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

by Anne Cleeland

  She bent her head in acknowledgment, and noted, with some resignation, that he hadn’t taken off his overcoat—had no intention of staying long, did Acton. “Right, then; instead, let’s just do what we do best, Michael, and gather up some incriminatin’ evidence. We’ve candle wax—by a stroke of luck—and if we test it, mayhap we can link it to the candle wax at the other scenes.”

  But Acton only stood, unmoving. “There will be no more of these murders, Kathleen. My promise on it.”

  One by one, she brought her feet down, and sighed. “Can’t you tell me?”

  He thought it over. “No, I’m afraid I’d rather not.”

  “Michael, please; I promise I won’t have the vapors.”

  But he only smiled a bit grimly. “You might. Please leave this to me, Kathleen.”

  She leaned forward to rub her forehead with her hand. “Because of the debt of honor.”

  He stepped forward, to lay a comforting hand on her head. “Yes. And because there will be more harm done than the crimes warrant, if charges are brought.”

  Lifting her face, she reached to take his hand, and reminded him, “I don’t think you—or me—should be the ones makin’ such a decision, Michael. Only look at the corruption case; we’re spendin’ a lot of time and misery, cleanin’ up after people who thought they could manipulate the system. Let’s not decide we can manipulate it better.”

  “There will be no more murders,” he reiterated, and it was true.

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Don’t you think these women deserve justice?”

  But he had a ready answer, mainly because he was Acton-of-the-ready-answers. “Justice is not an absolute; often it is only the best option, under the circumstances.”

  She gazed up at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “Let’s skip to the end of this, since we each know what the other is goin’ to say.”

  He squeezed her hand, gently. “All right. I would like to take you home, where you can put your feet up properly.”

  But she dropped her gaze to the floor for a moment, and gathered her courage together. “Here’s the thing, Michael. You know that sometimes I have a—a sense of somethin’, and it’s hard to ignore.” She pressed her lips together; it was difficult to speak of her perceptive abilities, even with him.

  Immediately, he crouched down before her, and took her hands in his. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, I think I’m not supposed to leave it all to you. I think—I think the murders have somethin’ to do with me.” She teetered on the brink of telling him what Aiki had said, but withdrew—after all, she wasn’t certain what Aiki had said, herself. And besides, she didn’t want Acton to think that Aiki was somehow aligned against him—although Acton was probably more than a match for any paltry ghost.

  She could sense his surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Truer words, never spoken.

  With genuine confusion, he put a finger under her chin, and lifted her face so that he could meet her eyes. “Kathleen, these murders have nothing to do with you.”

  Her gaze held his for a surprised moment, because the words were completely true. “Oh. Oh—well, that’s a relief. D’you suppose I’ve mixed it up, or somethin’?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, without knowing more.”

  “No.” She gathered her legs beneath her, and rose to her feet. “Let’s leave it alone, then. It’s another one of those rabbit-holes, Michael, that we shouldn’t go down.”

  “Fair enough,” he replied, but it wasn’t true, and it wasn’t true because he knew she didn’t think it was a mistake, and he was right—she didn’t. Acton may not think the murders were connected to her, but Aiki did, and—in this, at least—Aiki trumped Acton.

  She ran a palm down his tie, smoothing it. “Let’s have them notify her relatives, at least.”

  He offered, “If no one comes forward, I’ll pay for a proper burial.”

  “A funeral—yes.” She frowned, because Aiki thought she’d missed something about a funeral, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Acton caught her hand against his chest, and held it for a moment. “Can’t you tell me, Kathleen?”

  “I’m off my game,” she confessed. “I hate this feelin—this feelin’ that I keep missin’ the important points, like I’m the classroom dunce.”

  He took her into a heartfelt embrace, his arms closing around her. “A very clever dunce.”

  “You’re not the best judge,” she reminded him, laying a cheek against his shirtfront.

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Be that as it may.”

  He chuckled, and she chuckled, and she decided she was thoroughly tired of worrying about everything; it was so much easier to just trust him, and hope for the best—he was a shujaa, after all, whatever that was. “All right, Michael; let’s go home.”

  She lifted her face for his lingering kiss, just in time to catch a glimpse of the District Coroner, backing away from his office door in embarrassed confusion.

  40

  Doyle was struggling mightily to maintain a coherent narrative, which was a sad state of affairs, since her audience was comprised mainly of twelve-year-olds. She was not one who liked being the center of attention—and she hadn’t much experience with children—so the combination had resulted in an acutely uncomfortable half-hour. Fortunately, they were now at the question-and-answer phase, which meant it would be over soon, and she would be able to fade into the background yet again.

  It didn’t help matters that Savoie’s son Emile sat cross-legged on the floor before her, or that Williams was seated behind the boy, glowering at Savoie, who was in turn glowering at Munoz, who was glowering at everyone in the room because she hated to hear the tale of her rescue, even more than Doyle hated to tell it.

  Honestly, Doyle thought; the cross-currents in here are thick as soup, and no one seems to remember that we’re supposed to be setting a good example. At least Acton’s mood seemed benign; he’d even exchanged a word or two with Savoie, and then had propped himself against the back wall in her line of sight—no doubt hoping to reassure—as she recited her rather disjointed story. It went without saying that Acton hated this type of thing almost as much as she did, not to mention that the volunteers were all fussing over him. She truly appreciated his show of support, and strove not to disgrace him, overmuch.

  One girl raised her hand importantly. “Was the water in the Thames polluted?”

  “Oh—oh, I’m not sure.”

  “Pollution is a serious problem,” the girl advised.

  Doyle could only nod in agreement.

  Another hand shot up. “How can you not know how to swim? Everyone knows how to swim.”

  “I don’t know how to swim,” another child retorted, bristling.

  “I grew up where there weren’t many swimmin’ pools,” Doyle intervened hastily, and called on a younger boy, to change the subject.

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  There was a small pause, whilst the fidgeting stilled, and all eyes, for the moment, were fixed on hers. “Yes, I was scared, but there was nothin’ for it. I had to try.”

  With a knit brow, the boy persisted, “But weren’t you afraid you were going to die?”

  “No,” she said honestly. “But I was very much afraid I wouldn’t see my husband again.”

  There was a moment of silence, while her audience thought this over. Doyle knew she couldn’t meet Acton’s gaze, else she’d break into tears.

  Father John stepped in, to steer the topic back toward the whole point of the exercise. “And who is your favorite saint, Officer Doyle?”

  “Saint Mary,” Doyle replied readily. “Saint Mary is my hero—she was miles braver than me.” Seeing an opening, she added, “Officer Munoz makes wonderful drawin’s of Saint Mary, if you haven’t seen them already.”

  “She’s pretty,” pronounced the younger boy with enthusiasm, and it was not clear whether
he was referring to Munoz, or the saint.

  Father John led the children in clapping. “Thank you, Officer Doyle. Perhaps now we could hear from Officer Shandera?”

  As Doyle willingly stepped down, one of the older boys—who’d spent most of the evening sulking—muttered, “Are they all gonna be coppers?”

  Officer Shandera paused in stepping up, and faced the boy with a smile. “I used to be a criminal. Does that count for something?”

  The boy seemed surprised at being thus confronted, but his chin jutted out, and he announced with certainty, “You can’t be a criminal, and then be a copper.”

  “Here I am.” Shandera spread his hands, with all good humor.

  “What were you arrested for?” asked the pollution-girl with a lively interest. “Did you go to gaol?”

  “I was arrested for burglary, and sent to a diversion program, because I was so young. It’s like gaol, but not as tough.”

  There was a silence, for a moment, and Shandera causally sat down on the edge of the dais, rather than step behind the podium. “I got into trouble a lot. I didn’t have a dad, and I thought no one cared about me, except my mates. So I did whatever they wanted me to do. I was really stupid.”

  “What did you steal?” asked the pollution-girl.

  She tends to go off-topic, thought Doyle; reminds me of me.

  “I stole a Gamecube player—”

  Immediately, there were groaning sounds of derision from the kids.

  Shandera smiled. “I know—I told you I was stupid, didn’t I? The sergeant who arrested me was a huge, strong guy. He pushed me against the wall, and held me by the throat—” here he gestured dramatically. “Lifted me clear off my feet, so that I couldn’t breathe.”

  The audience made general sounds of shock and disapproval, and pollution-girl declared, “He can’t do that!”

  Shandera smiled, and shook his head. “He didn’t care. He told me if he caught me doing stupid stuff again, he’d kick me down the stairs. I was scared to death of him. He helped get me into the diversion program, and then he checked in on me, while I was there, to make sure I was following the rules. They taught me electrical repair, but I knew I didn’t want to do that.” He paused. “I knew I wanted to be a copper.”

  “Like him,” the now-not-quite-as-sullen boy pronounced.

  Shandera nodded. “Like him. When I graduated from police training, he came to my graduation, and told me he knew from the beginning I’d make a good copper, I just needed to be straightened out.”

  Father John was compelled, yet again, to try to inject a dose of theology into the recitation. “And I believe you converted to the Church, as well, Officer Shandera.”

  On hearing this, Doyle slowly lifted her chin to stare at the young officer, her scalp prickling.

  “I did.” He turned his head to smile his flashing smile at the priest. “That was a big part of my getting straightened out.”

  Suddenly, Doyle was no longer listening, but was instead striving mightily to control her immense dismay. That was it—that was the significant thing Father John had said, during their meeting; he’d said that converts tended to be fanatical. This killer was a convert, and fanatical, and thought it was all a simple matter of absolving sins, and punching one’s ticket to heaven. And Shandera was a convert—and a policeman, so that no one would suspect him; although—although a West Indies accent didn’t sound at all like an Irish accent, surely? And someone like Shandera was not the type of person who’d be dismissed as harmless by the witnesses, and only remembered as an afterthought.

  Doyle knit her brow, trying to decide whether she was overreacting, but knew—in the way that she knew things—that this killer was indeed a convert; a fanatical convert. She lifted her head in alarm as she remembered that Shandera’s wife was pregnant—holy Mother of God, his wife may be at risk; perhaps her pregnancy had triggered all this mayhem. I’ve got to sound him out, she thought, as she quashed a flare of panic; and I can’t let him know that I suspect him.

  Glancing over, she saw that Acton had been waylaid by the Center’s Director to take some publicity photographs, and so she made her way over to the throng of kids who now surrounded the young officer. After listening to the heated discussion about which games-playing system was superior to the others, she waited for an opening, and when it came, touched his elbow. “I just wanted to say that your story was very inspirin’. It’s no easy thing, to leave everythin’ that’s familiar, and strike out alone, to make a better life.”

  “You did, ma’am,” he noted with a smile.

  “Oh—I suppose that’s true,” she agreed, a bit surprised that he knew her history. “Were you raised in a different religion, before you converted?”

  He shook his head. “No; my mother was not very religious—instead she was superstitious. A lot of the immigrants are, which is why Santeria is so widespread.”

  Doyle listened carefully to his response, but since no warning bells went off, she decided she needed to probe a bit more. “Well, bein’ Irish, I’ve no standin’ to speak ill of superstitions. I suppose it’s a way to comfort yourself into thinkin’ that you can force God’s hand.”

  If he was surprised that he was having a deep philosophical discussion on the heels of a video game discussion with twelve-year-olds, the young man didn’t show it, but smoothly agreed, “Exactly, ma’am—superstitions are just a way to convince yourself you can control what happens to you.”

  Doyle was cautiously relieved, since this didn’t sound like the kind of statement that would be made by someone who’d kill people, all in an effort to bootstrap them into heaven. “Aye. Havin’ faith is not exactly for the faint of heart.”

  His ready smile faded, and he was suddenly serious. “Nothing is easy—or, nothing worthwhile is easy, I think I mean. But when it seems as though you’re stuck in unending hardship, you can’t be blamed for looking for an easy way out of it. You didn’t take the easy path, ma’am, coming to London to enroll, but it led to saving at least one life. And you met your husband—he’s been a great help to your parish, I understand.”

  Again, Doyle’s scalp prickled, and her sense of deep dismay returned; it was strange—strange, and rather alarming—that Shandera would know so much about her. She joked with false heartiness, “Faith, you’ve studied up. Its embarrassin’, is what it is.”

  The serious mood disappeared, and he laughed a bit self-consciously. “Please don’t think I’m a stalker or something, ma’am; the deacon at St. Michael’s is a huge admirer of yours, and he speaks of you often. We took instruction together.”

  There was a moment of silence, whilst Doyle resisted an almost irresistible urge to turn her head to stare in horror at the deacon, who was setting out the snacks on the snack table, across the room. Trying to stay calm, she swallowed. “Oh—oh, is that so? I didn’t know that the deacon was a convert.”

  Shandera teased her with good humor. “Well, he’s Scottish, after all, ma’am. Not a lot of Roman Catholics in Scotland.”

  “Oh—oh, of course.” A former Calvinist, she thought; where the risk of hellfire was always front and center. And—and it wouldn’t be easy for an elderly man, like the deacon, to let go of the old, black-and-white ways. With a monumental effort, Doyle pulled herself together. “He was a medic in the army, I think. He helped me when I was shot.”

  “Yes, he speaks of it often—says it was a miracle you weren’t killed.”

  “It was indeed,” she agreed, trying to think over the roaring sound in her ears.

  Acton suddenly appeared at Doyle’s elbow. “Do you need to sit down?”

  Shandera was instantly contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I should have been more cognizant—”

  But Acton cut him off ruthlessly. “That is all, Constable.”

  The young man departed with all speed, whilst Doyle slowly raised her gaze to her husband’s. It all fell into place, and as usual, she was surprised she hadn’t realized it sooner, now that it seemed so obvious.
/>   He took her arm. “Are you all right? You seem a bit pale.”

  She swallowed, and then said steadily, “We’ve got to arrest him, Michael.”

  He met her gaze, and knew that she knew. “No, Kathleen; please let me see to it.”

  “Its multiple murders, Michael. We’ve no choice.”

  He bent his head to hers, and said urgently, “Please let me see to it. He’ll be confined at Trestles, and given psychiatric care.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “He’s the pensioner you spoke of?”

  “Yes.”

  She blew out a breath, thinking it over, and was sorely tempted. Habib had said that doing the right thing was simple, but it wasn’t always easy—and here was the perfect example. How much easier it would be, to fall in with Acton’s plan—the horrific, church-destroying scandal would be averted, and there was always the off-chance that the deacon would go on a rampage, and murder the dowager and Sir Stephen, whilst he was at Trestles. Hastily, she lifted her gaze heavenward—just kidding; just kidding.

  Sensing her uncertainty, Acton continued, “It would be the best solution.”

  “I don’t know, Michael; the ghosts wouldn’t like it—they don’t like Papists.”

  “They’d have little choice in the matter.”

  She watched, as the deacon send one of the kids to fetch something from the kitchen. “The knight would understand, though; you owe the deacon a debt of honor, because he helped me, when I was shot.” Absently, she corrected, “One of the times that I was shot.”

  Acton drew a beseeching hand down her arm. “Yes. Not to mention that the scandal would be a maelstrom.”

  She wasn’t certain what the word meant, but she understood the gist. Acton was serving up his own justice, again, and this time—this time there was a large slice of compassion, served up along with justice. The deacon had come to Doyle’s aid in an emergency, and for Acton, this counted for more than any paltry consideration of the common law, or the opinions of twelve fine jurymen. It’s always about me, she thought in bemusement; it always is, and I keep forgetting.