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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Surely not; it’s a very clever brain, and I always seem to underestimate it.” He pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “Please do not worry; if Savoie was genuinely concerned about his own life, he would simply take the boy, and disappear. It does seem as though he is working to secure the boy’s future, and knows you’d be a good mother.”

  In abject horror, Doyle sat up straight, and held her palms to her eyes. “Oh—oh, Michael; Holy Mother of God, I’d almost forgotten to tell you the worst of it. I think Savoie is goin’ to pose as the lost heir to the Acton title.”

  34

  With a great deal of surprise, Doyle was aware—for reasons she could not name—that this alarming revelation was not news to her husband. Nevertheless, he asked, “Was he? How so?”

  “I just guessed. Emile said somethin’ about how my name was Acton, like on the important paper, and how Savoie promised him that he could have his own horse.” She knit her brow, remembering. “I’m not sure if that’s still the plan, and I should have thought of a way to find out, but I was that gob smacked, and couldn’t think on my feet.”

  But Acton seemed unconcerned, as he scraped up the last bite from the bottom of the carton, and fed it to her. “Since Masterson is dead, it would seem that such a plan—if it was indeed the plan—died with her.”

  “But they took her archive records,” she reminded him, trying to suppress her alarm. “They spirited the records away, and your erstwhile heir has them, now.”

  “Good luck to him,” Acton replied.

  The fact that her husband was unfazed by this extraordinary revelation was a huge relief to Doyle’s overburdened sensibilities. As she watched him rise to dispose of the empty carton, she conceded, “I was too busy panickin’ to think about it, but I suppose if Masterson was the one who was goin’ to testify about the information in the records, that ship has sailed.”

  “One would think.”

  She frowned at the fire place flames, as he re-settled beside her on the sofa. “There’s somethin’ here that I’m missin’, Michael. Why Savoie? How could anyone think for a minute that Savoie—of all people—was the long-lost heir? Faith, wouldn’t a simple DNA test show that it was all a farce?”

  “You forget that the true heir would be from a branch that split off over a century ago. DNA would not be dispositive.”

  But she continued to puzzle over this revelation. “Well, what about Sir Stephen? If Sir Stephen is the true heir, then why would he be in cahoots with Savoie to put Savoie up as the true heir? What good would it do?” But then she answered her own question. “Oh—there’s a cloud over Sir Stephen’s claim.” She considered this. “So, I suppose Sir Stephen just wants to thwart you, no matter what.”

  “I confess it gives me great pleasure to return the favor.”

  “Another dirty dish, in a long line of ’em.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Small wonder your fake-grandfather was desperate for new blood.”

  He turned his head to kiss her forehead. “Sorry.”

  But this triggered another epiphany, and she turned to him in all sincerity. “You mustn’t say you’re sorry, either, Michael. We shouldn’t be honest, and we also shouldn’t go about sayin’ how sorry we are all the time, else that’s all we’d be doin’.”

  “Point well-taken.”

  “Be that as it may,” she countered.

  Doyle nestled into his shoulder, and absently, her husband began to stroke her arms, which was his habit when he was deep in thought. She was aware that she was still missing some large pieces of this Savoie-inspired puzzle, but she decided that she’d give all weighty subjects a rest—at least for the time being. Presumably, Savoie’s latest spate of murders were the fruit of his devotion to his new son, and the fact that these deaths had also exposed other, unrelated skullduggery was a fortunate coincidence—an amazing double coincidence, in point of fact.

  With a small, resigned sigh, Doyle decided—with extreme regret—that it wasn’t a coincidence at all; doing it too brown, even for a guileless knocker like herself. And the strangest part of it was that Acton, the non-believer-in-coincidences, was doing his best to re-direct the conversation away from this strange and nonsensical paradox. It all boiled down to an alarming conclusion; essentially, Acton was doing his level best to cover for Savoie, of all people. Just like he was doing his level best to cover for the nun-killer-who-was-also-the-pregnant-prostitutes killer, and who—please, God—wasn’t Father John.

  Much struck, she paused. If Father John was indeed the killer, there was a commonality between the two killers—between Father John, and Savoie. They were both friends, of sorts, to Acton’s red-headed wife.

  That’s not it, she decided almost immediately; Acton is not handling these cases with kit—kid—gloves simply because the killers were her friends. It was something more, something having to do with Acton, and his patented behind-the-scenes staging.

  And there was yet another significant thing she should take note of; after their adventures this fine day at Aldwych Manor, her husband should have descended into a black mood, which was his normal reaction whenever he dealt with his wretched relatives, and whenever he spoke of his dead father. But instead of making major inroads into the trusty bottle of scotch, Acton was content to be eating ice cream beside his dim-witted bride, who hadn’t yet realized that there’d be no point to Savoie’s killing the one woman who was trying to set him up as the heir to the House of Acton.

  Something’s up, she thought for what seemed like the thousandth time, but decided to put off all puzzles in favor of the more enjoyable half of the sex-and-scotch protocol. Unbuttoning one of Acton’s buttons, she kissed the skin exposed beneath.

  “Your lips are cold,” he noted.

  “Oh? I can direct your attention to warmer parts, if you’d like.”

  “You shock me, Lady Acton.” He didn’t seem very shocked, though, because with no further ado, he began to pull her onto the rug in front of the fireplace.

  She giggled. “Lady Kathleen, the countess, you mean.”

  “No, you’d be Lady Aldwych, the countess, and let’s not forget that you’re not there, yet.”

  “Point well-taken,” she conceded.

  35

  Doyle was at work the following day, frowning at her reflection in her laptop screen instead of updating her docket, which was in such a sorry state that it would have been better to scrap it altogether.

  It seemed evident that this whole pregnancy business was putting her off her game—case in point, her interview with the Family Center witness, where she’d missed the mark on the first go-round, and had to keep backtracking with the woman until she finally pieced the two cases together. And now, she realized she’d done the same thing again—she’d missed something important, during her conversation with Savoie. At the time, she hadn’t realized that he’d said something that was crackin’ significant, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt she’d best follow up. Since it was definitely not something she should discuss with Acton, that left only one candidate for the following-up, and so she rang up Williams.

  “Hey, Kath. What’s up?”

  “Hey yourself. Are you busy later this afternoon? I was wonderin’ if you could be a third on an interview, but I can’t make it obvious that you’re a third, because I don’t want to hurt the suspect’s feelin’s.”

  A hint of incredulity crept into his voice. “Really? You don’t want to offend a suspect?”

  “Well, it’s someone I know, Thomas, and I’m interviewin’ him off the books, so to speak—he doesn’t know he’s a suspect. At least, I don’t think he does, but he wants to talk to me, and I’d like to keep it quiet, until I see what’s what.” Hopefully, Williams would translate this rather disjointed explanation into a warning not to squeak about the situation to her better half.

  “All right, what’s this about? Do you think it might end up in an arrest?”

  “I honestly don’t know. And I’ll be needin’ you to brainstorm
on somethin’ else, also, but you can’t be yellin’ at me.”

  There was a small pause. “Now, that sounds ominous.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Ominous—why can’t I ever remember? I always mix it up, and say ‘onimous’.”

  “You’re getting much better, Kath. It’s impressive.”

  “Well, be that as it may, Thomas, I’ll be needin’ to brief you, first, so can you drive me over?”

  “I don’t know, Kath; if I’m going to be yelling, maybe I shouldn’t be driving.”

  She smiled into the mobile. “That’s the whole strategy, my friend—my mother didn’t raise a fool.”

  “All right. Text me when it’s a go.”

  As Doyle rang off, Munoz’s glossy head appeared over the cubicle wall. “Who’s driving who where?”

  Doyle thought about it. “I think that’s one of those times when you say ‘whom’.”

  “Don’t bait me, Doyle. I’m on a hair-trigger.”

  Doyle eyed the other girl with misgiving. “Are you? What’s happened now? Never say we’ve got another killer—someone who’s murderin’ new brides, or somethin’.”

  “Close; Elena’s wedding is tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Doyle wasn’t certain what to say, and so she offered, “I wish them the very best, Munoz.”

  “I’ll be an aunt,” the girl said heavily, sinking her head into her hands. “A spinster aunt.”

  But Doyle was short on sympathy. “Then go out and recruit an uncle, Munoz; faith, you’d think you were a troll, livin’ under a bridge.”

  With a gesture of impatience, Munoz flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “Acton must have some single friends, Doyle—you need to put your mind to it.”

  “I’ve already asked him, but I’ll do a follow-up.” This was technically true; no need to mention that Acton had found the whole idea exceedingly amusing.

  The other girl frowned. “I wonder if Officer Gabriel still has that girlfriend.”

  “No clue. I haven’t seen him lately.” Poor Munoz, Doyle thought; this is probably not the best time to mention that whole I’m-going-to-be-a-countess thing. Inspired, she offered, “If you go to the youth outreach with me, there are bound to be some worthy young men. It would do you good to hook up with a do-gooder, for a change.”

  Munoz heaved a resigned sigh. “All right—I’ll go. I’ve nothing else to do.”

  Doyle suggested helpfully, “Mayhap you can do a demonstration, by sketchin’ one of the kids.”

  But this was not the right tack, and the beauty reacted with full scorn. “I’m not a carnival sketcher, Doyle.”

  “Well, I’d like to commission a sketch, if you don’t mind. I’ll pay you handsomely.”

  The other girl scowled. “I can’t take money from you, Doyle. You saved my life.”

  “Of course, you can—don’t be a knocker, Munoz, or I’ll be tempted to throw you right back in the drink. Stop mopin’, and get over your fair self.”

  Apropos of nothing, Munoz suddenly complained, “Williams is not really my type.”

  “Well, I would have to agree. You’d be throwin’ the crockery at each other on a daily basis.” She paused, and couldn’t resist adding, “Mayhap Habib has a brother.”

  This sally earned her a fearsome glare, and without another word, the girl sank back down, out of sight.

  The morning passed very slowly as, with stoic perseverance, Doyle concentrated on her backlogged paperwork. She’d hundreds of emails that had gone unanswered since she’d started working on the prostitutes-and-nuns cases, and she felt a flare of guilt—she hadn’t been doing much slog work, lately; instead, she’d been nosing around on cases not even assigned to her—which she shouldn’t—due to the twin excuses of marriage to a superior officer, and pregnancy by that selfsame superior officer. Everything’s going haywire, and the Met is shorthanded, she reminded herself sternly. Get crackin’, and do your job.

  She skipped over those emails which didn’t seem pressing, promising herself that she’d take a gander when she was home, later in the evening. One was from St. Brigid’s, the school she’d attended, growing up—no doubt they’d heard of her extraordinary marriage, and were angling for a donation, and small blame to them. Some of the nuns who’d taught her were no doubt nearing retirement age, and she should contribute to their fund, out of gratitude. In truth, she should have considered it before now, but it always made her feel a bit awkward to ask Acton for money—he’d already come to St. Michael’s rescue when funding was needed, and on more than one occasion.

  When Williams met her at the utility garage, he apologized for keeping her waiting. “I had an interview with a witness, and it went longer than I thought.”

  Doyle wondered, for a troubled moment, if he’d been meeting again with Mary, Edward’s nanny-to-be, but decided she didn’t want to poke that particular bear. Instead, she said easily, “Whist, Thomas; I’m glad you’re willin’ to squeeze me in. How’s the ACC’s case goin’?”

  “It’s a scramble drill. Who’s our suspect?”

  Doyle thought it interesting that Williams quickly changed the subject, and aside from that, there was a nuance in his tone—something was up, then, with respect to the wretched ACC case, and hopefully, they weren’t about to slap her in cuffs because she was behind on her paperwork.

  “Well—he may not actually be a suspect. He’s a priest from my parish, and he’s asked to speak with me. I’m thinkin’—” she hesitated, and then reluctantly admitted, “I’m thinkin’ he might know somethin’ about the prostitutes-and-nuns case.”

  He glanced over at her in surprise, but—because he was Williams, bless him—he didn’t press her for any details. Actually, her object in having him come along was two-fold; she needed to brainstorm, and she also wanted to gauge Williams’ reaction to Father John. Acton’s religious retreat was this weekend, and she wanted to see if she could figure out whether Williams’ mysterious task had anything to do with the kindly priest. “I’d rather he didn’t know you were nearby. I’ll signal, if I need back-up.”

  “All right. So, what was the other thing you needed to brainstorm? The thing where I’m supposed to try not to yell.”

  “Oh—well, yes. Remember how the matron was at death’s door, after gettin’ herself poisoned?” Doyle slid him a glance, because she had a very shrewd suspicion that the poisoner was none other than the worthy DI Williams.

  “Yes,” he replied without a flicker of an eyelash. “The DCS has pled to the attempted murder charge.”

  Doyle was diverted for a moment, and exclaimed in wonder, “The DCS has found religion, and is evangelizin’ in prison—have you heard?”

  “I have, but I’m not buying it.”

  But she shook her head. “I don’t see why he would cut a wheedle, Thomas—he’s sentenced to fifteen years, after all. Mayhap he’s truly seen the light.”

  “Fortunately, not our problem. What is our problem?”

  Seeing no tactful way to bring up the subject, Doyle plunged ahead. “If Philippe Savoie had a good reason to kill the matron—Solonik’s sister—why wouldn’t he just hale off and do it?”

  As could be expected, her companion raised his brows in alarm. “Good God, Kath; where did this come from?”

  “Never you mind, my friend. Just pretend that Savoie has a mighty good reason to murder the matron—and she’s in no shape to defend herself, after all.”

  With commendable calm, he asked, “And when were you speaking with Savoie?”

  “Not sayin’.”

  To his credit, Williams didn’t bother to yell, but instead addressed this puzzle with a knit brow. “What happened—why would he want to kill her? Did the matron double-cross him?”

  “No—remember, he’s the one who double-crossed her. But he truly has a good reason to kill her, and would be highly motivated.”

  Williams was silent for a moment. “What is the reason?”

  She looked over at him. “I’d rather not be tellin’
you, but let’s just say it would make his life miles easier.”

  Slowly, he framed the issue. “So—you’re asking why Savoie would want the matron to survive, even though he’d be better off if she were dead?”

  “Yes.” Frowning, she looked out the window. “There’s somethin’ here that I’m not understandin’.”

  Williams suggested, “He needs information from her.”

  “Maybe.” She wasn’t convinced. “Hard to imagine that he doesn’t know everythin’ he needs to know, already.” When Solonik had asked Savoie to come to England and help wreak revenge on Acton, a deal was struck; Solonik promised he wouldn’t interfere with Savoie’s smuggling operations—although Solonik had promptly set up a double-cross, to muscle in on Savoie’s rig. Faith, these underworld players double-crossed each other so much that it should just be expected, as a matter of course—no doubt Savoie had triple-crossed him, in turn.

  Nevertheless, Solonik’s double-cross had been unsuccessful, and it seemed unlikely that Savoie needed Solonik’s sister for anything having to do with his murky smuggling operations. Solonik was dead, the matron was sidelined, and Savoie had been given some sort of immunity from the Home Office; he’d not hesitated to kill off everyone else who could identify Emile’s true parentage—so why would he hesitate, when it came to the boy’s black-hearted aunt?

  “Maybe he’s been warned off.”

  This seemed implausible, and she voiced the obvious. “By who? I can’t imagine that he’s afraid of anyone. And remember, he’s got a very strong incentive.”

  He shrugged, and gave her a glance. “I need to know more.”

  “Yes,” she mused. “So do I.”

  There was a small pause. “You know what I’m going to say, Kath.”

  She turned to him in all sincerity. “I’m avoidin’ him like the plague, Thomas—my hand on my heart. But there’s somethin’ here that I’m not understandin’, and I think it’s important—there’s a clock tickin’ somewhere, and it makes me very uneasy.”

  “If you need help, you’ve only to ask, you know.”