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

by Anne Cleeland

  “I was,” the woman agreed, her double chins bobbing. With some dismay, Doyle noted that Mrs. Wright exuded plump and plain English honesty in the best tradition—which was why she’d deceived Doyle, back when she was colluding with the villains. This did not bode well, as it seemed evident that no one was going to believe that such a pattern-card of traditions-gone-by would be anything but honest and believable.

  “Do you recall observing a romantic relationship between the respondent and the young lady in question?”

  The woman nodded earnestly. “Oh yes; I do remember it well. She was always about, and very fond of the young master.”

  “You are not aware whether there was, in fact, a marriage between the two, however.”

  “That is correct.” She nodded again, her cheeks a bit pink.

  “But—” and here the man paused, so as to create an emphasis, “but you were made aware that an elopement was planned.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Wright testified, as a rustling of movement amongst the committee members could be observed. “The young lady did confide in me, once.”

  This was not true, and Doyle could only close her eyes, and prepare for the worst.

  “And what, Mrs. Wright, did she confide?”

  “Objection, my lord.” Acton’s counsel stood, and a thread of outrage could be heard in his voice. “It would be the rankest hearsay.”

  “I’ll allow.” The chairman gestured vaguely with his hand. “Proceed.”

  Mrs. Wright leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “She said she was going to talk him into going up to Gretna, or mayhap Dunby, and that she’d already researched it, to make certain the marriage would be binding.”

  This response was apparently not according to script, and counsel was seen to hesitate for the barest instant, before he asked in a more forceful tone, “But the plan went forward, as far as you know, and the respondent went away with her, of his own free will?”

  “I don’t know as he did,” the witness admitted, with a slight frown. “He never mentioned it to me, even though he would come to seek out my fresh-baked scones, and we’d have a good chat, now and again.” She turned to smile upon Acton with all appearance of fondness. “He was such a sweet boy.”

  Doyle was forced to sink her face into her hands, and hope that anyone observing her might think that she was overcome with emotion, rather than desperately trying not to laugh out loud.

  Counsel was striving mightily to hide his extreme dismay at the unexpected turn that the witness’s testimony had taken, and seemed to be trying to decide whether this line of questioning was even worth pursuing. The decision was taken out of his hands, however, as Mrs. Wright could be seen to flush, and lower her gaze. “The young master did tell me that his cousin, here, was very angry about his—his relationship with the young woman.” Here she paused to slip a fearful peep at Sir Stephen. “And the next thing you knew, she’d disappeared, and was never seen again.”

  And there you go, thought Doyle, reaching down to collect her things. When all was said and done, you could always trust Acton to turn the tables.

  21

  She looked very well in black.

  “Nicely done,” Doyle said to Acton, when they finally had a moment alone. They were yet again seated at the corner table in the Parliament cafeteria, so as to be put on display before their assorted well-wishers, who watched them with unabated good will and a great deal of whispering behind hands.

  “It did appear to go well,” her husband remarked mildly, as he considered the offerings listed. “I see that the soup today is lentil. May I fetch you a bowl?”

  Doyle grimaced in distaste. “May as well be gruel. A shame they’ve no deep-fried sandwiches, like the ones at Candide’s.”

  “We could share a beefsteak.”

  She raised her brows in surprise. “You’re wantin’ a beefsteak?” Acton was not a hearty-beefsteak-for-lunch sort of person.

  “Let’s.” Without waiting for her say-so, he rose to walk over to the counter, and signal to the chef.

  Saints, she thought, watching him in bemusement. He must feel the need for fortification, and small blame to him, after the latest round of guileful maneuvering—it was amazing the man got any sleep at all. She resolved to humor him, even though she wasn’t a hearty-beefsteak sort of person herself, being as hearty-beefsteaks had been as rare as hen’s teeth in her life, thus far.

  After he’d returned to the table, Doyle took the occasion to observe, “Well, to sum up this continuin’ holy show, we’re left with the impression that—in his zeal to acquire the title—Sir Stephen not only murdered your father, but also murdered your potential bride. Although on his behalf, she’s been portrayed as a flamfoo who was tryin’ to trick you into marriage.”

  Acton offered a half-smile. “I am reluctant to agree until I first discover what a ‘flamfoo’ is.”

  She gave him a look. “You know very well what I mean, my friend—you’re the one paintin’ the picture, after all. And although Mrs. Wright’s turned up a trump, she’s still a crackin’ blackheart, and she’s not foolin’ me one whit.”

  Tilting his head, he reminded her, “But she will fool everyone else. Impressions, in a case such as this one, are more important than the evidence.”

  Doyle could only agree, as she tried to cross her legs but had to be content with crossing her ankles, instead. “Aye that; there’s not a soul alive who wouldn’t believe her. Mrs. Wright looks like someone who would sell apple-butter for the parish, and Sir Stephen looks like someone who would steal from the offerin’ plate.”

  “Precisely.”

  They’d had this conversation before; humankind put a priority on instinctive reactions—reactions that could be exploited, depending on the desired outcome. Instinct often took precedence over facts—even facts that were inarguable, in the cold light of day. It was the way the juries ferreted out the liars, and in a broader sense, it was the way the species survived. All the evidence in the world was not going to convince anyone that the smarmy Sir Stephen was in the right—even though he was—and Acton was not above exploiting that impression. It all went back, of course, to Acton’s belief that the ends justified the means, and that the justice system needed the occasional push in the right direction.

  With Mrs. Wright’s fairy-tale fresh in her mind, Doyle observed, “I was that surprised, Michael; I didn’t think I’d ever see Mrs. Wright again.” This was an understatement; it was a miracle that Acton hadn’t added the former cook to his long list of retribution murders.

  Lifting the carafe from the table, he topped off her water glass with a careful hand. “It was fortunate that she was persuaded to come forward.”

  Doyle guessed, “You offered filthy lucre, and plenty of it. Well done, you; she’s one who’s always had her eye on the prize. I hope you didn’t empty the vault.”

  “No such thing; she was all too pleased to offer her assistance.”

  Doyle gave him a skeptical look as their lunch was served, and they ate for a few minutes in companionable silence. He wasn’t going to tell her the particulars, and—truth to tell—she’d rather not know the particulars, as it would no doubt involve the suborning of perjury.

  Acton offered her the rarer portion of the beefsteak, which was duly appreciated—the English had a tendency to cook the flavor out of everything—and she devoured it with gusto. “So; I suppose there’s to be a third act to the holy show, what with the two documents havin’ to be checked out. Are we worried about what the specialist might say?”

  “Not particularly,” he replied, and it was the truth.

  Eying him shrewdly, she ventured, “It does seem to be an extraordinary coincidence; that two documents referencin’ this supposed-marriage were unearthed, and from two completely different places.”

  “Extraordinary,” he agreed in a mild tone, without raising his gaze.

  “Sir Stephen must have felt like it was Christmas and his birthday, all rolled into one.”

  “I
shouldn’t be surprised.”

  She’d get nowhere with this, of course, and so she re-addressed her meal, but couldn’t resist remarking, “That counsel of yours does a fine job of pretendin’ to be dismayed. I think a good barrister is nothin’ more than a good actor.”

  “I will agree. You should finish up your beefsteak, as we’ll be reconvening soon.”

  She glanced up at him, and decided to take the bull by the horns. “Should I expect more drama from your counsel, this fine day? You’re cock o’ hoop about somethin’, husband.”

  Thus confronted, he hesitated, and then equivocated, “In due course.”

  Annoyed, she stabbed at the last bite. “I’m not goin’ to be your pregnant courtroom prop unless you treat me better. Honestly, Michael.”

  He reached to take her hand. “You are not very good at subterfuge, I’m afraid.”

  This was inarguable, and she sighed in wistful acknowledgment. “No, which is why I won’t be testifyin’ any time soon—I’d blurt out all the wrong things, and the clerk would have to hit me with a mindin’-staff.”

  “You must trust me, I’m afraid.”

  “I do trust you,” she declared firmly. And it was true; she’d always trusted him, and from the first moment they’d met. It was inconceivable that Acton would betray her, so Harding must have got it by the wrong leg, for some reason.

  After lunch, she headed back through the muted hallways alongside her husband, listening to the discreet, excited buzz that could be heard in their wake. “Who will testify, next? They’re goin’ to have to re-trench, poor things, and I can’t imagine they’ll want to call you back.” It seemed unlikely; the last needful thing Sir Stephen’s counsel would want would be for Acton to get up and verify everything Mrs. Wright had said.

  “We shall see,” was the only response she got, and again, she had the impression that he was looking forward to something.

  “Is your mother comin’ back?” This asked with a trace of dread.

  “I doubt it.” He held the entry door open for her.

  Doyle glanced up at him as she passed through. “Talk about your Lady Macbeths, she’d fill the bill.”

  “An apt comparison,” he agreed. “Down to the vengeful ghosts.”

  “The ghosts don’t much like her,” she informed him, and carefully settled into her seat.

  22

  There was no question that her iron count would be in a better range, next visit.

  Doyle was soon to discover the other side’s counter-move, because Sir Stephen himself was called forward to testify. Under questioning by his counsel, he spoke of the two different points of contention: Acton’s alleged first marriage, and the rumors of an imposter heir when Acton’s grandfather held the title.

  The chairman himself leaned in to note, “You were not living at Trestles, though, when either of these supposed events went forward, and cannot testify, either way.”

  “No, I was not.” Sir Stephen had taken pains to come across as a reasonable truth-teller, and Doyle grudgingly noted that he did indeed tell the truth—or the truth as far as he knew it, anyways.

  The chairman reviewed his notes. “With respect to the marriage, we must await the findings on the two documents.” He looked up again at Sir Stephen’s counsel. “In the meantime, have you a corroborating witness, with respect to either the alleged marriage, or the alleged substitution of heirs?”

  Counsel replied with regret, “Unfortunately, my lord, it was difficult to find any direct evidence, and anyone who was a witness to the post-war events is now deceased. But we have circumstantial evidence that shows a pattern of secretive behavior.”

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle with a pang of alarm. Don’t like the sounds of that—Acton has a basketful of secrets that should never see the light of day. Please God, amen.

  “Utter speculation, my lord,” Acton’s counsel protested. “The petitioner has no admissible evidence, and so wishes to use this opportunity to defame my client with unrelated matters.” As the man paused, his gaze rested on Doyle for the barest instant, and the significance of this action was not lost on anyone—the implication being that the longstanding bachelor had some secrets best not discussed before his wedded wife.

  The chairman rested his own sympathetic gaze on Doyle and nodded in agreement. “Sir Stephen, it is your obligation, as the petitioner, to bear the burden of proving your claim. I’ll not allow innuendo or calumny in an attempt to prejudice this committee. Instead, let us proceed with the matters at issue.”

  Under the skillful questioning of his counsel, Sir Stephen then described the longstanding family rumor about the imposter heir.

  At its conclusion, Acton’s counsel stood and roundly proclaimed, “The tale is a preposterous one, my lord—to disparage an ancient and illustrious title in such a way is nothing short of appalling.”

  “Is there a question pending?” asked the chairman, his chin resting upon his hand.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Acton’s counsel appeared to tamp down his outrage, and then slowly approached Sir Stephen, asking in a level tone, “You believe that a switch was made generations ago—a switch that no one noticed, apparently—and as a result, you were deprived of a present-day barony.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Yet you’ve made no claim before now? Why is this, sir?”

  It was clear Sir Stephen was prepared for this rather obvious question, and answered steadily. “I was the heir to my cousin, and I was content to be given a role in running the estate—living there, day to day. But now—now that the information about the first marriage has come to light, it seems clear that there is a pattern of deception that can no longer be ignored.”

  “Not to mention you are about to be replaced as heir, and will no longer live at Trestles.”

  “That was also a consideration,” Sir Stephen admitted. “So long as I was the heir, the true line would eventually be re-established, and no harm done. Now, that is not the case.”

  Counsel paused, and faced the committee. “Do you forget that there is another claimant?”

  But Sir Stephen could not contain his scorn. “That’s the claim that is preposterous—there is no long-lost heir. After all, if such an heir could have been identified, there would have been no reason to substitute an imposter in the first place.”

  Counsel raised his brows. “You have no knowledge of Mr. Savoie’s claim?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Have you ever met with Mr. Savoie?”

  “No, I have not.”

  There was a slight pause, as though to give emphasis to the last answer, but Doyle frowned a bit, because it was the truth. Nevertheless, it appeared that Acton’s counsel was implying mightily that some chicanery was afoot, here.

  But whatever impression the barrister sought to make was not pursued, as he suddenly changed tack. “Sir Stephen, can we be assured that Sir Peter was indeed your father? I understand your birth record is missing, and has been missing for many years.”

  “Objection, my lord.” Sir Stephen’s counsel rose to his feet in outrage, as the committee members murmured amongst themselves.

  The chairman, however, seemed to be discreetly enjoying himself, what with the twists and turns that the matter had taken, and shook his head. “Overruled; the committee must determine the petitioner’s standing to inherit, along with the respondent’s.”

  Sir Stephen’s face became a bit mottled, and it was only with an effort that he was seen to control his temper. “A scurrilous rumor. No truth to it at all, and I cannot be held responsible if the hospital has lost the record.”

  The chairman asked, “Would anyone have firsthand knowledge of the circumstances of your birth?”

  “Of course—the entire claim is nothing short of preposterous.”

  Acton’s counsel spread his hands, and addressed the chairman. “Perhaps this is another issue that can be resolved at the next hearing—we have only to subpoena those hospital personnel who were witnesses.”
<
br />   “Duly noted,” said the chairman, who then bent his head to listen to a whispered message from the clerk. At its conclusion, the elderly man clasped his hands before him in pleased anticipation, and announced, “The additional claimant, Mr. Savoie, is without. I do not believe he is represented by counsel, but let us hear what he has to say.”

  Mother a’ mercy, thought Doyle, closing her eyes briefly. It wants only this—I hope Acton knows what he’s doing.

  The clerk opened the door, and Savoie sauntered into the room, dressed in a sleek black turtleneck instead of a coat and tie, and looking as disdainful as only a Frenchman can, when confronted with a room full of superior-minded Englishmen. He was asked to be seated, and as he was sworn in, he pulled a cigarette from a silver case, and lit it up.

  With a severe expression, the clerk advised, “You cannot smoke here, sir.”

  “Non?” Savoie blew out a breath of smoke in the general direction of the clerk, and then stubbed out the cigarette.

  “You must swear that you will tell the truth, sir,” the clerk prompted.

  Savoie leaned back, at his ease, and looked amused. “Bien sûr.”

  “I’m afraid we must ask you to respond in English, unless you wish to request a translator.”

  Still amused, Savoie rendered his thin smile. “Yes. I will tell the truth.” Doyle duly noted that this was a lie, which was not much of a surprise, all in all.

  “Petitioner’s counsel may proceed to examine,” said the chairman.

  Sir Stephen’s counsel rose, and addressed Savoie. “I understand, sir, that you claim to trace your ancestry back to the House of Acton, by way of the ninth baron.”

  Savioe nodded in a condescending fashion, and smirked a bit. “De vrai.”

  The chairman leaned in. “You must respond in English, sir.”

  “Yes.” The Frenchman nodded in mock solemnity.

  The chairman continued to address Savoie, apparently having decided that the Frenchman needed matters plainly explained. “You will have to present your case before the committee, Mr. Savoie, or waive all claims. You may wish to seek out counsel, to help you.”