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

by Anne Cleeland

  She said slowly, “He won’t cooperate, you know; he’s on a mission.”

  “I know. Williams will handle it, and use force, if force is necessary.”

  Lifting her gaze to his, she asked, “Wait—do we know where the babies went?”

  Acton could see where this was going, and assured her firmly, “I’ll find out, Kathleen. Leave it to me.”

  But she shook her head. “I must speak to him, Michael. It’s important that I handle it, although I’m not sure why that is.”

  Her poor husband lowered his gaze to the floor for a moment, and then advised, “Don’t be fooled; he’s a dangerous man.”

  “He’s not a danger to me, Michael,” she replied, and it was true.

  41

  The deacon had gone into the kitchen, and Doyle followed him through the swinging door. Acton was to stand guard on the other side, on her assurance that she’d call him at the slightest hint that things were going awry.

  The older man was taking paper cups down from a cupboard, and Doyle cleared her throat, so as not to startle him. “I was wonderin’ if I could speak with you for a moment, sir.”

  He paused in his task, and willingly turned to face her, his manner—as always—gravely respectful. “Of course, lass. It was a fine thing for the children to hear your amazing story; takes my breath away, every time.”

  Doyle struggled with how to best broach this touchy subject, and then decided to fall back on the familiar. “You can’t just go about killin’ people.”

  The deacon stared at her for a long moment, and then slowly lowered his hands to his sides. “I’ve no choice, lass.”

  Exasperated, Doyle retorted, “Of course you do. There’s no such thing as an honorable murder.”

  He shook his gray head with regret. “I have to respectfully disagree with ye, as much as it pains me. I couldn’t just stand by, and see those puir godless creatures, doomed to eternal hell.”

  But Doyle insisted, “You can’t know that. No one can.”

  He raised his brows in surprise. “Of course, I can. It’s plain as day.”

  Deciding that she’d best not get into the theological weeds, Doyle decided to change tack. “No one, no matter their sins, deserves to be murdered.”

  He knit his brow, and appeared to be genuinely perplexed. “But I’m saving them—can’t ye see, lassie? I’m giving them the greatest gift of all; I’m saving their souls, and the souls of the wee bairns, as well.”

  With a jolt of dread, Doyle ventured, “The babies are dead, then?”

  He was horrified. “No, no—of course not.” With deep regret, his bent his head. “Except for the first one, God rest his wee little soul.”

  Doyle frowned at this. “If you were so worried about his wee little soul, then why did you push his mother under the train?”

  Astonished, he lifted his head, and assured her, “I didn’t push her—the Blessed Mother as my witness. I was trying to get her and the bairn into the train, but she took fright, and ran away.” He sighed, and hung his head, deeply troubled. “I lost the puir child, and the mother died unshriven, with no hope of heaven. All that was left was to see that she got a proper burial.”

  “A funeral,” Doyle breathed. “I missed it—I should have wondered who arranged for the funeral.”

  “ʼTwas the least I could do, lass, but a funeral’s not the same as absolution. I couldna take a chance that it would happen again.” With this, he straightened up, and declared with resolution, “I had to rise up, and take action.”

  “It is wrong,” Doyle insisted, more and more agitated in the face of his calm certainty. “You canno’ be takin’ people’s choices away; you canno’ see the future.”

  But he only shook his head, and said sadly, “With all respect, lass; I see their future every day. We may live in a fallen world, but these lasses—at least these lasses are assured of paradise.” He pressed his lips into a thin, resolute line.

  Doyle tried yet again. “And what of you, and your soul? You’re playin’ God, and that’s the biggest sin of all.”

  But he was unmoved, and said quietly, “It doesna matter what happens to me—any sacrifice is worth the greater good. Faith, lass—it was you yerself who inspired me; who filled me with the Holy Spirit. Ye should have died, twice over—but instead—miracles. I had to rise up, as best I could, and with no thought to meself.”

  “I am no saint,” Doyle retorted crossly. “For the love o’ Mike.”

  He nodded in solemn agreement. “No—not yet, leastways. But the hand of God is upon ye, lass. Ye came from a lowly place, and look how high you’ve risen, trampling on the wicked, like ashes beneath your feet. And a great man loves ye, even though you’re but a wee, humble-born lass.”

  Reminded of this, Doyle suddenly knit her brow. “You know, I worry about that. I worry that he’s been moved like a chess piece, and that it wasn’t truly a case of love at first sight.”

  Crossing his arms, the deacon considered this change in topic as though it weren’t unusual in the least. “Oh? Ye think he’s nawt acting of his own free will?”

  “No,” she said bluntly. “No one would have put the two of us together, after all; it’s a monumental mismash.”

  “Mismatch,” he corrected gently.

  “Mismatch, then, but monumental is right.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” he reminded her.

  “I suppose,” she ventured doubtfully.

  He blew out a slow breath, his brow furrowed as he thought this over. “Well; does that matter to you, lass? Would it change how ye feel about him?”

  Frowning in return, she thought about it. “No,” she conceded. “I suppose if I’m a pawn, it’s a happy little pawn, I am.”

  He nodded with an air of authority. “Then ye shouldn’t ask questions; if I may say so. After all, St. Michael’s has a new roof, and a new heating system, thanks to him. God’s works are mysterious, and unfathomable.”

  Doyle’s brow cleared. “Now, there’s a fair point. Who’s Father John, to be thinkin’ he knows better?”

  But this was a bridge too far, and the older man hastily disclaimed, “Now, lass; ye’ll not get me to gainsay the guid father.” Heaving a deep sigh, he contemplated the floor for a moment. “That husband of yorn—he’s aware of the fruit o’ my works, although he’s pretending that he doesn’t know. He says he wants to speak with me at the retreat—says he’s thinking about becoming a deacon. I’m not fooled; he knows. He knows, and he’s a canny policeman.”

  So—Acton didn’t know it, but the deacon was on to him. “Please,” she pleaded, stepping forward. “Do as he asks you; he wants only the best for everyone.”

  Resolute, the man raised his head to face her again. “I can’t, lass, with all respect. I’ve God’s work to do.”

  Doyle saw another opening, and took it. “But you said yourself that you can’t gainsay Father John, and Father John thinks it is the greater good to try to shore up the mothers, rather than to take their children away. There’s no substitute for a mother’s love—and after all, the child may inspire her to change her wicked ways.”

  Her companion raised his brows, seriously considering this aspect. “That’s fair, lass, but I canna’ take the chance. I’ve seen too many lives ruined, and souls lost forever.”

  Having the lurking conviction that he was winning on all arguments, Doyle cut to the nub. “Where are the babies, then?”

  Suddenly, he smiled—the first time she’d ever seen him smile, his teeth long and yellowed. “Well, then; you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve sent the bairns to the cradle place of saints; to the patroness of newborn babes, herself.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Doyle breathed in astonishment. “St. Brigid’s.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “The Holy Sisters will know how to raise them right—just as they raised you, lass.”

  Doyle was completely speechless, and so the deacon confided, “I thought it might arouse suspicion—a man, having s
uch a wee bairn on the train to the ferry—so each time, I dressed as a woman, and traveled by night.” This last said with a great deal of pride.

  Doyle put her palms to her eyes, and exclaimed with some agitation, “Mother a’ mercy.”

  She’d forgotten to tone down her reaction, and so this exclamation prompted Acton to step within the kitchen door. He stood with his back to it, his gaze moving from Doyle to the deacon, and as the three of them stood in silence, Doyle said quietly, “He knows you know, Michael.”

  Acton nodded, and said in a mild tone, “Then you will come along with me, please.”

  With a blown-out breath, the deacon looked from one to the other. “All right, all right—just let me get my glasses.” Reaching beneath his cassock, he then pulled out an ancient service revolver, which he lifted to hold up to Doyle’s head. “I’ll have your promise, lassie—on the souls of all the saints—that you’ll let me go.”

  “No,” she said shortly. “And you know you’re not goin’ to shoot me; there’s a wee bairn on board, and I’m unshriven.”

  There was a moment of silence, whilst Doyle felt the full force of the horror emanating from her calmly-standing husband. Acton spread his hands. “Come; no need to frighten my wife. I will let you go, and we will forget any of this happened.” It was a lie.

  Doyle said impatiently, “He’s not goin’ to hurt me Michael,” and turned to the deacon. “Stop this, you’re upsettin’ my husband.” Best not mention that anyone who upset her husband usually met with a very bad end.

  At that moment, the back door to the alley cracked open, just enough to reveal Philippe Savoie, holding his own pistol at arm’s length, and aimed directly at the deacon’s head. “Drop it.”

  “Vers l’arrière,” Acton ordered. “Vous ne pouvez pas être impliqués dans ce.”

  “Pas avant qu’il ne,” said Savoie.

  “Everyone needs to speak English,” said Doyle in exasperation.

  Glancing over at Savoie in alarm, the deacon said, “Put it down; ye might hurt the blessed lassie.”

  “Hold, everyone,” Acton commanded, but the deacon was clearly unnerved by Savoie’s appearance on the scene, and shifted to aim his revolver at the Frenchman. Without further ado, Savoie fired twice in rapid succession, and the deacon fell to his knees, swayed for a moment, and then fell forward to the floor with a thud.

  With a sound of impatience, Acton stepped forward and put a hand on the fallen man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. “If you would set up a perimeter, Kathleen; I will call in the Coroner.”

  Doyle managed to find her voice. “I’ve got to fetch Father John—it’s important.”

  Before Acton could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and PC Shandera tentatively poked his head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir; but that sounded like—” his voice trailed off into silence, as he observed the still form lying on the floor.

  In a brisk tone, Acton said, “Constable, I need you to pursue an active shooter—he’s left out the back door.”

  Shandera took a look around at the assembled figures, no doubt noting that none of the law enforcement personnel had made any attempt to mount a pursuit, or even call for back-up. “Right, sir,” he replied, and dutifully ran out the back.

  “A perimeter, Kathleen,” Acton said again, and pulled out his mobile. “Keep everyone out, and defer all questions.”

  “Right, sir,” said Doyle. “But I’ve got to fetch Father John.”

  “Quickly,” he said, and then, into his mobile, “Dr. Hsu, I’m afraid I have a homicide at a charitable event—an unknown shooter.” He glanced up at Doyle, and covered the speaker. “Stay close.”

  “I will,” she agreed, and stepped through the swinging door to come face to face with Munoz, who was craning her neck, trying to see around her. “What’s happened, Doyle? PC Shandera thought he heard shots fired.”

  Doyle decided there was no point in hiding this unfortunate fact, being as the Coroner would soon make an appearance. “I’m afraid the deacon’s been killed. Acton’s asked me to set up a perimeter.”

  After a moment’s surprise, Munoz was all efficient police officer. “Do we have an active shooter?”

  “No—not anymore. Shandera is pursuing.”

  “Right—I’ll keep the kids away. Have you called it in?”

  “I think Acton already has. Could you fetch Father John, Munoz?”

  The girl nodded, and quickly went to find the priest, who was understandably horrified by the news Doyle quietly broke to him. “Good heavens, Kathleen—are the children in danger? Should I evacuate?”

  “No, Father. I think Acton has the situation under control.” She paused. “Is it too late to absolve the deacon of his sins?”

  The priest solemnly made the sign of the cross, and stepped to the door. “It’s never too late, lass. Bring a cup of water, please.”

  Doyle demurred, “I have to guard the door, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll manage it, then. I suppose it’s too much to hope that there’s a candle, about.”

  As the door swung open, Doyle had a glimpse of Acton, speaking on his mobile as he crouched next to the deacon’s body. He’s telling someone a fish tale, she thought; I know the signs.

  Savoie then came through the door toward her, and Doyle was a bit surprised that he hadn’t scuttled out the back. On the other hand, he was no doubt making it clear he had nothing to hide—that, and he was probably going to support whatever fish tale Acton was cooking up.

  Munoz, however, was not about to let a notorious villain stroll away from a murder scene. “You mustn’t leave the premises, sir,” she informed Savoie stiffly. “We’ll need your statement.”

  Savoie only shot her a malevolent look, and with a deliberate motion, holstered his illegal pistol under his armpit.

  “Munoz,” Doyle pleaded. “Leave it.”

  “He has an illegal weapon, Doyle.” Although Savoie made to brush by the other girl, she blocked his progress, and said steadily, “You must await questioning, sir; we’ll let the Chief Inspector sort it out.”

  Savoie laughed his bark of a laugh, and threw some comment in Spanish at her, as he moved away, and so with a snapping sound, Munoz drew her collapsible baton. “Don’t move,” she commanded, barely keeping her temper in check. “You are under arrest.”

  With a swift motion, Savoie grasped the other girl’s wrist, and pushed her against the wall. “Puta!”

  “Cabrón!” Munoz fired back, furious.

  “Everyone needs to speak English,” Doyle repeated in agitation. “And stop it, both of you. It’s a crime scene, for the love o’ Mike—”

  Munoz, however, did not appear to be listening, being as she was more interested in spitting in Savoie’s face, whilst he held her pinioned against the wall.

  Doyle gasped in alarm, but Savoie only laughed again, and then bent his head to kiss the Spanish girl savagely.

  Oh, thought Doyle in extreme surprise; well, this is taking a rather unexpected turn.

  Munoz managed to free one of her hands, and then repeatedly struck at the Frenchman’s head with her fist. When he withdrew, she slapped his face, and hissed something in Spanish. In response, he bent to kiss her again, and—interestingly enough—Munoz appeared to have lost all desire to resist, her arm slowly falling to her side, as she allowed him to draw her body against his.

  Doyle watched them in bemusement, and made no effort to intervene. In all fairness, she’d no standing to complain, having had a crime scene snog of her own, on a certain memorable occasion.

  The little girl who’d asked about pollution approached Doyle, her brow furrowed as she suspiciously observed the comings and goings. “What’s happening?”

  Doyle looked down at her, and answered honestly, “I wish I knew.”

  42

  It was Christmas morning, and Doyle was eating toast and jam—replete with a new tub of Irish butter—as she and her husband contemplated the view of the park. It was raining lightly, and grey—just the
sort of morning that made one appreciate a warm home, and a comfortable companion.

  The deacon’s murder stood unresolved; the Coroner had shaken his head sadly, when faced with the tale of an unknown intruder in the Family Center’s kitchen, and the victim had been carted away out the back door with as little fuss as possible, so as not to upset the children.

  The murder did not go unnoticed by the press, however, who’d responded to Acton’s call, and heard the story of the deacon’s brave attempt to shield the children from harm. In a rare television interview, the illustrious Chief Inspector stood beside Father John, speaking of the deacon’s sacrifice, and explaining the Everyday Heroes program on the national news; how—now more than ever—it was important to have solid role models for youth, and that donations could be send to St. Michael’s parish, in Chelsea.

  For her own part, Doyle had opened her neglected email from St, Brigid’s, in which one of the nuns apologized for bothering her, but wondered if she’d have a moment to look into something that was baffling the local police—someone was leaving newborn infants at the convent—six in all—

  Lesson learned, Doyle thought as she contemplated the quiet morning outside. Stay atop your workload; mental note. Struck with a thought, she then frowned. “I do not sound Scottish. The very idea, Michael.”

  Acton helped himself to another piece of toast, being as with Reynolds absent, toast was the extent of their culinary abilities. “Who thought you sounded Scottish?”

  “The Community Family Center witness. She thought the deacon had my accent, and she was worried I was coverin’ for him.”

  “Baffling,” he agreed, and it was not exactly true.

  She smiled, and fingered the gift he’d given her from the Acton family vault—an ancient and small Celtic cross, which he’d mounted on a gold chain, so that she could wear it as a necklace. He couldn’t know, of course, that it wasn’t a ladies’ charm at all, but that instead it had been looted from a monastery, by Acton’s obnoxious relative in the portrait. She didn’t mind; next time she saw the wretched portrait, she’d shake the cross in his stupid face with a great deal of satisfaction.