Murder in Hindsight (17 page)

C
HAPTER
31

D
OYLE DESCENDED THE STAIRWAY JUST AT SEVEN, BECAUSE SHE
imagined the dowager expected her dinner guests to be prompt. She was aware that as the current Lady Acton, she was not exactly a guest, but it was inconceivable that she would attempt to countermand the dowager, and so she was content to recede into the background and follow whatever lead Acton was willing to give her. She hoped she looked the part of the neglected bride; she wore the black cashmere sweater that Acton had selected, and she’d pulled back her hair with a black ribbon headband. The headband made her appear younger than her already-tender years, and so she applied some lip gloss as a counterbalance. Mathis had offered her assistance, but Doyle had declined, being as she really didn’t need any help putting on lip gloss and the last thing she needed was a misguided attempt to make her more presentable. Nevertheless, she duly noted that the maid lurked outside in the hallway, pretending to arrange flowers but with her ears on the stretch. Search my room, if you like, thought Doyle with some spite as she closed the door; nothing worth seeing, my friend.

She entered the drawing room to behold Acton, the dowager, and Masterson, as well as another gentleman, all in quiet conversation whilst a footman served cocktails. Acton approached, kissed her cheek perfunctorily, and then brought her over to the gentleman. “Allow me to introduce my cousin, Kathleen; Sir Stephen Waite.”

So; here was the cousin and heir who Acton so disliked, and Doyle looked him over with interest. Sir Stephen was a head shorter than Acton and had light brown hair and eyes; not Acton’s dark eyes and coloring that he shared with his mother. A relative on his father’s side, presumably—which made sense if he was Acton’s current heir. Sir Stephen was scrutinizing her narrowly behind a benign expression, and Doyle had a brief impression of relief as he took her hand. “Lady Acton; your fame precedes you. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

“Why, what ‘fame’ is this?” The dowager raised her thin brows.

“You do not know of it? Lady Acton jumped off Greyfriars Bridge to rescue someone in the line of duty.”

The dowager looked as though she had never heard of anything so vulgar, and so Doyle was moved to demur, “It was nothin’, truly.”

“Oh, it was a brilliant story,” Masterson disagreed with a slight lift of her wine glass. “Three days coverage and an extra print run.”

“A nine days’ wonder,” the gentleman agreed with just a touch of condescension.

Doyle could feel the color flooding her face as Acton interjected smoothly, “Cassie has volunteered to update the archives, Stephen.”

Sir Stephen flicked Acton a speculative look, and then turned to Masterson. “Have you indeed? I commend you for taking on the task.”

The other woman smiled her confident smile. “It is no hardship, I assure you. I did a series a few years ago about the history of the great houses, and I find the subject fascinating.”

Doyle found this of great interest, as it indicated Acton had done his homework with this potential home-wrecker; Doyle would bet her teeth that this archives-sorting gambit was no chance assignment.

Very pleased to hold the floor, Masterson continued, “So far, I’ve sorted the documents into decades, but tomorrow I’ll go through them more thoroughly to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. It is completely fascinating; the details bring the storied past to life.” She cast a respectful glance at the dowager, who only pursed her mouth and made no return.

Trying to charm the old guard, thought Doyle. Good luck to her; Masterson would be just as unwelcome a daughter-in-law as the vulgar bridge-jumper. She briefly met Acton’s eye and noted that her husband was not happy that Sir Stephen had been patronizing to her—she knew the signs. Hopefully, they would refrain from fisticuffs in front of the newspaper reporter.

Sir Stephen could not share Masterson’s enthusiasm. “Perhaps not as fascinating as you might hope; Trestles managed the two world wars without incident. On the other hand, the seventeenth century was one long crisis.”

“Indeed,” agreed the dowager. “It took a great deal of courage and political maneuvering to see that Trestles was preserved.”

Masterson saw another opening to impress the dowager, and added, “It
is
extraordinary that it has prospered to such an extent—so many famous estates have fallen to the National Trust because the families were unable to keep them up.”

There was a small silence, and Doyle was surprised to feel crosscurrents of strong emotion between the others, but before she could sort it out, the front bell echoed.

“That will be dear Melinda,” announced the dowager to the room in general, and Doyle could sense Acton’s flare of irritation. Saints, she thought. Now what?

Melinda proved to be a slender, languid, and quintessentially aristocratic woman approximately Acton’s age who glided into the room in a negligent fashion. She immediately approached Acton, lifted on tiptoe to kiss him, then wiped her lipstick from his cheek with a thumb. “Acton, you
devil
. You, married! Which one is she?” She looked at Masterson and Doyle, then decided on Masterson as the more likely candidate, so that Acton was required to inform the newcomer that his bride was, in fact, the unlikely Doyle. Undaunted, Melinda embraced her and whispered loud enough for the others to hear, “We have
a lot
to talk about.”

Ah, thought Doyle; here is someone with carnal knowledge of Acton, no doubt invited by his mother to cause trouble before she was made aware that Masterson was already primed for the role. Just
crackin
’ grand.

Melinda deftly lifted a vodka tonic from the proffered tray, and revealed to Doyle and Masterson that she had been a neighbor until she married and moved away. “I traded my husband for a great deal of alimony,” she confided. “Better luck to you.” This was directed at Doyle, who wasn’t certain how to respond.

Melinda then turned to Masterson. “Are you here with Stephen?”

“No.” Masterson offered no further explanation, but had the look of someone relishing a delightful secret, which made Doyle long to draw her weapon and shoot her dead.

“Cassie is a newspaper reporter,” Sir Stephen offered. “She writes about the great houses.”

“As a sideline,” Masterson corrected with a smile. “Mainly, I cover major crimes in the Metropolitan area—that’s how I met Acton.”

“You must be busy, then.” Melinda waved a vague hand of disinterest.

“Yes—unfortunately London has no shortage of major crimes.”

“Deplorable; it is the foreign element, no doubt.” The dowager’s gaze rested briefly upon Doyle.

“Cassie does commendable work,” Acton offered. “The press is a necessary component of law enforcement.”

That this was an out-and-out falsehood came as no surprise to Doyle; Acton had no use for newspapers except for those rare occasions when he needed the public’s help with a crime.

“It is rewarding work,” agreed Masterson, her gaze resting thoughtfully on her wine glass. “But like most career women, I have sacrificed the personal for the professional. I would very much like to have a family, some day.” She carefully did not look at Acton, nor he at her, and Doyle would have rolled her eyes if she had not been so surprised—Masterson was lying. About what? Wanting a family? Having a family?

Doyle decided to test it out. “You’ve never married?” She realized it sounded as though she was trying to appear superior, but decided that it would fit the protocol if she were petty, and awaited an answer.

“No,” said Masterson, smiling sweetly. “I’d never met the right man.”

She used the past tense, of course, the brasser. Doyle could feel Acton’s gaze on her and knew he wanted her to drop it. Doyle complied, but not before she processed the interesting fact that Masterson was indeed lying.

The dowager took this opportunity to pronounce, “Marriage is the foundation of civilization; it must be the ultimate object of every woman.”

Doyle duly noted that she was lying, too.

Melinda tossed her head at Sir Stephen as she lifted another drink from the tray. “Listen to your aunt, Stephen; you must take your cue from Acton, and marry someone young and fecund.”

Doyle was not sure what “fecund” meant, but noted Stephen’s flare of carefully suppressed fury at Melinda’s baiting. I am going to be wrung out like a dishrag by the end of this evening, she thought with resignation, and then felt her mobile vibrate. “Excuse me.” She stepped aside to read the screen, which contained a message from Habib. “A murder,” it said. “Perhaps related.”

“My son may not have mentioned that mobile phones are not permitted at dinner.” The dowager’s tone was icy.

Doyle looked up. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Michael, may I speak to you for a moment?”

With palpable reluctance, Acton excused himself and stepped aside to confer with her.

“D’you have any ammo on you?” Doyle whispered. “Bein’ as I may not have enough to shoot them all with one clip.”

“Wait for my signal,” came his unruffled reply. “What was the call?”

“Habib. He thinks there’s another park murder.”

He met her eyes with regret. “We can’t leave, I’m afraid. Not until tomorrow evening at the earliest.”

“You’re killin’ me, here, my friend. Munoz is dyin’ to jump on this case.”

“Call Williams and have him supervise the SOCOs. He’ll not miss anything.”

Doyle noted that to any observers, Acton’s attitude was one of suppressed annoyance, at odds with his words to her. “Would you mind callin’ Williams yourself? We’re quarrelin’.”

“I dare not leave you alone,” was the surprising reply, and he was dead serious.

“I’ll text him, then; although your mother may throw my mobile against the wall.”

“My mother,” he replied in a mild tone, “is no longer the mistress of Trestles.”

“I’ll mistress you one, I will,” she retorted crossly, scrolling for Williams’s number. “I’ve half a mind to throw myself into the nearest moat.”

Hudson bowed from the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

C
HAPTER
32

T
HE GRAND DINING ROOM WAS DOMINATED BY A HUGE MAHOGANY
table, centered between walls lined with red silk fabric and positioned beneath an impressive crystal chandelier. A painting with some mythological scene involving a bull—Doyle was not well-versed in things mythological—was prominently displayed on the wall across from her, and a confusing array of plates, glasses, and silverware glittered on the table. Acton was seated at the head with Doyle to his left, and Sir Stephen on her other side. Melinda and Masterson sat across from them, the dowager at the foot. Conversation was going to be difficult, as Doyle was naturally soft-voiced and the table could seat twenty. It seemed, however, that the now-tipsy Melinda was willing to take up the mantle as the footman ladled out the soup.

“Tell me about yourself, Kathleen; I know absolutely
nothing
about you.”

“I’m from Dublin, originally.” This seemed self-evident, but there wasn’t much else to recite. She couldn’t very well describe St. Brigid’s, or her first paying job at the fish market. Nothing like a job at the fish market to encourage one to enroll in the local police academy.

“Our stable hand is from Ireland,” offered the dowager. “You must meet him.”

“Do you still have family in Ireland?” asked Masterson. She was no doubt thinking it would be nice to have Doyle out of the country, once she’d usurped the throne.

“No—both my parents have been gathered up.” Best not to mention she left her father’s murder scene to go off and marry Acton; that would probably be considered more vulgar than the bridge-jumping incident. “I came to London to be a police constable, and then I enrolled in the Crime Academy to be a detective.”

“And then you met Acton and
none
of us were invited to your wedding;
shame
on the both of you.”

The last thing either of them would have wanted was extraneous people at their wedding, so Doyle offered diplomatically, “It was a bit spur-o’-the-moment, I’m afraid.” Understatement of the century.

Melinda addressed Acton archly, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “Is that so? I never fancied you for a romantic.”

“I have hidden depths,” was his reply, and Doyle was careful not to meet his eye.

But Masterson was unhappy with this topic, and switched it back to one that would feature herself. “Is there any chance I can enlist your hidden depths to help with the archives tomorrow?”

He smiled at her, sorry to disappoint. “I’m to ride in the morning with a friend.”

This was true, and before Doyle could process this unexpected announcement, he added, “and I promised Kathleen I’d give her a riding lesson.”

Doyle glanced up at him, a bit surprised, as this was news to the aforesaid Kathleen.

“You haven’t ridden?” The dowager allowed her features to register well-bred dismay. “Ever?”

“No, ma’am,” Doyle affirmed. And then, because she was unable to stop herself, “Although I
have
been hangin’ about the racecourse of late.”

The dowager drew her brows together in disapproval. “Have you riding dress?”

“No, ma’am,” said Doyle again. “I have not.”

“There’s a pair of Fiona’s old boots in the stable,” offered Acton. “They should fit.”

“A sad business,” said the dowager with a small shake of her head, and Doyle belatedly realized she was referring to the late Fiona, and not her own failings. “A ridiculous and dangerous job for a woman; small wonder she was murdered.”

As Doyle also worked at the CID, and did not feel that Fiona in anyway deserved to be murdered, she made no comment. She noted, however, that Masterson had perked up. “I remember that story—did the Yard ever solve her murder, Acton?”

He admitted with regret, “The trail went very cold.” That the trail went cold by his own contrivance remained unmentioned.

Masterson shrugged slightly in an expression of understanding. “You can’t solve them all, of course. But there is hope; Lady Acton is currently trying to put some cold cases to bed.” She emphasized the title slightly; testing out the way it sounded when spoken aloud.

“That I am,” acknowledged Doyle. “And it’s a tough row to hoe because the evidence is a bit sketchy. If the victim is not sympathetic—or if there are no relatives cryin’ out for justice—sometimes the detectives workin’ the case are not as thorough as they should be.”

“It is fortunate there was press coverage, then,” offered Masterson with some complacency. “The microfiche records should help.”

“There is a big difference between publicity and evidence, though.” Doyle brought to mind her conversation with Williams and Percy. “The publicity sometimes manipulates the evidence.”

Masterson, however, did not care for this remark, and bristled a bit. “There is nothing more important to an investigative reporter than journalistic integrity, I assure you.”

“You must admit,” Sir Stephen observed with a cynical twist of his mouth, “that oftentimes it appears the reporter is supporting an agenda.” Doyle noted that Sir Stephen had been awaiting an opportunity to needle Masterson—a first-class needler, he was.

“I suppose that’s true,” Masterson conceded. “But then the reporter runs the risk of losing credibility. Above all, you can’t jeopardize your credibility—that’s the only thing you have, in this business.”

“The same is true in our business.” Acton bestowed upon Masterson a half-smile of approval, and Doyle noted that one of his hands was out of sight beneath the table. With a mighty effort, she resisted an urge to pin it to the table with her fork to keep it within sight.

The interminable dinner party continued through yet another course, this time fish in a white sauce. Doyle did not care for fish as a result of her stint at the fish market, and pushed it around with her fork, longing to fly away to London so as to take a gander at the latest corpse.

“How does McGonigal, Acton?” The dowager shook her head in dignified sorrow. “A sad business about Caroline—I was quite fond of her.”

Acton replied, “He does well, despite his loss. In fact, he has met a very nice woman.”

“I will dine with him and meet her, the next time I am in town,” the dowager pronounced generously, and Doyle could not resist meeting Acton’s eye for a millisecond. She could only imagine the dowager’s reaction upon meeting Nanda, impoverished and fresh from Rwanda with a baby in tow.

For Masterson’s benefit, the dowager explained, “Caroline and Timothy McGonigal are old friends of Acton’s from school. Regretfully, Caroline took her own life recently.”

“Oh—I am sorry to hear it. Was it unexpected?”

“Indeed,” said the dowager. “Wouldn’t you say so, Acton?”

“Baffling,” agreed Acton, who’d shot Caroline dead.

Melinda spoke up a little too loudly. “At the risk of speaking ill of the dead, I’ll admit I always found her
annoying
. And she didn’t like me at all.” Thinking about it, she then added fairly, “Timothy’s a good sort. Glad he’s happy; probably feels liberated, without the sister hanging about.”

“Indeed,” said the dowager hastily, steering the conversation away from Melinda’s too-honest observations; “Timothy was always such a nice boy—Acton’s father was very fond of him. They shared an interest in music.”

Doyle’s ears pricked up. She realized she’d never heard anyone speak of Acton’s father, including Acton. As she had been fatherless herself, she hadn’t really noticed but now, on reflection, it seemed a little odd; she had no idea how long Acton had held the title. Knowing instinctively that Acton would continue to avoid the subject, she debated whether or not to pursue it here, whilst she had a chance. Instead, Masterson did it for her.

“Was your father a musician, then, Acton?”

“Yes,” Acton said briefly, and Doyle’s antennae quivered.

“He was
renowned
; wrote scores and won medals and such,” explained Melinda, making expansive gestures as people did when they drank too much. She leaned forward to conclude dramatically, “And then he
disappeared
.” She saw that this revelation was met with surprised silence by Doyle and Masterson, and so she lifted her glass to them and smiled. “No secrets among family, what?”

Doyle wasn’t sure which was more startling; discovering that Acton’s father had disappeared, or having Melinda casually placing Masterson at the same familial level as herself.

“Disappeared?” asked Masterson, like a hound to the scent.

She realizes Acton doesn’t want to discuss it, but can’t help herself, thought Doyle; all that journalistic integrity and all. The atmosphere was strained, and as neither Acton nor the dowager made a response, Sir Stephen stepped into the awkward silence and replied briefly, “Yes, many years ago. He was eventually declared dead.”

Doyle could sense Masterson’s avid interest, but it would be impossible to pursue the subject further, in light of the resounding silence coming from Acton and his mother. She dropped her gaze to her plate to hide her uneasiness; Masterson was absorbing disturbing information that could further Solonik’s schemes, if she were ever diverted from her current pursuit of Acton’s honors. For the hundredth time, Doyle hoped that Acton knew what he was about; all it needed was for the drunk Melinda to start talking about what it was like to have sex with Acton, and her evening would be complete. While she worried, Acton touched her leg gently, and she was immediately comforted. He was more than a match for all of them, and she shouldn’t panic like a green recruit.

Thankfully, Melinda had turned her languid attention to Masterson. “Do you cover the Royals?”

“Heavens, no,” laughed Masterson. “I leave that to the tabloids; instead I serve the public.”

Hearing the phrase that Kevin Maguire had once used, Doyle asked, “Have you worked with Kevin Maguire?”

“I have,” Masterson said to her kindly, as if pleased a child had asked an intelligent question. “Maguire is an institution at the paper—larger-than-life.”

“A very nice man,” remembered Doyle.

“And very knowledgeable,” agreed Masterson. “He makes it his business to know everything about everyone.”

Saints, thought Doyle in distress, sensing the woman’s smug satisfaction. Maguire has told Masterson everything he knows about Acton, which was probably quite a bit, since he’d been working on an exposé when Doyle had convinced him to drop it. Doyle didn’t like to think that Maguire would allow Masterson to use his information for blackmail, or revenge, or whatever Solonik’s purpose was; Maguire didn’t seem that sort.

“Shall we play bridge after dinner?” The dowager turned to Doyle with a lifted brow. “You do play bridge, my dear?”

Doyle felt Acton’s gaze upon her as he fingered his chin, and so she demurred, “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“Yes; it may be too confusing for you. Instead, Acton will help you keep score.”

Hatchet-faced
gargoyle
, thought Doyle, feeling her color rise as she fixed her eyes on her plate and pressed her lips together. Your poor husband probably fled in horror, and it’s a wonder your son didn’t shoot you long, long ago. He’s not one to hesitate.

Acton turned to Masterson and suggested he partner her, and she happily agreed, giving him a glance that indicated she would be very happy to partner him in other ways, as well. The dowager and Sir Stephen made up the table, with Melinda content to freshen up her drink and join Doyle as an observer. “A shame about her,” Melinda offered in a sympathetic aside, her words slightly slurred. “I quite like you.”

“No you don’t,” said Doyle, and it was true.