Murder in Hindsight (12 page)

C
HAPTER
21

I
T WASN’T UNTIL
D
OYLE WAS AT HOME, SETTLED IN BEFORE HER
laptop and entering notes on her spreadsheet, that it occurred to her that Acton hadn’t revealed his supposed solution to the Masterson problem. Outfoxed me again, she thought in chagrin; he lets me gabble on until I get distracted—which happens more often than not—and then he holds his cards very close to the vest. She leaned back in her chair, gazing out the windows and thinking about it with her fingers laced behind her head. He was trying to make Masterson turn coat by pretending they could have a future together, but—presumably—at some point she would realize that Acton was not about to divorce his misfit of a wife. Then what? Acton said he needed a solution that would ensure another wouldn’t be sent in Masterson’s place, but there was also the tricky business of Masterson herself; if she had the goods on Acton, and then felt she’d been spurned or duped, presumably she’d be all too happy to help Solonik bring Acton down. It was hard to imagine how her husband expected to carry the day—not without following through and marrying the stupid brasser. Perhaps he could do it quietly, and then lock her in the attic at Trestles, like the brooding hero in that book about the governess. She frowned at nothing in particular, thinking this over. Wouldn’t work as a long-term solution, she decided with regret.

Her unhappy thoughts were interrupted when Acton texted her with his symbol. This was much appreciated—she’d been trying not to imagine where they were or what was going on. He is working, she told herself firmly, brushing a wistful thumb across the mobile screen; and he has a plan, even though he doesn’t want to share the particulars with you—remember that whole tendency to gabble.

The pretext for the visit to Trestles was to allow Masterson to view the archives, which sounded very dull and stuffy, but provided an excellent excuse to invite a journalist to stay for a few days and at the same time, drive home the point that the storied history could be hers, along with the handsome man who held the title. Doyle had no doubt that Acton planned to spend long hours closeted with Masterson, and wondered what his mother would think of such a thing—the dowager despised Doyle, but a journalist would be just as unwelcome, one would think. All in all, the weekend was shaping up to be a rare crack, and Doyle was rather surprised that she was so willing to participate in this miserable morality play. However, she knew, in the way that she knew things, that it was important that she attend, for some reason, and so attend she would.

With a mental sigh, she returned to her spreadsheet on the park murders, organizing her notes from Mrs. Bennet’s visit and the microfiche at the
World News
. She’d tentatively eliminated Masterson as the murderer—although for a journalist, she certainly couldn’t seem to answer a direct question with a direct answer—and so she went back to Williams’s guilt theory, which seemed more and more valid, based on what she’d learned about Mrs. Bennet’s daughter and the Tilden Park victim. Both were let off from earlier murders with the aid of public opinion, and both had gone on to murder again. It made sense that someone felt responsible, and wanted to right all past wrongs. It was odd that the vigilante had waited so long in both instances, but perhaps he was biding his time so as to obscure the commonalities between the murders. And Acton thought there might have been a recent triggering event, but it seemed a very tall order, to try to determine what it could have been.

She looked up the defense team personnel who had worked these two cases originally, and found a small but encouraging lead; they had been handled by the same barristers’ chambers at the Inns of Court, although different barristers were involved in each trial. This was not much of a coincidence, actually; there were only four Inns of Court, and therefore a limited number of barristers who appeared in the Crown Court. But the solicitors for each case—the attorneys who handled all but the court appearances—were completely different, and so any glimpse of a commonality was welcome. Doyle decided she would pay a visit to the chambers and debated when to do so; she hadn’t yet heard from Savoie about her proposed visit to Solonik, and that should take priority over everything else. There was no time like the present, though, and she could always cancel if the need arose. She texted Williams: “RU there?”

As always, he answered promptly. “Hey.”

“Can U go on a lead in AM? Talk to barrister at Inns of C.”

“OK. What M I 2 do?”

She realized he thought this was the favor she needed with no questions asked, and so explained, “I will go 2. Need to check out defense on cold cases.”

“OK. Pick U up?”

“Please. How’s 9?”

“Field kit?”

“No need.”

There was a pause. “French translator?”

Ah—he was wondering if this had to do with Savoie, and she gazed at the screen, feeling a pang of guilt. Mainly, she seemed to excel at making the men folk fret. “No need.”

“C U then.”

“Thanks.”

She rang off, and noted it was still early, although it seemed later to her. Come home, Acton, she pleaded mentally. I’ll start thinking about what you’re doing, else. As she stared at it, her mobile pinged, surprising her so that she nearly dropped it. The ID said “unknown,” and so she stifled her disappointment and answered, “Doyle.”

“Tomorrow,” said Savoie in his brusque manner. “One hour, from one to two.”

This was workable, but it also meant that tomorrow she was going to be as busy as a fishwife at Lent. “Right, then. What time do we leave?”

“Twelve.” He then named an intersection a few blocks from the Met in a quieter area. She pictured it and asked, “Northbound or southbound?”

“Northbound,” he said, and rang off.

She rang off also, and stared out the window at the view again, thinking. She would create a protocol and stick to it; Acton would have no cause to accuse her of being reckless. Her conscience stirred, but she firmly quashed it down; she needed to do this and no one else could—once she had her answers, she could always tell Acton. In the meantime, she’d best prepare.

A half-hour later, she heard Acton’s card in the slot and looked up with relief as he came in through the door. “Hallo, husband; how was your date?”

He came over to run a distracted hand over her head. “Reynolds has left?”

“There’s somethin’ in the oven, if you’re hungry. Are you needin’ a shower, first?”

He gave her a look as he headed over to the fridge. “Now, there’s gallows humor.”

“Don’t give me any ideas, my friend. How did it go?”

He paused with the door open, in the process of drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. “You were right.”

She offered with all modesty, “I know my brassers, I do.”

He paused, swirling the juice in the bottle for a moment before lifting it to drink again. “You and I will leave Friday morning, and she’ll be there by the afternoon.”

“Can’t wait. Did you work up a thirst, chattin’ her up?” She was trying to gauge him, but he was buttoned-up, was Acton, and giving her no glimpses.

He grimaced. “I was compelled to drink some rum concoction.”

“Oh—oh, Michael.” She couldn’t help laughing. “How
dare
someone force you to drink rum—quick, where’s the trusty scotch?”

“God, no—I can’t mix the two.” He closed the fridge, and briefly opened the oven door to look inside.

“Did the rum concoction have a paper umbrella?” Abruptly, she turned back to her laptop. “No—no, don’t tell me; I don’t think I could ever look upon you in the same light.”

There was a long pause. “You are extraordinary. I am so sorry, Kathleen.”

She looked up at him, standing quietly in the kitchen—he probably didn’t want her to catch the scent of cigarette smoke, which was a forlorn hope—and took pity on him. “I am jokin’ so I won’t start throwin’ things, is all. Bring your rum-soaked self over here, and we will speak of somethin’ else.”

“How does your research go?” She could feel his relief as he came to stand behind her, leaning in to review her screen.

“Williams is takin’ me to one of the Inns tomorrow—one of the chambers was involved in two of the original non-convictions, so I thought I’d flash my warrant card and rattle the cage a bit.”

“Doubtful they will rattle,” he remarked, reading her notes. “They have an excellent reputation.”

“There’s no attorney-client privilege, anymore, since the client is dead,” Doyle insisted. “Mainly I just want to get them talkin’.” Acton would know why this was, and he leaned in with his hands on the table on either side of her, reading thoughtfully. Doyle caught the faint scent of the brasser’s perfume and resisted an urge to pull him over to the sink by his tie and thoroughly douse his head under the spigot.

He remained doubtful, and straightened up. “They won’t want to speak of the old case, you know—even if they were not involved in these killings. The fact that a killer got off doesn’t make them look good.”

“I think there’s somethin’ there,” she persevered, her brow knit. “It’s one of those feelin’s.”

“Then by all means.”

She leaned her head back so as to look up at him. “How goes your case-that-must-not-be-spoken-of?”

“I believe the people who have given me the assignment may not wish me to succeed.”

As was his usual, he delivered this rather shocking assessment in a matter-of-fact tone, and she turned in the chair to face him, thoroughly alarmed. She was aware that “the people” who had given him this assignment were high up in the government. “Then what’s the purpose, for heaven’s sake? Why send you on a sleeveless errand?”

But he continued buttoned-up, and would not elaborate. “It may be an attempt to contain a scandal. I’m afraid I can say no more.”

“Do you need me to listen to someone?”

He crossed his arms, and she had the impression that he’d already considered this idea. “It is a delicate political situation. It would be helpful to have you listen in, but I am not certain how I can bring it about.”

“I could be disguised as a maid,” she suggested. “I could wear one of those very short skirts, and have a feather duster.”

With a smile, he leaned to kiss her brow. “I would pay good money.”

She pulled on his tie, hand over hand, and brought his mouth to hers. “Come to the shower and I’ll give you an eyeful, then.”

“Done,” he said, and gathered her up.

C
HAPTER
22

T
HE NEXT MORNING
D
OYLE OVERSLEPT.
A
CTON’S CONTRITION
tour had included several extremely satisfying lovemaking sessions, along with a visit to the kitchen after midnight to fetch some ice cream for sustenance. After a groggy look at the time, she reached for her mobile and texted Williams. “B there in a few.”

Acton was preparing to leave and speaking to his assistant on his mobile as he packed up. Teasing, she sat up and dropped the covers to flash him, which inspired a smile and a warning glance toward the kitchen, where Reynolds presumably lurked. He rang off, and came over to rest his hands on the bed to kiss her. “We’ll pack for Trestles tonight—it will be chilly.”

“Of course it will. Are there gargoyles?”

There was a pause. “It is quite a nice place, actually.”

Her wretched, wretched tongue. “I’m sorry, Michael—I truly look forward to seein’ it.”

But he met her eyes in understanding as he straightened up. “We’ll make the best of it; I do have some fond memories.”

This was true, and made her smile, to think of him wandering around his ancestral estate, doing whatever it was the aristocracy did—pheasant hunts, or some such. “I’ll manage, never fear.”

He leaned to kiss her on the top of her tousled head with a great deal of feeling. “There’s my girl; call me if you find anything of interest.”

Fondly, she watched him go, and wondered if Masterson was busily packing as they spoke—packing and gleefully calculating Acton’s net worth; Doyle herself had no idea.

She dressed, and thanked Reynolds when he handed her a coffee in the kitchen. “Wish me luck, Reynolds; we travel to Trestles tomorrow.”

The servant stilled. “Is that so, madam?”

Faith, she’d blundered again, but she’d best break the bad news. “I don’t think you’re to come—not this time.” Definitely not; the fewer witnesses to this little psychodrama, the better.

But the servant had already regained his composure and said evenly, “No, no—certainly not; the staff might be put out.”

Doyle hadn’t considered this aspect, and it was her turn to be still. “Saints, Reynolds; do you suppose there are ‘staff’?” Perhaps her hope for few witnesses was a forlorn one.

Diffidently, Reynolds wiped the counter with a tail of the kitchen towel. “Oh yes—an estate that size would have a full regimen. It is said to be very well-run.”

His desire to take a gander at the storied pile was almost palpable, and so she cautioned, “I can’t imagine how they manage to keep anyone; his mother is a crackin’ harridan.”

“Has the dowager Lady Acton visited here?” He seemed surprised and small blame to him; the woman’s name was never mentioned within these less-storied walls.

Doyle quirked her mouth. “You’d be horrified, Reynolds. I fought with her tooth and nail like the low-country guttersnipe I am.”

“I will be at hand, next time,” he assured her. “I know just how to handle such a lady.”

“You are a prize, Reynolds.” As she packed up her electronics, she was cautiously optimistic that there would, in fact, be a next time, and that she would still hold sway here after the coming weekend. Last night it certainly seemed that Acton still considered Doyle the best of all potential baronesses, and hopefully she’d come out of today’s prison visit with a whole skin.

Her mobile pinged; it was Williams, and so she hurriedly bade Reynolds good-bye and made her way downstairs, where Williams was waiting at the curb. As the doorman shut the door behind her, she explained, “Sorry—I overslept.” Best not attempt a euphemism with Williams, he was sensitive on the subject of sex and she’d learned that lesson the hard way. So with no smart remarks of any stripe, she gave him the address and explained her reasons for wanting to visit.

Williams, however, expressed the same skepticism as Acton had. “Unlikely they’ll be impressed by the warrant card, Kath. And they’ll not be interested in speaking of their failures.”

“Their successes, you mean; they got them off, after all.”

But he shook his head as they wound their way through the traffic. “I can’t imagine a barrister takes any pleasure in getting someone off who goes on to kill again.”

“That’s why I couldn’t do it—defend someone I know is guilty.”

“No—me neither, but that’s who we are and what we do. Their point of view is that no one really knows for certain about guilt, and they work to keep the system honest.”

Diplomatically, Doyle made no response, as she was uniquely situated to know a defendant’s guilt for certain, and Williams had already demonstrated that he was willing to skirt the supposedly honest system. In fact, that was why a justice system that was generally perceived as too lenient was dangerous; vigilantes tended to spring up, and no matter how imperfect the system, it was miles better than allowing everyone to dispense their own brand of Wild West justice. Much struck, it suddenly occurred to her that—because of her abilities—she was the perfect vigilante; she could have no qualms about dispatching a killer who had escaped justice, because she’d know for certain that he had, in fact, escaped justice. But she would never do such a thing because of her faith; she believed in an ultimate justice, and—as she repeatedly cautioned Acton—you can’t just go about killing people. Aside from its being a mortal sin, it showed that, in the end, you didn’t trust God to sort it all out. Perhaps the freed killer was slated to perform some unknown task that was important in the grand scheme of things; it was best not to take the chance you were muckin’ it all up. Hard on the heels of this thought, her scalp tingled. Frowning, she tried to catch hold of the elusive thread—what was it? Thinking aloud, she said, “He—or she—feels utterly wretched and hates it, but believes there would be no justice, otherwise.”

Williams glanced at her. “What was that?”

Thoughtfully gazing out her window, she explained, “I was thinkin’ about this vigilante’s motivation.”

Williams shrugged. “I doubt he hates it, Kath. He wouldn’t do it if he hated it; no doubt it assuages his guilt.”

She guessed at what “assuages” meant, and disagreed in a thoughtful tone. “I think he does hate it.” No doubt Williams had felt nothing but satisfaction when he dispatched his uncle, or when he helped Acton usher other villains from this mortal coil; unlikely he could relate to this particular killer. “I think he’s miserable. Or she—it may be a woman, if she’s so repulsed by it all.” Her scalped tingled again, and she knew she was on the right track. Or perhaps not; her intuition acted like a bucket boy to the fire bell whenever she thought about how she was forever to be known as the bridge-jumper, but why this was important completely escaped her. It all made little sense.

Williams, apparently, had avoided the more pressing topic as long as he was able, and asked in an even tone, “Have you discussed the French problem with Acton?”

“No,” she teased, “Have you?”

He replied a bit grimly, “Not as yet; I don’t fancy having my skin flayed off.”

She shouldn’t tease him; she knew he was worried and was practicing a restraint that was much appreciated. “Look, Thomas; I know it’s a bit alarmin’,”—her companion made a strangled, derisive sound that she ignored—“but I
promise
, he’s bein’ helpful.” She paused, debating what to say, but decided she’d have to tell him something. “It’s to Acton’s benefit, but I cannot say more.”

Williams was silent for a few moments, no doubt thinking of the photographs that Savoie had given her. “Why do you think he is a friend?”

“I told you; he saved my life.”

He glanced at her. “Literally?”

“Literally.”

He suggested carefully, “Is it possible—think, Kath; is it possible the situation was contrived to obtain your trust?”

“Not a chance.”

He subsided, aware she wasn’t going to offer anything more. “Will you at least not meet him again unless I am with you?”

“No; he doesn’t like you.”

Williams looked over to her, equal parts shocked and outraged.

She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s probably just as well; you don’t want someone like him tryin’ to lure you away from the CID. You’d have to go live in Eastern Europe and wear flashy clothes.”

Heavily, he replied, “Kath, it’s not a joking matter; he’s a very dangerous player. I wish you’d tell Acton.”

She sobered, thinking of Savoie and the impression she’d gained—that he was quite cold at the core. “Yes, I am aware he is dangerous, and I’m bein’ very careful.” Reaching over, she placed a hand on his on the steering wheel and said sincerely, “I think he is very soon to scuttle back to his lair, and you won’t have to worry about it another minute.” She withdrew her hand and smiled. “And your guilt will be assuenged.”

“Assuaged,” he corrected, distracted.

There’s another reason I’m married to Acton, she thought; he wouldn’t correct me, and would probably misuse the word the rest of his life so as not to hurt my feelings. As Williams showed his ID to the gate man, she smiled out her window. Love that man, I do; hopefully I can save him from whatever Solonik’s got cooked up.