Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  The ghost idly swung his sword in an arc before him, and Doyle was left with the impression that his own advice for Acton’s troubled mind was to spill the blood of his enemies.

  “Yes,” Doyle said diplomatically. “I am certain you are right, but if I could have a word with Dr. Harding, anyways.”

  Suddenly, she was alone again, and so she turned to exit the stone room, hoping she’d succeeded in her task as she pushed open the heavy oaken door to join Acton, who was waiting for her in the hallway.

  “Everything all right?” he asked, scrutinizing her face. A bit worried, he was, and small blame to him; he knew she didn’t like to participate in the ghostly encounters.

  “ʼTis,” she smiled. “Sorry to be so spooky, Michael.”

  “Not at all.” He put an arm around her as they walked down the hallway, the various ghosts overhead watching them with avid interest.

  Doyle asked, “Is Lizzy Mathis still in the dog house? The knight’s reminded me that he’d like to see her settled.”

  On a previous adventure, the knight had disclosed to Doyle that Mathis—who was Hudson’s grand-niece—was also distantly related to the knight himself. The ghost had insisted that Doyle see to her future, and since it was impossible to explain to a medieval knight that a modern woman didn’t necessarily need to marry, so as to have an established future, Doyle was left with the rather daunting task of trying to find someone who was willing to marry Lizzy Mathis.

  “Ms. Mathis is traveling, just now.”

  Doyle blinked. “Lizzy’s on holiday?” This was hard to imagine, as the girl another one of those who was over-dedicated to her work. She was over-dedicated to the House of Acton, too, but recently she’d been in Acton’s black book after the unfortunate events at Wexton prison.

  “She is up north, I believe.”

  “Well, how’s about Trenton? They’d have a lot in common.” Trenton acted as Acton’s personal security, and was another person who seemed over-dedicated to the Acton-cause.

  He smiled, slightly. “That would be problematic, since they are related.”

  She stared in surprise. “They are? Lizzy and Trenton?”

  “Cousins. In fact, he is traveling with Ms. Mathis.”

  Doyle blew out a breath. “I suppose that only make sense—they’re loyal to the bone because they’re both your vessels.”

  “I believe you may mean ‘vassals’.”

  “Thank you. They’re both sworn in blood, or somethin’—faith, it’s medieval, is what it is.”

  “Their family has served mine for centuries,” he agreed mildly.

  “A whole family of overly-dedicated people,” she mused. “Like the Petersons.”

  “Not as famous, perhaps.”

  They’d reached the main stairwell, and she leaned her head against his shoulder as they began to mount the stairs, arm-in-arm. “Well, help me figure out who to marry Lizzy to, because the knight is that fashed about carryin’ on his stupid bloodline wherever possible.”

  Acton tilted his head in defense of the ghostly knight. “It was the way of it, in his time. Marriage was more a means to amass and protect property, rather than a romantic endeavor.”

  “Faith, you slipped the wicket, then,” she teased. “I didn’t even bring a decent tea cup.”

  This remark inspired her husband to halt and kiss her thoroughly, beneath the various family portraits that lined the grand stairway. “You have brought more than I could ever ask for.”

  “Untold riches,” she teased.

  “Exactly,” he agreed, as they resumed their ascent.

  “Well, the knight rather likes me in his grim, women-aren’t-worthy way. It’s a mark in my favor, I think.”

  “You’ bore Edward, which for him, was your one, overriding task. In his time, people were much more focused on getting down to the business of procreating, since so many died young.”

  Doyle made a derisive noise. “You lordly types can stick up for each other, but as for me, I’ll never understand this fascination with bloodlines. If you’re logical about it, there’s just as many bad bloodlines as there are good ones.”

  “A fair point,” he agreed. “Promise me you’ll not announce such a thought at the investiture, though.”

  She laughed aloud, and lifted her face for another kiss, which he granted whole-heartedly, and which in turn prompted a new and entirely different train of thought, as she asked, “Is there any chance we can sneak away to the stables?” The stables had served as a refuge for a heated round of hurry-up sex, on a memorable occasion.

  “There is every chance,” he replied, and steered her back down the stairway.

  Chapter 24

  Nothing. Radio silence. Better go forward with the next one.

  It was with some confusion that Doyle regarded the ghost who appeared before her that night.

  They’d gone to bed early, with Doyle hoping—in an ironic twist of fate—that she’d entertain her ghost-visitor in short order, and that Acton wouldn’t interrupt the ghost-conversation by having another nightmare—although it would bring home the severity of the problem, in case there was any doubt.

  As was the case when she’d last spoken to Dr. Harding, she dreamed she was standing on a windy outcropping—dark and rather desolate—with the wind whirling around her but—strangely enough—not touching her skin.

  To her surprise, however, the ghost who presented himself wasn’t Dr. Harding at all, but instead someone she’d never met; a man in his thirties with shoulder-length hair—slim and wiry, and watching her with an impassive expression.

  “You’ve forgot about me, mate,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Doyle said immediately, and then wracked her brain trying to remember who this fellow was—surely, he wouldn’t be haunting her unless it was important. He’d an accent, but to Doyle, everyone who wasn’t Irish had a very strange accent, and so she couldn’t quite place it.

  “No worries; I’m easy to forget.”

  “That’s not true,” Doyle replied, annoyed. “You’ve not been forgot at all.”

  The ghost bent his head in acknowledgment. “Bang on. Good on you, to remind me.”

  Doyle decided she may as well ask. “Who are you, then?”

  He lifted his head, and regarded her. “I’m a ‘just cause’ murder.”

  With some annoyance, Doyle retorted, “There’s no such thing as a ‘just cause’ murder.”

  But the man only shrugged slightly. “Jack of that, mate; you’re barking up the wrong tree, with me.”

  And the last thing she saw, as he faded away, was the homemade tattoo on the back of his left hand.

  Blinking, she stood on her windy outpost and tried to make sense of it, and so she was almost startled when Dr. Harding showed up, impeccably dressed in an expensive suit, and looking rather put-upon.

  Distracted, Doyle asked, “D’you know this other fellow? I’m not sure what he wants of me.”

  The psychiatrist shrugged as he smoothed out one of his cuffs. “It’s a modern tale of Antigone. Which only illustrates that there is nothing new under the sun.”

  Doyle frowned. “Auntie who?”

  But the ghost cut her off with barely-concealed annoyance. “What is your concern, please—I haven’t much time.”

  “You’ve lots of time,” she countered. “And lucky, it is, that you’re not in more trouble than you are—you did shoot me, once.”

  “Come, now,” the psychiatrist replied impatiently. “Let’s not bicker about who shot who.”

  With a mighty effort, Doyle turned her mind to the task at hand—she needed his help, after all. “It’s about Acton, you see.”

  “Ah.” This seemed to catch his attention, and he bent his head to look up at her from under his brows. “Go on.”

  “Well, his—his fixation, I suppose you’d say—has moved over to Edward. He’s afraid Edward’s in danger, and he can’t sleep, and he can’t seem to be away from him for very long. It’s like he’s livin’ in suspended anim
ation, and I’m that worried.”

  The psychiatrist furrowed his brow. “Ah. Interesting.”

  “I don’t think it’s interestin’, I think it’s truly alarmin’. He’s not his normal self a’tall.”

  “Are the nightmares recurring?”

  She paused, and then admitted, “I’m not certain what that means.”

  “Are they the same, each time? Does he tell you?”

  Nodding, she explained, “He hates to speak of it, but I think they’re always the same. He dreams about Edward’s bein’ thrown into a river, but that he’s not close enough to save him.”

  “I see.” Her companion crossed his arms thoughtfully. “An unusual manifestation. The water may be symbolic of his powerlessness.”

  But Doyle felt compelled to explain, “No—it’s not symbolic of anythin’, actually. Someone truly tried to throw Edward into a river, once. It didn’t happen, and all’s well, but Acton can’t seem to get over it.”

  “Ah.” Lifting his head, her companion uncrossed his arms and fixed her with a thoughtful gaze.

  “Ah, what?”

  The man contemplated her for a moment, then asked, “Does he call out, in these dreams?”

  “No—but he suffers for it; tossin’ and turnin’ somethin’ fierce.”

  “Are you in the dreams?”

  “No.”

  The psychiatrist cocked his head, as though she was a student who’d given the wrong answer.

  She stared at him, surprised. “He hasn’t mentioned it, if I am, and you’d think he would.”

  He bent his head again for a moment, and then said, “I am afraid that you are forgetting the nature of the diagnosis, and its manifestation.”

  Impatiently, Doyle responded, “Small blame to me, then, since I’ve no idea what that means.”

  As though speaking to a simpleton, he explained, “You’ve forgot the main point—the reason for his behavior.”

  Impatiently, she retorted, “I haven’t forgot at all; it used to be all about me, but now it’s shifted over to Edward.”

  “That is where you are wrong. Think about it.”

  She found that she wanted to press her palms to her eyes in exasperation but was unable. “Mother a’ mercy—thinkin’ is overrated; can’t you just tell me, straight-out?”

  “No, I can’t just tell you straight-out. Instead I will lead you to the answer—it’s the way psychoanalysis is done.”

  “Then it’s never goin’ to work,” she groused.

  “Let us start anew. Are you present, in the dreams?”

  Reluctantly, she admitted, “I suppose I am, since I was there when it happened in real life.”

  “Can you swim?”

  She stared at him. “No.”

  He nodded. “No—rather famously, you cannot swim.”

  “Oh—oh, when I rescued Munoz, you mean?”

  With gentle persistence, he prodded, “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  But she only eyed him doubtfully. “I don’t think Acton was as worried about me goin’ into the river as much as he was worried about Edward’s goin’ into the river.”

  But her companion only cocked his head, and regarded her steadily.

  “I would have gone in after Edward,” she admitted. “No matter what.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  Slowly, she offered, “So—I suppose you’re sayin’ that he’s obsessed with keepin’ Edward safe so as to keep me safe—that it’s really about me, like it always is.”

  “There—that wasn’t so very hard, was it?”

  There was a small silence, whilst she thought this over, but there remained one puzzling aspect, and so she lifted her face. “The dreams didn’t start straightaway, though—not right after the river incident—and if what you’re tellin’ me is so, you’d think they would have.”

  The psychiatrist re-crossed his arms. “Yes, that is interesting. Is there a current threat to your safety, which may have triggered this particular manifestation?”

  “No—everythin’ seems all right.” She frowned, thinking about it. “Although Munoz is in danger, apparently.”

  He lifted his head. “Are you in danger, as a result?”

  But slowly, she shook her head. “No—or at least, I don’t get that sense.” Her scalp prickled. “Which is a bit strange,” she mused. “You’d think if Munoz was in danger, that I would be, too, but I’m not.”

  “It might be helpful to explore this aspect—whether there is a perceived danger to you, in his mind.”

  But Doyle shook her head, slightly. “I don’t think so—truly. And he’s been better, these past few days. All of a sudden, he got better.”

  The psychiatrist raised a brow. “Oh? What was the alleviating stimulus?”

  “Not a clue, what you just said.”

  Impatiently, her companion repeated, “What happened, to make him suddenly get better?”

  Frowning, she thought about it. “I’m not sure. Mayhap it was the idea of comin’ here, to Trestles that eased his mind.”

  The doctor cocked his head yet again. “I doubt it. Again, you are forgetting the nature of the manifestation.”

  “It’s not me that needs the rescuin’,” she insisted. “It’s Munoz.”

  But she was suddenly wide-awake, and staring at the bed’s silken canopy overhead, as she listened to her husband’s steady—and blessedly undisturbed—breathing.

  Chapter 25

  He’d put it into action when he came back, then. Straightaway, it couldn’t wait.

  They were planning to head back to London this morning, and—after getting the logistics figured out with Hudson and Mary—Doyle hoisted Edward to her shoulder and went to search out Acton, who she found in the little-used library, which was located on the main building’s second floor. Acton was standing with his hands on his hips as he gazed out the diamond-paned windows, and yet again, Doyle had the relieved sense that he was definitely on the mend.

  The view was a pretty one, overlooking the formal gardens, and she shifted the baby to her hip to stand alongside him. “Gemma’s goin’ to be that sorry to leave; Mary says she loves wanderin’ in the gardens.”

  Absently, he ran his hand down her back, but he seemed distracted, and so she waited a few beats before venturing, “Mayhap we should stay here at Trestles for a bit, Michael. Another few days of restin’ up would be a rare treat.”

  Unspoken was the undeniable fact that he’d been sleeping better—only one nightmare the first night, and not a one the night before—the first time in many weeks. If Dr. Harding was to be believed, it was because he felt he could keep her safe, here, which was certainly true—faith, it was like living on another planet. And certainly, she could put off going back to work for a bit longer; it was no real sacrifice, after all—what with being assigned to be stupid Munoz’s stupid assistant, which was a fate only slightly worse than death. Her husband’s mental health should be a priority, after all.

  Her remark garnered his attention, and he looked down at her with some amusement. “Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”

  “Whist,” she demurred. “I truly wouldn’t mind stayin’, Michael—I could enlist your mother, and start on my kale-project in the back acres. I’ve got to start eatin’ more greens so as to serve as a better example for Edward.”

  With his half-smile, he returned his gaze to the landscape before them. “As tempting as that sounds, I should return to London.”

  She detected a nuance in his voice, and so she sighed. “No rest for the weary, then. Is it the kook murder or the Sir Cavanaugh murder that’s most pressin’?”

  She wasn’t certain he’d answer—he played his cards very close to the vest, did Acton—but he replied, “Neither. Instead, it appears that each is destined for the cold files.”

  Since this was true, she eyed him with deep suspicion as she pulled Edward’s hand from its determined grip on her hair. “What is it that you’re up to, husband? You know it makes me very une
asy when I have the sneakin’ suspicion that you are tryin’ to sweep some murderer’s misdeeds under the rug.”

  He put a reassuring arm around her and pulled her close to his side. “Yes; I do know, Kathleen.”

  As this fond gesture meant that Edward was now trying to reach for his father’s buttons, she shifted the baby to her other hip, and reminded him, “We’re supposed to uphold justice, Michael.”

  “I would agree, in general. Although I will point out that the concept of justice is often nuanced.”

  She made a wry mouth, as she caught the baby’s hand before it reached for her hair again. “Now, there are some weasel-words, if I ever heard them.”

  “Justice is not always clear-cut, Kathleen,” he insisted gently. “Oftentimes it is the choice between the better of two bad options.”

  “Well, I’ll agree that justice is not always clear-cut—or at least, not this side o’ heaven,” she agreed. “But that’s why they hammer-out laws, Michael, so that it can be as fair as it can be.”

  “The laws themselves are often nuanced,” he pointed out.

  Darkly, she threatened, “If you are goin’ to start talkin’ about ‘just cause’, again, husband, I’m goin’ to push you straight through these fancy windows.”

  “Then I won’t,” he replied mildly.

  They’d been over this rough ground many a time—with Doyle stoutly trying to convince him of the error of his vigilante ways—but it was always a delicate balance for her; if she went after him too hard, he’d be even more secretive and careful so that she never found out what he was up to. And it was important that she find out; she did feel as though she was succeeding—bit by bit—in steering him toward a better path.

  They’d made a lot of progress, and by now it seemed clear that the various ghosts she’d entertained were part and parcel of the set-Acton’s-feet-on-a-better-path protocol. Except for the knight, of course, who thought Acton was doing just fine as he was, and never saw a “just cause” murder that he didn’t like.

  Reminded, it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him about the tattoo on her first ghost’s hand—the one who’d told her he was a “just cause” murder. After all, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if Acton knew a thing or two about underworld tattoos, being as he seemed to know everything-about-everything and extra, besides. Something held her back, however, and the question remained unasked.