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

by Anne Cleeland

  Thoughtfully, she asked, “D’you have any money, to spare?”

  Surprised, he paused in buttering his toast. “You may have anything you wish, Kathleen.”

  She contemplated the scene below, for a silent moment. “I suppose that’s true. Because—to quote Munoz—I’m a peeress, living in luxury and expecting an heir. A double peeress, in fact.”

  He regarded her, a small crease between his brows. “I can’t really bring myself to apologize.”

  She smiled, and leaned over to take his hand. “Of course not; I meant no criticism, Michael. And I’ve had some good advice to stop frettin’, and just accept it; there’s no doubt everythin’ is unfoldin’ as it’s supposed to. I was meant for you, and you were meant for me. It’s only that I’d like to establish a charity—a children’s charity.”

  His brow cleared. “Certainly. There are many such charities already established in London—we can research which ones to support.”

  Absently, she mused, “Holy Trinity Church has a children’s charity, but Holy Trinity Church is about to become a smolderin’ ruin.”

  He lifted a brow. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, bank on it. I was thinkin’ more about abandoned babies—but in Dublin, since there aren’t so very many in London. Perhaps St. Brigid’s will establish an orphanage, if we ask nicely.”

  He leaned over to kiss her. “An excellent idea, although they’ll not produce another you.”

  “I’m a corker,” she agreed. “Back and edge.”

  They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, until Doyle bestirred herself to remark, “Just think, Michael; next Christmas we’ll be parents. And this stupid ACC case will—please God—finally be put to bed.”

  “Indeed.”

  She caught a nuance in his tone, and her scalp prickled as she stared at him in astonishment. “Michael—oh, Michael; never say that the ACC is just as bad as the rest of ’em?”

  Startled, he met her eyes for a moment. “Why would you think this?”

  “Because you do.” She frowned. “And the knight does, too—the knight from Trestles. He seems to think you’re bein’ hoodwinked, in some way.”

  Acton debated what to say, and then said slowly, “Please don’t worry, Kathleen. The situation is well in hand, but you must say nothing.”

  “Not a problem, believe me,” she agreed fervently, still trying to come to grips with the news. “So; the ACC is bent, too. I suppose I can’t be surprised, since it would explain why the corruption rig was as successful as it was.”

  “I cannot disagree.”

  “Be careful, Michael; they’re a nasty bunch,” she reminded him. “They won’t go down lightly.”

  Reaching to take her hand, he repeated, “Please don’t worry.”

  She quirked her mouth. “Whist, man; that’s the least of our worries. Are we alarmed that Savoie is off somewhere, probably havin’ his way with Munoz?”

  Acton returned his attention to his toast. “One crisis at a time.”

  She eyed him. “You know, Michael, the knight doesn’t like Savoie much—he’s upset about some French battle, or somethin’.”

  “Small blame to him.” He applied another dab of jam, and offered nothing further.

  With a mental sigh, she let the subject go. She’d been putting two and two together—doing the sums, as Savoie himself would say—and had come up with an alarming theory. Savoie had been inexplicably present, at St. Michael’s and at the Family Center, and on both occasions, he’d had a quick, murmured conversation with Acton. She should have realized long before now that they were up to something—something where they needed to communicate off the grid.

  So—Acton was doing some behind-the-scenes plotting, and Savoie was in on it, and the matron was necessary, for some reason, which is why Savoie hadn’t just killed her with no further ado. On the other hand, Savoie was hedging his bets with Acton, because he didn’t completely trust him—hence the promise that Doyle would raise Emile. He needn’t have worried; the aristocracy loved their little debts of honor, and now Savoie’d racked up another one, having dispatched the deacon, and saved the fair Doyle yet again.

  Why, I wouldn’t be surprised, Doyle realized, if Savoie’s immunity wasn’t truly from the Home Office at all, but was from Acton, himself. Thinking of this, she ventured, “Are we worried about how Savoie was conspirin’ with Sir Stephen and Aldwych, to stick a spoke in your wheel-of-many-titles?”

  There was the slightest pause, before he replied, “Please don’t worry; I am handling it.”

  Her scalp prickled, and she thought with resignation, here we go. If I’m married to a mastermind, I suppose I’ll have to allow him his masterminding—Aiki and the deacon both said as much, and who am I to argue?

  Not surprisingly, her husband changed the subject. “Reynolds called to express his gratitude for his gift, and I had to pretend I was aware of it.”

  She laughed, and apologized, “Sorry; I should have told you. I had the jeweler engrave the Acton coat of arms on a silver bell, for his door knocker at Christmas. On the other side it says—in very fancy font, mind you—‘In grateful appreciation, Lord and Lady Acton’.”

  “Apt,” he teased, with a gleam.

  “I’ll apt you one, I will,” she warned. “And none of your sauce, or I’ll not give you your own present.”

  She padded into the kitchen to fetch the small, framed print she’d carefully hidden in the empty sugar canister, and then came back to the table, to hand it to him. The pen-and-ink sketch was of a young man’s face, in three-quarter profile. “I thought it only fair—I know what he’s goin’ to look like, and so should you. I told Munoz what to draw, as best I could recall.”

  For once—and perhaps the only time she could remember—her husband was unable to muster a response, as he gazed upon Edward’s face. Bull’s-eye, she thought with some satisfaction; there’s nothin’ to this gift-givin’ business, after all.

  She rose to her feet, and stretched. “If we’re done bein’ mawkish, Michael, I’ve an idea for another round of role-playin’.”

  He set the portrait down, and smiled at her. “Do you indeed?”

  “Yes—I’ll be a fallen saint, and you can be an imposter-baron.”

  He tilted his head. “That doesn’t seem very creative.”

  “Point well-taken,” she giggled, and wound her arms around his neck.