Murder in Hindsight (18 page)

C
HAPTER
33

A
FTER A FEW HANDS OF BRIDGE,
A
CTON RESTED HIS CHIN ON
his hand and so Doyle stood and announced with poor grace, “Well, I’m for bed.”

As though reminded of his obligations, Acton solicitously escorted her to Mathis at the foot of the stairs, and asked the maid to see that she was ready for her ride in the morning. He then kissed Doyle’s forehead distractedly and headed back to Masterson. For Mathis’s benefit, Doyle watched him go and pretended to silently fume as she ascended the stairs.

The maid offered no comment, and saw her to her room. “If you need anything, madam, please ring me—you have my cell programmed? I will knock in the morning to be certain that you are up.”

Doyle clambered onto the feathery bed to lie awake and think about what she’d learned. She didn’t sleep well in a strange place, and on top of that, she hadn’t slept without Acton’s arms around her since the day after they were married, so she was reconciled to a restless night—hopefully it would be the only one, and they could leave for home tomorrow. She was very sensitive to atmosphere and it was thick as soup in this place, between the miserable assortment downstairs and the vague feeling of watchful generations, hovering about. Hurry Acton, she pleaded mentally; solve the problem. I need to get back and sort out a serial killer and a French kingpin, and not necessarily in that order.

As for Acton’s problems, they didn’t seem any closer to a resolution, either. Doyle had duly noted that Mathis the maid was a bundle of suppressed wariness, despite her demure manner—but small wonder, with such a monumental scandal brewing for all to see. Doyle just couldn’t see the maid conniving with someone like Solonik, though; the slyness wasn’t there, although it was there in spades with Cousin Stephen—a likely villain if there ever was one. Doyle had also begun to wonder if the person leaking information from Trestles was even aware of Masterson’s role; Doyle hadn’t caught the feeling that any of them shared a secret with the reporter, which seemed strange. Acton was probably doing the same thing—watching for any significant interaction between Masterson and one of the others. She tried not to imagine what else Acton was willing to do for the cause, but it was best not to dwell on it; she could only hope that he would not run the risk of making the fair Doyle so unhappy again.

Hard on this thought, the key turned in the lock and Acton himself came in, holding a cup between his hands as Mathis closed the door behind him. “If anyone asks, you sent a text asking me to bring up warm milk.”

“Mother a’
mercy
, I’m a pill.” She lifted her face for his kiss. “How goes your schemin’?”

“I wanted to assure you that all is in train.” He leaned against the bed and lifted a palm to her cheek, still warm from the cup. “I am sorry it is so uncomfortable for you, Kathleen. If I could spare you this, I would.”

Doyle thought it an opportune time to mention, “Mrs. Wright implied that you were diddlin’ the maid.”

He bent his head for a moment to smile. “No, although I’ve been closeted with Mathis once or twice because she is working for me, assigned to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh—oh, I see. Well, it’s irritatin’, is what it is. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sometimes,” he explained in a diplomatic tone, “your thoughts are a little transparent.”

This was unfortunately true, but didn’t mean that Doyle appreciated having it pointed out. “I’m that sorry—but I can’t hold a candle to your girlfriend, who acts like she owns the place already. That’s a dinner party I won’t be forgettin’ for a good while.”

“A necessary evil,” he said only, and fingered her hands in his. “What else did Mrs. Wright have to say?”

“Mainly, she was exhortin’ me to do battle with the pretender, and tryin’ to make me believe I had a fightin’ chance. She cooks up an excellent scone, by the by.”

He was silent for a moment, and then shifted the subject. “You didn’t eat much, tonight.”

“Can you be blamin’ me, husband? It’s a rare wonder I didn’t upend the table.”

“Melinda—” he paused. “Melinda was a long time ago.”

“Clearly. Your taste has improved by leaps and bounds, my friend.”

He smiled at her tone. “My mother would be very content to drive you away.”

“She can’t do it,” declared Doyle with some spirit. “And I doubt she’d be happier with nasty Cassie, anyway.”

“No,” he agreed.

He seemed lost in thought, and she respected his mood for a few moments, then steeled herself to say what needed to be said, remembering her visit with wretched Solonik in the wretched, wretched prison. “I want you to know, Michael, that if it came down to brass tacks and you had to do somethin’ desperate—like marry the brasser to keep her in check—I would understand.”

Acton paused in fingering her hands, and lifted his head to stare at her. “What nonsense is this?”

Calmly, she reiterated, “I just want you to know that if I had the choice of savin’ you by lettin’ you go, I’d rather do that.”

“Not an option.”

He was annoyed, and she tried to tease him. “I could be your mistress, for a switch; only think how it would horrify your mother.”

“Kathleen, have done.”

She subsided into silence. Touchy, he was.

After a moment, he lifted her hand to kiss it. “I am sorry I snapped at you.”

“It was not a good idea, perhaps.”

“You should have more faith in me,” he said, gently chiding.

“Then I’m sorry, too.” She hoped he wouldn’t forget what she’d said, just in case.

He took a breath and reluctantly relinquished her hands. “I should go; I will see you tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t let her climb onto your lap; that’s my territory.” This was a reference to a very satisfying session of lovemaking that had begun spontaneously the other day; best to remind her husband what-was-what.

“Don’t worry; I will tell her that it is important not to jump the gun.”

“Just as long as no one is jumpin’ your gun, my friend.”

With a wry mouth, he gave her a look as he shut the door behind him.

She sat for a moment with her gaze on the closed door, thinking. He’d not mentioned the horse-riding tomorrow, but it seemed unlikely it was a chance ride with a friend, as he’d said. And another thing; he hadn’t explained why he’d appointed Mathis as watchdog. He was a world-class fretter, of course, but perhaps the jury was still out with respect to the dowager-as-poisoner. Sir Stephen was a dirty dish, and there was no love lost between he and Acton—but it seemed unlikely he was a danger to her; she was a trained police officer, after all, and theoretically able to handle herself. Lying back into the soft pillows, she propped her arms behind her head. And tied up in this tangle was the strange fact that Acton’s father had disappeared, long ago. There was something there that made everyone uneasy—she wished the conversation at the table had continued for a few more minutes. Although the subject shouldn’t have been raised in the first place—nothing like airing the dirty linen before a news reporter; Melinda was a crackin’ idiot.

She hadn’t realized that she drifted off to sleep until she dreamed a strange and uncomfortable dream; a figure stood before her—that of a middle-aged man, dressed in some sort of war gear. He had bad teeth, and his hand rested on the hilt of a sword.

“Go ’way,” she said, annoyed. “I’ve nothin’ to do with any of this.”

He made no reply, but she thought she heard a dog, howling mournfully in the distance.

She tried again. “I’m naught but a shant, and a mackerel snapper, to boot. You have me confused wi’ the bridge-jumper.”

With a start, she was suddenly wide-awake, sitting up in bed and listening to the silence. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, and the house was still. She lay back down, her heart beating in her throat, longing to go and find Acton.

C
HAPTER
34

D
OYLE WAS AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING BY
M
ATHIS’S SOFT
knock. “Are you up, madam? It’s eight o’ clock.”

“Yes, Mathis. Thank you.” Trying to pull herself together, Doyle checked her mobile to find text messages from both Williams and Acton.

She was ashamed to admit she was more interested in what Williams had to say about the latest murder. “Secured the scene, SOCOs on it,” it said. “It’s a twist. Talk soon?”

“I hope,” she texted back. “Will let U know.” A twist—leave it to Williams to say nothing further; although he was probably being tentative because he was worried there was still some constraint between them. With exquisite frustration, she rubbed her face in her hands, yearning to be back in the thick of it. On some level, she was aware that she should have already solved these murders, but it was tantalizingly out of reach—she was being dense, for some reason, and her instinct needed a bit of a push. Perhaps this latest case—the one with the twist—would offer the final clue. It was confusing because it was all tied up in everything else.

She paused in surprise, her fingers poised before opening Acton’s text message. It was all tied up in everything else? What did
that
mean? Unbidden, she remembered her dream, and Acton’s missing father, and Sir Stephen’s patronizing attitude. I am stark, raving mad, she thought in disgust, and opened up Acton’s message.

“Breakfast room. Coffee w/lots of cream.”

She smiled at the screen and scrambled into her jeans and jacket, braiding her hair in the back because there was no time to tame it. If the brasser wasn’t up yet, hopefully she’d have a few blessed minutes alone with her husband.

Mathis showed her to the breakfast room—which wasn’t half as cheerful as its name implied—and Acton greeted her with a chaste kiss that did not fool her for a second; there were lustful thoughts behind that indifferent façade. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well,” she lied. “And you?” She gave him a look.

“Bring your coffee, and I’ll walk you over to the stables.”

Ah—he must want to speak where there was no chance they could be overheard, which was a welcome sign. They walked together out the back door and into the gardens, the gravel crunching beneath their feet as they made their way away from the main building. Acton wasn’t one to make idle conversation, and so in the silence that ensued, Doyle looked around her as she breathed in the cold, crisp air, trying to ignore the vague, unsettled feeling brought about by her dream. They passed through the back garden; the hedges and fountains laid out in neat geometric patterns, and continued toward the outer buildings that bordered the fields behind the manor house.

“What was the garden planner’s name? Captain Black?”

He smiled. “Not quite—Capability Brown.”

She raised her cup in homage. “Well, whatever his name was, it’s so very beautiful, Michael. Are there any dogs, here?”

“No—no dogs. Why?”

“Just wonderin’. D’you think we will live here, someday?”

“I hadn’t really considered it.”

This, interestingly enough, was not true. She was fast coming to the rather dismayed realization that he loved this place, even though he never spoke of it. I will love it also, then, she assured herself stoutly. One only has to become accustomed, is all.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes while she sipped her coffee and the birds called from the spreading elms that lined the utility road. Deciding that it was past time he made a report, she inquired in a mild tone, “You didn’t tell me of your night, husband; did you finally push the brasser out the door?”

“She definitely didn’t want to leave.”

“Answer my question, Michael.”

“Yes, I pushed Ms. Masterson out the door and sent her upstairs and I did not have sex with her.”

“Thank you,” she said, and took another sip.

He looked up at the sky for a moment—it was a bit overcast, but not threatening rain. “In fact, I impressed upon her the importance of staying low-key and out of sight today, so she will spend the duration locked within the archives.”

She glanced up at him, suddenly alert. “What is it?”

He met her gaze, his own benign. “What is what?” Crossly, she looked away. “I hate it when you don’t tell me what’s goin’ on.”

But he deftly changed the subject. “Speaking of which, do you know what Williams wants to tell me that he can’t say over the phone?”

Doyle could feel her color rise. “Williams is a tiresome
knocker
.”

“I see. Should I be forewarned?”

She debated what to say, wishing she was as fast on her feet as he was. “It is important that I speak with him first, Michael. Promise me.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “You alarm me.”

She realized she’d have to tell him something, and so disclosed with unfeigned exasperation, “He has taken it into his wooden head that you are—are not doin’ right by me.” This was close enough to the truth, and hopefully no more need be said.

“He saw the photographs?”

Now it was Doyle’s turn to stare. “
You
saw the photographs?”

“They were in your rucksack. I wondered how you knew.”

This was fair enough; she should have burnt them if she didn’t want him to find them—he was Acton, after all. “Well, it was a terrible shock, and Williams did see them by accident. But that is water under the bridge,” she added hastily, hoping he wasn’t going to ask who took them. Hopefully, he would believe they were sent to her anonymously; she’d carefully cleaned the incriminating prints.

Acton thought about it, his chin on his chest. “So Williams wants to take me to task?”

Doyle had to smile at the picture thus presented. “It would seem so.” They looked at each other, Acton with a gleam of humor and Doyle starting to laugh—it truly was funny. “Let me fix it.”

Acton tilted his head in acquiescence. “I had no idea he was that brave.”

Or that stupid, she added silently; we shall see if DI Williams is also that deceitful.

He unlatched the stable yard gate and gestured her through. “I have time to give you a riding lesson before my visitor arrives.”

She eyed him. “The mystery man.”

“Yes,” he admitted without shame. “The mystery man.”

As they entered the wooden building, the stableman promptly came forward. When she’d been investigating the racecourse, Doyle noted that stable folk all tended to look alike and this one was no different; wiry and lean, with sandy hair and a face that did not register his hidden resentment as Acton made the introductions. “This is Grady, who has handled the stables very ably for many years.”

“I’m that pleased to meet you, my lady,” the man said perfunctorily, and it was not true.

“The pleasure is mine,” Doyle replied with a polite smile, and a small silence ensued. No, not at all pleased to meet me, thought Doyle. He was from Ulster—a proddy, as her mother used to say—and it was never meant as a compliment. Unhappy, he was, having to make nice to the enemy.

“Have you saddled Buckle?” asked Acton.

“Yes, sir; she’s ready to go.”

Acton turned to Doyle. “Let me find your boots, first.”

She followed him into the tack room, where several pairs of spare boots were stacked in a tack box. After pulling a pair, he dusted them off with a rag and glanced over toward Grady, who was lingering outside the door. In a quiet tone, Acton asked, “Is this going to be a problem for you? He’s been here so long I’d forgotten about his origins.”

“Not a’tall; it’s a peaceful colleen, I am, and I’ve no interest in The Troubles. The boyo will just have to be gettin’ over it.”

With a nod, he held out the boots for her inspection. “These belonged to Fiona; I think you’re about the same size.”

She sat on the tack box to pull them on, resisting the urge to make a flippant remark about stepping into the dead woman’s shoes. Grady came to stand within the doorway, and it was evident he was aware he hadn’t shown to advantage in his first encounter with the new Lady Acton. “How are the boots, my lady? I have a lead rope ready, here.”

“Good,” said Acton as he checked his watch. “Allow me to take you around the yard for a few turns.”

Her husband led her to a stall where a grey mare was tied to an iron loop, flicking her ears forward in idle interest at their approach. “This is Buckle. She’s very gentle.”

Doyle reached up and timidly patted Buckle’s neck, mainly because she felt it was expected of her, and the two men were watching. She was a bit nervous, having been fascinated by horses, but never having been within calling distance of one. Acton led the mare into the stable yard, then came around to stand beside her at the stirrup. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

He hoisted her up, and whilst he adjusted the stirrups, Doyle studied the ground, which now seemed rather a long way down.

“All right?” asked Acton, with a final tug on the strap.

“Yes,” she replied firmly.

After he demonstrated how to hold the reins, he began to lead the horse outside and toward the yard. Doyle held on like grim death, but once she began to entertain a cautious hope that the animal was not going to break free and run wildly away, she could not suppress a delighted smile.

Her husband noticed. “Good?”

“Oh, it’s grand. Look at me, Michael; I’m horseback ridin’ like a nob.”

He was very pleased, she could tell. “You are a sight, Lady Acton.”

“Don’t say it too loud,” she cautioned, “your girlfriend may be lurkin’ about.”

But he met her eyes, suddenly serious. “You must let me know if she is being untruthful—about anything at all.”

“I will, then.” Thus prompted, she told him, “She was lyin’ yesterday about not havin’ a family.”

Surprised, he glanced back over his shoulder as the horse stepped placidly along. “Is that so? She is married?”

“I don’t remember what it was, but she was not tellin’ the truth.”

He glanced toward the stable, thinking about this. “If you would, pay careful attention, henceforth.”

“I will,” she agreed in a solemn tone. “Henceforth.” She wondered if he’d been drinking; hopefully he would keep his wits about him, what with all the plots and counter-plots and keeping one’s wife in the dark so that she wouldn’t say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“The same for my visitor, please.”

Ah—the penny dropped, and she realized there was a method to this outing, and he must want her to listen in; she wouldn’t be needing a French maid’s outfit, after all. “I see how it is,” she teased. “Workin’ me like a rented mule.”

But apparently this touched a nerve, and he looked up in apology. “I must beg your pardon, Kathleen. But the stakes are quite high.”

“I’m teasin’ you, Michael, is all. I take it the visitor is connected to your mysterious Home Office case?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say,” he said, and it was true, which was his way of telling her that indeed he was.

“I hope I don’t muck it up,” she warned. She was nervous, thinking of his important case—the one where he thought he was being misled, somehow.

He glanced back at her with interest. “How would you know whether you’d mucked it up, one way or the other?”

This seemed a fair point, and she thought about it for a moment as he led the horse along. “I suppose I don’t know; not always. But usually I do.” Come to think of it, she hadn’t had a misfire in a while—perhaps because as she got older, she grew more accustomed to sorting things out. It was a burden, sometimes, sorting out the important lies from the unimportant ones.

“Can you tell me anything about it?” His voice was gently curious as he interrupted her thoughts. “When did it start?”

He knew she didn’t like speaking of her perceptive abilities, and she never had spoken of it with anyone, except him—and on the first day she’d met him, no less. Still and all, already he had a very shrewd understanding of it, and so she forced herself to answer calmly. “As far back as I can remember. I’d get—impressions, I guess you’d say. I suppose the surprise was when I realized no one else . . .”—she paused in acute distress, unable to go on.

With a dismayed movement, he stopped the horse and came to her side to lay a hand on her leg. “Let’s not speak of it, then; I am sorry I pressed you.”

She pulled herself together. “No; I’m the one who’s sorry, Michael. I just know I’m never supposed to say.”

He met her eyes with his own, the expression therein very grave. “No; you must never tell anyone else, Kathleen.”

This was self-evident; she could easily imagine the problems that would arise. She hated being the bridge-jumper; imagine if it were discovered that she was the truth-detector. “I won’t, Michael. I hope I’m not that dense.” As he turned to resume their walk, she added fairly, “Although I think Aiki knew.”

“Aiki?” He threw her a surprised look. Aiki was the cab driver, murdered by Caroline.

“And your ancestors.” This slipped out, almost without conscious volition, and as a result, he stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at her. A bit flustered, she explained, “I had a dream last night—they are unhappy about your cousin.”

He stood quite still. “And what do they think of me?”

Embarrassed, and wishing she hadn’t brought it up, she replied a bit crossly, “I’ve no idea, Michael. It doesn’t work that way.”

But he did not move, and she had the sudden impression he was very disturbed, for some reason. Before she could make an inquiry, however, voices could be heard from the stable, and he turned his head. “Stay close, if you would.”

“I would,” she agreed, and hoped she could sort it all out; between nasty Masterson, the mysterious visitor, and her equally mysterious husband.