Oh? Have you ever been in there?”

  “Non.” He shook his head with all sincerity, and it was a lie.

  But at this juncture, they were interrupted by Emile himself, who ran up to Savoie, brandishing a picture book, and brimming with excitement. “Look, Papa; it is a horse—a red one, just like the one we saw.”

  “Emile,” Savoie scolded. “You must not be rude to Madame Acton—say hallo.”

  “Hallo,” the boy threw out, in the perfunctory manner of small boys who cannot be bothered. He then paused, much struck, and said to Savoie, “Her name is Acton, just like on the important paper that you had.”

  “You must not interrupt,” Emile’s Papa reminded him, with a look.

  The boy colored up self-consciously, and Doyle stood very still, because her scalp was prickling like a live thing, and her intuition was practically beating her about the head to pay attention.

  Savoie bent to steer the boy away by the shoulders. “Go back to the books, Emile. We will go soon.”

  “It is truly a very fine horse.” Doyle stepped forward, trying to keep the boy talking. There was something—something she was supposed to be understanding, here.

  “Yes.” The boy smiled at her, flourishing the picture. “Papa said I could have my own horse, soon.”

  Savoie joked, “But we could not fit him into our appartement; the neighbors, they would complain.”

  The boy threw back his head and laughed, and Doyle stared at him in shock, because—because he looked like—he reminded her—

  “Go,” Savoie said in a stern tone, and, with a last, unrepentant smile, the boy bounced away.

  Savoie shrugged at Doyle with indulgent amusement. “My apologies; he is très energetic.”

  “A right boyo, he is.” The words were said with no real conviction, however, because Doyle was fast coming to the horrified realization that yet again, she’d blundered into a situation that wasn’t at all what it seemed, and she truly needed to listen to her husband, once in a while.

  Savoie impatiently prodded her out of her distraction. “You wished me to find out about this medical clinic—if it is close-run? Yes?”

  With a mighty effort, Doyle pulled herself together. “Please. And if you happen to hear anythin’, Philippe, I’d appreciate it—I’m at a dead end.” This was no longer exactly true, but she needed to retreat, and think about what she’d learned. Too late, as usual, she castigated herself—I never think things through ahead of time; I’m always banging about like a ha’penny busker, and now look what I’ve done.

  “I will do the sums,” Savoie assured her, and it wasn’t true. “I will watch, and I will listen.”

  I’m the one who never listens, she thought with a pang of deep regret; except when I’m forced to listen to the stupid ghosts. She nearly groaned aloud, reminded of how the knight at Trestles had been so very unhappy, when Savoie was hanging about on the premises. I’m lucky I have a husband who’s always willing to pull my coals out of the fire—although this one’s a corker, and if the man had any sense, he’d be the one hopping the next train out of town.

  Faced with the fruits of her own foolishness, Doyle decided she may as well see if Savoie could cast some light on the other set of murders that were going unsolved; it would be nice if something positive came out of this little interview. “Well, durin’ your listenin�
��, have you heard anythin’ about the prostitutes who are gettin’ themselves murdered? Or the nuns?”

  His brows drew together in incredulity. “Someone is murdering les soeurs? This is true?”

  “Indeed, it is. D’you know anythin’?”

  “Non.” He shook his head in disgust, and looked up to check on Emile’s whereabouts. “Bah—this world, it is a terrible place.”

  Now, here’s irony, she thought, and gravely agreed that there were some very unsavory characters, running about. They parted, with Savoie issuing one last reminder about the immunizations doctor, and Doyle wishing she could somehow avoid going home and confessing her sins to Acton. Nothin’ for it, she thought, as she rang up the driving service. And this is exactly what I deserve, for thinking Savoie couldn’t put anything past me.

  She saw that she’d missed a call, and the voicemail proved to be Father John, asking if she could spare the time to meet him for a cup of tea tomorrow, at the Bell in Hand, which was his favorite place, because they served genuine Irish butter.

  It never rains but it pours, she thought, clicking off the message. It was past time to find out what Father John was troubled about—hopefully, he’d not be confessing to multiple murders, but she should bring her flex cuffs, just in case.

  33

  Doyle’s strategy was to be reclining in her robe when Acton came home; then she could always play the sex card, if necessary, which was the coward’s way out, but she was fast coming to the conclusion that she was a coward. Fortunately, it was not a day for Reynolds, which was just as well, because there was not a chance in a million that she could wait until after dinner to unburden her anxious soul.

  With this plan in mind, she was therefore disconcerted to discover that Acton was already home when she walked through the door, which in turn caused her to immediately blurt out, “I’ve done somethin’ completely stupid, Michael, and now I need to lay the whole before you, and take my lumps.”

  He looked up in surprise, from his position at his desk. “Surely, it is not as bad as that.”

  But Doyle was too agitated to be soothed, and managed to knock down several of the hangers, in the process of hanging up her coat. “Wait until you hear; promise you’ll remember how very fond of me you are.”

  Thoughtfully, he closed the laptop with a soft click. “I am all attention.”

  Crossly, she tried to untangle the coat hangers, with little success. “You are always ‘all attention’. It’s wearyin’, is what it is.”

  After watching her for a moment, he stood to cross the room, and indicated she should join him on the sofa. “Be that as it may.”

  She resisted his invitation, and lingered by the coat closet, suppressing an almost overwhelming urge to wring her hands. “Be that as it may’? Now, what kind of thing is that to be sayin’? You can’t make heads nor tails of it—I think the aristocracy thinks these things up just to confuse the peasants into silence.”

  “I believe,” he said, as he rose again, and headed toward the kitchen, “—that this is going to require a full measure of ice cream.”

  “I’m stallin’, and tryin’ to enjoy my last few minutes of marriage,” she admitted. “Do we have any butter pecan?”

  He rummaged around in the freezer, and retrieved a pint. “I would not be at all surprised if this has something to do with Philippe Savoie.”

  She stared at him, at a loss. Trust Acton to see right through her. On the other hand, if her husband already knew what she’d done, and did not seem inclined to lower the boom, this stood as a good omen. She should tread carefully, however, and raise the subject as delicately as she was able.

  In a rush, she blurted out, “I went and met with him, even though you said not to. I’m sorry, Michael—I wanted to find out why he killed Cassie Masterson.”

  Acton seemed unsurprised, as he brought over the carton of ice cream, along with two spoons. “And did you?”

  She let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and moved over to the sofa, to sink in next to him. “I think he killed Masterson because she is Jonathan’s mother, and he didn’t want her to crawl out of the woodwork, and lay claim to him. ‘Was’ his mother, I mean. And I suppose he’s Emile, now, and not Jonathon.” She frowned in annoyance. “Faith, you need a player’s roster, just to keep up.”

  “It is complicated,” he agreed, and offered a spoon.

  “We’re the ones who are complicated,” she said suddenly, meeting his eyes. “There’s good reason that we can’t be too honest with each other.”

  If he was surprised by the turn the conversation had taken, he hid it well, and nodded. “I think you may have the right of it.”

  Much struck by this insight, she lowered her hands to her lap. “That’s not who we are—neither of us. I can’t tell you how I work, and you can’t tell me how you work, and I think that’s just as well. It’s a stand-off, so to speak, and we shouldn’t push it—or I shouldn’t push it, since I’m the one who always keeps harpin’, like an alewife.” She paused. “It’s beyond our ken to be honest, Michael; we’d be like Alice, goin’ down the rabbit hole.”

  “An apt metaphor.”

  But she scowled, as she plied her spoon in the carton. “‘Apt’ is another one. If Edward ever says ‘apt’ to me, I’ll give ʼim a hidin’, I will.”

  “Tut, tut,” he replied.

  She began to laugh, and then she began to cry, burrowing her face into his shirtfront whilst he pulled her close, and stroked her head.

  “I’m a bad wife, Michael,” she sobbed. “And—and there’s even more to tell you, but I’m puttin’ it off.”

  “Did Savoie upset you?”

  “No.” She sniffled, and fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt. “Or at least, he didn’t mean to. He’s just so wrapped up in Solonik’s stupid little boy—”

  “He brought the boy?”

  Doyle breathed in, to steady herself. “Yes. And—and I guessed that Masterson was the boy’s mother. It was somethin’ in the way he laughed, I think.” She paused, still fiddling. “I suppose that explains why Masterson was willin’ to do Solonik’s dirty deeds—the two of them were a couple.”

  But as he reached around her to take another spoonful from the carton, her husband reminded her, “Solonik was no doubt planning to have her killed. She knew too much.”

  Doyle lifted her gaze to his. “What happened to her husband, in all this?”

  “He met an untimely end.”

  She raised a brow. “Meanin’ that Solonik had him killed, so as to clear the way for their affair.”

  Acton tilted his head without making a reply, and she remembered that he’d once mentioned that he had pressure to bear on Masterson, so as to keep her in line. Doyle turned to take up her own spoon—no point in letting perfectly good ice cream go to waste, even if she was in the midst of a marital crisis. “Did you already know all this?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned, as she took a bite. “And Savoie gets away with it, because he’s got immunity?”

  Absently, he lifted a tendril of her hair, and let it fall. “That would depend upon the parameters of the immunity.”

  Trying to puzzle out what was meant, she ventured, “Meanin’ that if he oversteps, he can wind up in the nick, anyways?”

  “Usually, that is the case.”

  With a twinge of exasperation, she duly noted that he was couching his answers in such a way that she wouldn’t know if he was trying to mislead her—she’d be very much surprised if Acton wasn’t fully aware of the terms of Savoie’s immunity—but she didn’t press him on it, having other pressing concerns on her poor mind.

  Mentally, she girded her loins. “I think Savoie is worried about it—worried that the Home Office won’t be happy that he’s murderin’ people, left and right, and he’s worried that they might come after him.”

  “Is that why he wanted to meet with you?”

  “No—I just—I just figured it out, because—oh, Michael,
because he hoodwinked me into agreein’ that we’d raise Emile, if anythin’ happens to him.”

  Acton’s hand on her head stilled, and she could sense his surprise. “Did he indeed?”

  “Mother a’ mercy, but I’m a world-class knocker.”

  But her husband only chuckled, and rested his chin on the top of her head, as he closed his arms around her. “No; he knows you are kind and generous, and he was counting on you to be so.”

  Cautiously heartened by his mild reaction, she ventured, “Can you imagine? Raisin’ Solonik’s son? The very idea, Michael—what was I thinkin’?”

  “Do you think Savoie means to disappear?”

  This hadn’t occurred to her, but she slowly shook her head. “No. He truly loves that little boy—it’s the strangest thing.”

  Acton made no reply, and absently continued to stroke her hair, but she was suddenly alarmed, and was moved to say, “Please don’t use it against him, Michael—I’ll be sorry that I told you.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “Did you know that Solonik and Masterson had a son together?”

  “I did. They were careful to keep it quiet; he was born at Holy Trinity Clinic, and then lived most of his life in a Russian boarding school.”

  Surprised into silence, she stared at the fire for a moment. “Oh—oh; so, that’s why Savoie went after the records-room clerk. He wanted to remove any reference to Emile’s birth, and his real parents.”

  “No doubt.”

  She shot him a skeptical glance, from her vantage point on his chest. “So; Savoie wanted to erase Emile’s records, but he happened to notice the blackmail information that was kept in the files, whilst he was at it. That seems a coincidence too far, if you ask me.”

  “I’ll agree, and I’ll wager it wasn’t a coincidence, at all.”

  She fingered his button. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I’d imagine he saw an opportunity to serve his personal interests, alongside his professional interests.”

  She rubbed her face into his shirtfront. “You’re makin’ my brain hurt, husband.”