Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6)

by Anne Cleeland

Sighing, she admitted, “Nothin’ of the least use. Although I’m poleaxed, because now I’m convinced that the death of the QC has got somethin’ to do with me, of all people. There’s some sort of connection, but he won’t say what it is.”

  Acton watched the road for a moment. “I am aware of no connection.”

  This was true, but it was also apparent that he wasn’t telling her everything that he knew, and so she shifted her weight crossly. “I feel like I did at the committee hearin’—that I’m bein’ poked and manipulated, like a puppet on a string. I don’t like it, Michael—I get enough of that from the stupid ghost.”

  He frowned slightly. “The knight is still bothering you?”

  “No—no, just ghosts in general,” she replied vaguely, and wished she’d held her tongue. The last needful thing was for Acton to find out that his dead psychiatrist was banging about the flat, issuing dire warnings. She paused, surprised by this thought. Were they dire warnings? They didn’t seem dire, but perhaps they were—after all, she’d the feeling that a clock was ticking down, for some reason. Or was it a spider, weaving a web? And there was that Até person, who sounded like a fistful of trouble, no matter what Shakespeare said. Faith, Shakespeare had a lot to answer for, when you thought about it.

  “Speaking of which, I’ve arranged to make a visit to Trestles, this weekend. How much time do you think you will need, to address the problem?”

  She shrugged. “Not a clue. Not long, I’d think.” Amused, she leaned forward to look up into his face as he drove. “Confess; you never thought you’d be discussin’ how to best cool down the family ghosts with your future wife.”

  As he watched the road, he leaned to plant a kiss on her forehead. “This is true; you are a constant delight.”

  Sighing, she leaned to rest her head against his shoulder. “Not for Williams, though; he’s unhappy that I’m winklin’ out his misdeeds.”

  “Is Williams a problem?”

  The question was asked in a neutral tone, but she was quick to assure him, “No; in fact, it’s just the opposite. For some reason, Williams was desperate to fix a problem, but he dealt with it in the wrong way, and now he’s that unhappy.” She paused, thinking about it. “He’s stuck, and thoroughly frustrated. I’d like to help him, if I may, and I’m hopin’ that’s all right with you.”

  “By all means.”

  There was a small silence, and she lifted her head to look at him. “Do you know what he’s done, Michael?”

  “I can guess.”

  She blew out an annoyed breath. “Honestly; I’d rather not play twenty questions, husband.”

  “I’m afraid I’d rather not tell you,” he said slowly. “I am sorry, Kathleen.”

  She warned, “I think it’s important that I find out, you know. Usually, when I have this feelin’, it turns out I was right.”

  “I suppose that is a matter of perspective.”

  She had to laugh at his ironic tone; she’d an excellent record of winkling out Acton’s best-laid plans so that she could swoop in at the last minute to save him from himself. “Poor you; I bet you never thought your future wife would be runnin’ around, spikin’ your guns left and right.”

  Gallantly, he demurred, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Laughing, she raised her face for another kiss, and decided not to point out that this last statement was not exactly true.

  They found a parking space, and Doyle reviewed the busy lunchtime crowd that was passing by on the pavement. “Are we puttin’ ourselves on public display, yet again? Should I weep into my handkerchief?”

  “The next committee hearing is tomorrow,” he admitted. “And much is at stake.”

  “Well then; let’s give them a good show. I’ll try to be a bit grave, and fret about bein’ thrown out into the street, bag and baggage. I’ll bemoan aloud what a sad state of affairs this has turned out to be for the heroic bridge-jumper.”

  “If you would.”

  She smiled fondly as he came around to open the door, and decided it was rather sweet, actually; Acton was the last person who’d want to parade around in public, but he was banking on their mutual fame to turn the trick at the stupid succession hearing, so that he could keep his stupid estate.

  No; her instinct told her. That’s not what’s going on, here.

  With some surprise, she examined this thought, as a solicitous maître d’ allowed them to jump the line, and escorted them toward the back of the main dining room. What? Acton wasn’t putting them on display, so as to help his case? Of course, he was; he hated appearing in such a public setting, but needs must, when the devil drives, and there was a hereditary succession to steal.

  They passed though the crowded room, Doyle being careful not to accidently bump her belly into anyone, when suddenly her gaze fell upon Morgan Percy, who was striving mightily to keep her own gaze averted from Doyle’s. The girl’s luncheon companion was Judge Horne, the presiding judicial officer in the Santero case, and they were seated side-by-side, rather than across from each other.

  Ah, thought Doyle; I stand corrected. “Why, hallo Ms. Percy; are you still smartin’ about the new evidence?”

  “I’ll recover,” the girl replied, not betraying by the flicker of an eyelash that she was seated cheek-to-jowl with a supposedly impartial judge.

  “Frederick,” said Acton, offering his hand. “How are you?”

  “I am well, Michael,” the man replied, half-rising to shake. “Would you care to join us? Ms. Percy and I ran into each other, outside.”

  “Please,” said Percy, her limpid gaze fixed on Acton.

  Doyle would have rather enjoyed calling their bluff, but Acton demurred in a polite tone, “Some other time, perhaps.”

  Doyle made to leave, but before she could do so, she was presented with yet another player in this little drama as Williams approached between the tables, only looking up to recognize her at the last moment.

  “DI Williams,” Doyle said heartily, offering her hand. “How very nice it is, to see you again.”

  “DS Doyle,” he replied steadily, the only clue to his discomfiture being the flush of color rising up his neck. “Sir.”

  In his aloof, well-bred manner, Acton politely completed the introductions. “Are you acquainted with Judge Horne, DI Williams? And Ms. Percy?”

  “I am,” said Williams, and nodded to each of them.

  “Please join us,” Percy asked Williams in a bright tone, as though he’d come purely by chance.

  Doyle decided it was time to step away from the almost suffocating aura of dismay and alarm that hovered over the three of them, and so she nodded her goodbyes and turned to follow the waiting maître d’ to a quiet, out-of-the-way corner, where no less than two waiters were assigned to fuss over them.

  After solicitously placing a napkin on what passed for Doyle’s lap, the staff discreetly withdrew, and she was finally given an opportunity to say, “Good one.”

  Acton didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I thought it necessary, I’m afraid.”

  She lowered her menu to glance at him over the top. “It was a crackin’ fine shot across the bow, Michael—a guiltier trio never lurked in a finer restaurant. Although Percy couldn’t help battin’ her eyes at you—such a brasser, and with her current paramour sittin’ right there beside her. Although as I am hugely pregnant, she probably thought you’d be willin’.”

  “I’m afraid she’ll have to spread her favors elsewhere.”

  Doyle hid her face in the menu again. “I could say somethin’ vulgar, but I won’t, bein’ as we are sittin’ in this fine establishment. Faith, what is she thinkin’, canoodlin’ with the judge in a pendin’ case?”

  “There is no rule against meeting up with court personnel in a social setting,” he pointed out in a mild tone.

  She made a derisive sound, and shook her head slightly. “Doin’ it too brown, husband. They were clearly up to no good, but now you’ve put the cat amongst the pigeons—although they’re not pigeon
s, in my book; they’re more like sneakin’ weasels.”

  “Indeed,” Acton agreed. “My thought exactly.”

  She glanced at him over her menu again. “I believe it was Judge Horne who ordered Blakney’s rushed cremation.”

  “I believe you are correct,” Acton replied, as he signaled to the waiter.

  Doyle ordered a fried ham sandwich with extra strawberry jam, and after Acton ordered some fancy salad with a fancy French name, she decided it was time to get down to brass tacks. “So; what are the sneakin’ weasels plottin’, and how is poor Williams a part? He can’t be willingly involved.” She eyed her husband, watching his reaction. “I’ll bet my teeth there’s a shadow murder or two, lurkin’ about. The shoes were just too findable; may as well have had a trail of bread crumbs, leadin’ up to them.”

  He paused for a moment, and she sensed he was weighing his words. “I shouldn’t be surprised. And I imagine there are more shadow murders to come.”

  Dismayed, she watched him cut his salad with a knife and fork—Acton was the sort of person who would cut his salad with a knife and fork. She leaned forward slightly, and said with quiet intensity, “If Williams is involved, Michael, we have to put a stop to it—we have to.”

  He reached to place a hand on hers, and met her gaze with his own reassuring one. “Please don’t worry. I do not believe Williams was involved in the QC’s death.”

  This was a huge relief, but she warned, “He’s involved in the cover-up, though—you’ll not convince me otherwise.”

  “Then I will not make the attempt.” He bent his head to re-address his salad.

  It was a great comfort, in a way, to realize that Acton had a handle on all these ominous doings. As she’d said to Williams, it was always best to assume that Acton knew everything, and then work from there. Although—although he hadn’t known about that other shady judge— that night at Trestles—and the plot to do him in. With a pause, she knit her brow, because she’d the sense—she’d the sense that history was repeating itself, in a strange way—

  Her train of thought was interrupted, however, because as it turned out, Acton was cutting his salad so that he could split it with her, and she regarded the proffered pile of greens with a baleful eye. “Holy Mother—is that kale? Who would willingly eat this stuff?”

  But before her husband could make a response, Doyle discovered that they were to entertain yet another acquaintance, in the form of the elderly chairman from the committee of lords, who rose from his own nearby table to approach theirs.

  Beaming, the courtly gentleman bent over Doyle’s hand. “Lady Acton; how wonderful to see you—although I suppose I mustn’t refer to you as Lady Acton.” He looked about him with guilty good humor.

  “Join us, please,” said Acton, rising politely.

  “Mustn’t,” the chairman chuckled, and shook a bony finger at him. He then directed his fond attention to Doyle. “I’m tempted, though; I knew you had the look of my late wife, Lady Acton, and I was delighted when your husband informed me that you also hail from the Orkneys.”

  Without missing a beat, Doyle dutifully smiled a dimpled smile at him, and kicked Acton’s foot under the table.

  18

  It was a delicate matter, and it would take some delicate handling, but in the end, he had every confidence that she’d never discover the truth. There would never be another lapse like this one, certainly.

  “Mother a’ mercy.” Doyle blew out a long breath, as she sat behind the Range Rover’s blessedly anonymous tinted windows and watched the restaurant fade from view. “Now, there’s a meal I won’t be soon forgettin’. It’s a shame Savoie himself didn’t wander by.”

  “I did expect him,” said Acton, and to Doyle’s astonishment, it was true.

  She processed this for a moment as they drove back to headquarters. As usual, her husband seemed disinclined to discuss these strange and assorted events, which was no surprise—the last thing he’d ever admit was that he was arranging matters behind-the-scenes, even though it was as plain as day that such was the case. “It’s like you’ve heard the soundin’ of the trumpet,” she mused, “and now you’re only waitin’ for the walls to start collapsin’ down.”

  He smiled his half-smile, and took her hand. “Surely not.”

  “You’ve got the nerves for this, husband, but I don’t. You’re lucky I didn’t upend the table in a panic, and flee the scene.”

  He squeezed her hand. “On the contrary, I think you handled yourself very well.”

  Dropping her head back on the headrest, she couldn’t help but smile. “Only because the three of them were as guilty as the mark of Cain, and it was all rather amusin’.”

  “They did seem rather surprised to see us, didn’t they?”

  “They did indeed. It makes you wonder what they’re cookin’ up, although I’d be very much surprised if you didn’t already know.”

  There was a small silence, and because she knew he wasn’t going to spill whatever it was, she asked instead, “How d’you find out the things you find out? It’s nothin’ short of amazin’.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Much of it is guesswork.”

  Turning her head to regard him, she teased, “Well, that’s not true at all.”

  With a smile, he amended, “Much of it is gathering information, and then understanding what is significant; what motivates behavior.”

  “Yes,” she mused, turning to rest her head back again. “You’re rather like a psychiatrist—that’s all about perceptions, too—but while a psychiatrist is tryin’ to put a stop to desperate measures, you’re encouraging them.”

  Amused, Acton glanced her way. “You astonish me, Lady Acton.”

  She drew down the corner of her mouth. “Just thinkin’ out loud.”

  They sat for a few minutes in silence, as they made their way through the post lunch-time traffic. Since he seemed in a benign mood—and small wonder, after stirring-up the caldron to such good effect—she ventured, “Are you angry with Williams? I can’t tell.”

  “No,” he replied slowly. “Instead, I am sorry for Williams.”

  Watching him, she insisted, “He’s not a back-stabber, you know. There’s somethin’ else at play, here.”

  “I am inclined to agree.”

  With a knit brow, she contemplated how to winkle more information out of her sphinx-like husband, who was carefully guarding his words. “I’m worried that he’s got himself tangled up with Morgan Percy.”

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  She quirked her mouth. “She’s another one who needs to be saved from herself.”

  Tilting his head, he observed, “I’m not certain that she has any desire to be so saved.”

  “I’ll grant you that—she’s rather breathtakin’ in her brass, when you think about it. Mayhap it’s Percy you should have married; she’d be eggin’ you on, like that Lady Macbeth person—the one with the bloody knives, and such.”

  “All in all, I believe it is just as well that I married you, instead.”

  She turned her head to him. “You think you’re teasin’, husband, but it’s the unbarked truth; at least I’m a check on your heathenish ways. If you were with her, you’d both wind up in prison, and it’d be a sorry end to all your mutual schemin’.”

  He lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I am indeed fortunate, to have avoided such a fate.”

  “Keep it to mind, then, next time you’re wishin’ for a wife who suits you better; I’m a brake on your certain downfall, and all those guns aren’t goin’ to spike themselves.”

  “You and I are well-suited,” he insisted. “We are both fond of butter pecan ice cream.”

  She made a derisive sound. “We may be well-suited, but there’s no denyin’ that we’re opposites—like chalk and cheese, or Nemesis and Até.”

  Acton looked over at her in surprise, and then couldn’t help laughing, a rare event for him. “Good God, where did that come from?”

  She feigned insult. �
��What? Are you implyin’ that I’m not familiar with the classics?”

  “I am.” He smiled, still very much amused.

  With an answering smile, she admitted, “Reynolds. It’s a rare wonder, he is; I only hope he’s civil to poor Mary.”

  Mary was set to be Edward’s nanny. She’d been a witness in an earlier case, and Doyle had known immediately that she was the perfect nanny, even though she was not well-educated, and had been living in the projects, at the time. The woman had emanated honesty and kindness, and Doyle was relieved to think that the next addition to the household would be someone who would blend in so effortlessly, rather than the sort of nanny Reynolds envisioned, from one of those hoity-toity services.

  “I am certain Reynolds will behave with all due civility.”

  She froze in surprise, because there was something underlying her husband’s words—something that made him suddenly grave. What? Something about Mary? Or about Reynolds? Glancing at him, she ventured, “Has Reynolds done somethin’ he oughtn’t?”

  Her husband turned to her, a teasing light in his eyes, and Doyle’s feeling was gone. “He doesn’t dare.”

  She laughed in agreement, and decided that she was just being fanciful, to think there was some sort of undercurrent in the Reynolds-and-Mary-the-new-nanny scenario. Leastways, it reminded her that she should pay a visit to Mary to see how she did, and perhaps warn her not to be too intimidated by Reynolds—which was irony indeed, as Doyle herself was mightily intimidated by Reynolds.

  “If your calendar is clear, I would appreciate it if you would attend the committee hearing tomorrow morning.”

  She teased, “Oh? So, I’m not to be manipulated into bangin’ through the doors this time?”

  “There can be only one dramatic entrance, I’m afraid.”

  As they pulled into the premium parking garage, she eyed him a bit dubiously, because he clearly did not repent of all his guileful maneuvering, which only showed you that she wasn’t much of a check on his heathenish ways, after all. “I’ll say it again; it’s amazin’. You figure out how everyone’s goin’ to react, and then all it takes is a tiny push—here and there—to make it all come out just as you’d like. And I must admit, husband, that it’s a bit demoralizin’ to think that I’m just as suceip—sutecce—”