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

by Anne Cleeland

  This was, of course, a valid point, and she nodded, matching his seriousness. “Sometimes, husband, I think you know me better than I know me.”

  “I could say the same, Kathleen.”

  “No,” she disagreed without rancor. “I don’t know you half as well as you know me.” This went without saying; talk about emingnas—or however you said it—he took the palm.

  Since this was inarguable, he did not demur. “Be that as it may, you can always trust me. My own promise on it.”

  And of course, it was no surprise that his words rang completely true. I am going to go barking mad, trying to figure this out, she thought; I’m the one that stupid Harding needs to put on the stupid couch.

  36

  It was all immensely satisfying, and the appropriate arrests would soon be made. All that was left was to—gently—convince her that she needed to stay home, and rest.

  The final hearing on the House of Acton succession was underway, with Doyle taking up her position as the hand-wringer-in-chief, seated in her usual chair against the wall. The chairman had opened by reminding the committee that there were two different claims brought by the petitioner, Sir Stephen; the first was that an imposter had been substituted in the latter part of the twentieth century so that the title rightfully belonged to him outright. The alternative petition claimed that the current Lord Acton had secretly married, and that his first wife had borne him a son, with the whereabouts of either being currently unknown.

  The chairman expressed open skepticism with respect to the first claim, because it seemed so preposterous, and because after two hearings, the petitioner couldn’t come up with any credible witnesses who could testify as to the alleged imposter.

  In response, Sir Stephen’s counsel argued, “The heir was a recluse for years, supposedly suffering from shell-shock, yet suddenly he emerges to marry an heiress, in grand fashion, and with no signs of mental or physical infirmity save for having to wear dark glasses in the daylight. It seems clear that a switch was made, so as to save the title and the estate.”

  But the chairman continued skeptical, and raised his bushy white brows. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve seen a May-December match, hastily arranged to perpetuate the honors of a house. The Duke of Kent comes to mind.”

  “But what of the man’s miraculous recovery, my lord?”

  “We’ve no evidence to show there was a medical condition, to begin with,” the chairman pointed out in a sour tone. “All you’ve presented is innuendo, based on old gossip.”

  Acton’s counsel stood. “If it would please this committee, my lord, I will move to dismiss the first claim for lack of evidence.”

  “I believe the claim should be considered,” Sir Stephen’s counsel insisted. “Empirical evidence is necessarily difficult to come by, but surely there is enough circumstantial evidence upon which to base a decision favorable to the petitioner.”

  “Very well, then; the claim may be considered,” the chairman decided, but his doubtful tone indicated his own opinion on the matter.

  Acton’s counsel gave all appearance of being perplexed, and raised his palms. “If that is the case, my lord, we’d like to call as a rebuttal witness the current steward of the estate.”

  This was of interest, but Doyle was not at all worried; Hudson was a brick, and was not about to relate any mayhem-in-the-kennels stories, or Acton-killed-his-father stories. At least, one would hope.

  After being sworn in, Hudson testified, “My father was steward before me. He often spoke of the war, and of the difficult period that followed the war.”

  Amongst the committee, there was a subtle, sympathetic shifting in seats, as all the members identified with the terrible burdens that had been placed on the aristocracy, so as to counter the cost of the two devastating wars.

  Hudson continued, “After the Second World War, the heir to Trestles was indeed an invalid for several years, having to recover from injuries sustained in combat.” Hudson fixed his resolute gaze on the committee members. “There have long been rumors that a switch was made at that time, because the heir substantially recovered from his ailments—save for his eyesight problems—and then went on to marry, and live a prosperous life. But my father assured me that such was not the case. Instead, it was the twelfth Lord Acton’s indomitable spirit that sustained him.”

  “He provided aid to our flyboys, during The Battle of Britain,” one of the committee members said aloud. “‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few’.”

  “Indeed,” Hudson agreed, and paused for a moment to gather himself, with the room completely and sympathetically silent.

  Sir Stephen’s counsel could not like the way things were going, and noisily leapt to his feet. “This is hearsay, my lord; the rankest hearsay.”

  “I’ll allow,” the chairman replied, resting his chin on his hand. “Hearsay’s all anyone’s got, after all.”

  Sir Stephen’s counsel then made a mighty attempt to cast doubt on the testimony. “Mr. Hudson; you are aware, of course, that your own livelihood may be jeopardized, if Sir Stephen’s claim as rightful heir succeeds.”

  Hudson appeared to consider this aspect, and shook his head, slightly. “No—I think there is little question that the young policeman’s claim has more merit than either Sir Stephen’s or the Frenchman’s, at this point. Fortunately, Sir Stephen’s claim has never been put to the test, as the particulars are rather distasteful.”

  There was a long moment of silence, as everyone tried to process what was meant, and it was clear that Sir Stephen’s counsel was suddenly wary about asking for further details. The chairman, however, had no such qualms. “Are you inferring that Sir Stephen may indeed be illegitimate? And that there is yet another heir in the wings?”

  “Objection,” voiced counsel in outrage.

  Young policeman’s claim? thought Doyle, slowly sitting up straight. Young policeman?

  “You can’t object to me,” the chairman reminded counsel with a frown. “I’m the chairman.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Counsel turned and apologized to the committee. “I forgot myself, but this calumny is nothing short of outrageous. Sir Stephen is an honorable man, trying to right past wrongs.”

  The chairman reviewed his notes. “There is no formal claim with respect to Sir Stephen’s legitimacy, and therefore, we needn’t cross that bridge unless it becomes necessary. Instead, let us proceed to the second claim—that the current Lord Acton had a previous marriage, which may or may not have been dissolved, and that further, a son was born as a result of the purported marriage.” Nodding to the clerk, he continued, “Our forensic specialist has examined the two documents which support this claim, and he will now testify with respect to his findings.”

  Here we go, thought Doyle, watching as the rabbity young man seated himself at the table. I wonder what Acton has up his sleeve—that he had something up his sleeve went without saying; after all, he’d set up this document-treasure-hunt to begin with, courtesy of Philippe Savoie.

  After reciting his qualifications, the forensics expert adjusted his eyeglasses and rendered his opinion with little fanfare. “The two documents were falsified—photoshopped. They are good fakes, but falsified, nonetheless.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, the committee began to murmur amongst themselves and the chairman had to call them to order. Sir Stephen’s counsel rose to his feet, visibly shaken. “My lord, no one is more surprised by this than my client—”

  “Your client will have an opportunity to give the committee his explanation, sir; please be seated.”

  After clearing his throat, the specialist continued, “It is not the photoshopping alone that raised a concern, my lord. Another troubling aspect was the fact that the birth certificates did not reveal latent fingerprints belonging to any of the signatories. Because the documents were stored in a protected environment, one would think it would be a simple thing to pull a partial fingerprint, or even the fingerprints of the person who
’d filed the document away. The fact that the principals left no fingerprints at all only bolstered my conclusion that the documents were falsified.”

  Pale of lip, Sir Stephen’s counsel rose to his feet. “Perhaps gloves were worn, my lord.”

  The chairman expressed his open skepticism. “Unlikely, in this day and age, that everyone concerned happened to be wearing gloves, whilst signing and filing away a birth certificate.”

  His face a bit flushed, the specialist continued, “If I may, my lord, I do not wish to leave the impression that no fingerprints were discovered at all. Indeed, I recovered several partial prints from two different persons, on each document.”

  There was a slight pause, and Doyle knew that despite his nervous demeanor, the dry little man was enjoying his moment of high drama.

  “And,” prompted the chairman impatiently. “Could you identify these fingerprints?”

  “Yes.” The man nodded. “One belonged to the petitioner, Sir Stephen—his right forefinger.”

  There was an ominous silence, into which Sir Stephen’s counsel protested, “But—but this is only to be expected, surely. After all, it was Sir Stephen who retrieved the documents, so as to present them to this committee. My client had no idea that the documents were not accurate renditions of what they portrayed.”

  “Indeed, that is possible,” said the chairman, who’d suddenly turned rather grave. Then, to the specialist, “And whose were the other prints?”

  “The other set, my lord, belonged to Mr. Philippe Savoie.”

  After an astonished pause, everyone began talking over each other, their voices raised in outrage. Doyle hoisted her rucksack on her shoulder, and thought, good one, Acton. And—thanks be to God—no more stupid meals at the stupid cafeteria, although the beefsteak wasn’t half bad.

  37

  Game, set, and match.

  The committee quickly determined that Acton was indeed the fourteenth baron, and the question of who was next in succession was deemed to be moot, since an heir was extant. The committee also tabled any determinations about secondary succession from the splintered-off branch of the family, until such time as it might be necessary to re-visit the topic.

  Before the final determination was read, however, Sir Stephen had left the room, furious and shaken, and making no effort to speak with anyone, even his counsel.

  Going to have to find new digs, Doyle thought with satisfaction, as she watched him leave. A good riddance to bad rubbish. And, although she was eager to depart this place with all speed, she was forced to possess her soul in patience as various members of the committee wished to speak with her, and bestow their congratulations.

  “Never a doubt,” one aged fellow said, as he bent so low over her hand that she feared he’d fall forward on the floor. “You deserve every honor imaginable—the both of you. It is only fitting, after all.”

  Doyle stared at the top of his head for a shocked moment, unable to respond. For the first time, it occurred to her—as incredible as it seemed—that Acton had brought down the Scotland Yard corruption rig for the express purpose of boosting his stock for this stupid committee hearing. After all, it would be in keeping with his “perception trumps evidence” theory, and it only made sense; Acton was not a reformer—he was the opposite of a reformer, whatever that was. And he wanted to get this succession business settled, once and for all, so that hopefully there would be no further potshots taken at his bride and his heir.

  The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed—after all, nearly every scheme Acton had ever schemed could be ultimately traced back to his outsized devotion to his unlikely bride. Therefore, there seemed little doubt that he’d publicly gone after the CID blacklegs because he wanted to be perceived as a hero—just like she was—so that the scales were heavily weighted in his favor at this succession hearing. Which they were; no question about it.

  As she stood—much struck, and turning over this epiphany in her mind—her husband came over to take her arm and make his excuses to their well-wishers; Lady Acton should rest, after such a traumatic day. She was then deftly extracted from the group, and steered out into the hallway after she thanked the chairman one last time, and assured him that his offer of a silver rattle would be very much appreciated.

  As they made their way to the car, Doyle realized—with dawning amazement—that this entire false flag operation must have been put into motion when she’d made her comment about the color of Edward’s eyes, months ago. Edward’s eye color would have added fuel to Sir Stephen’s fire-of-wrongful-succession-claims, and therefore, Acton had planted the two false documents, and had run a classic misdirection play that was nothing short of brilliant in its workings. The committee was so sidetracked by the scandalous first wife question—and then outraged by its exposure as a fraud—that they didn’t dwell on the truly troubling point, which was the imposter-switch. And now Edward could have green eyes all he wanted, and no one was going to give two pins about it.

  She glanced up at her silent husband, as he held the Range Rover’s door for her, and thought in wonder—he’s always ten steps ahead of me; I don’t know why I even bother trying to catch up. She was then surprised when her scalp started prickling—what? Acton was miles smarter than she was, and she was the weak link, here, despite what stupid Harding said about asserting herself, and about stupid Greek goddesses, lurking about.

  In a flash of understanding, she paused. “It’s you. You’re the one who’s the Nemesis.”

  Startled, he bent his head to hers. “Pardon?”

  But she wasn’t listening, because she was much struck by this revelation—which seemed obvious, now that she thought about it. “Of course, it’s you—Nemesis sees that justice is done, no matter what. For the love o’ Mike; why couldn’t the man just say, ‘Acton is the Nemesis, you idiot’.”

  Understandably, her husband was at sea. “Has Reynolds been rude to you?”

  “No—no,” she disclaimed impatiently, and then lowered her bulky self into the car seat. “I’m just tryin’ to figure somethin’ out—what’s the name of that other goddess?”

  “I believe you mentioned Até,” he offered with commendable patience.

  Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. So, if you’re the Nemesis, who is the Até?”

  Leaning on the open door, he watched her for a moment. “I’m afraid I’ll need some more context.”

  “Aye,” she mused. “So do I.” Raising her face to his, she smiled in apology. “Sorry. Let’s go—I’m ready to shake the dust of the Palace of Westminster from my shoes, and hope we never darken its wretched doors again.”

  “Here’s hoping.” He shut the door behind her.

  They drove for a few minutes, and she duly noted that they were not headed to headquarters, and that her husband hadn’t offered any comment about the morning’s resounding victory. It was only to be expected, of course; it may have been a brilliant scheme, but she couldn’t approve of all the dishonesty—which may as well be the motto for her marriage, thus far. “So, where is it we’re goin’? And don’t say Candide’s again, or I will throw myself bodily from the car.”

  “I thought we’d have a private celebration.” He reached to take her hand. “I’ll find a quiet place to park.”

  “I don’t know if we can manage sex in the car,” she warned. “It would take some doin’.”

  With a small smile, he turned down a side street in a posh residential district. “While I appreciate the thought, instead I’ve had Reynolds pack a lunch.”

  This was unexpected, and rather sweet, since it showed he knew she’d like nothing more than a chance to regain her bearings in private, after all these tedious public displays of marital solidarity.

  He stopped the car next to a quiet park, and reached behind the seat to pull out a packed lunch, complete with her favorite Chinese noodle dish, and a sandwich for himself. With great gusto, she lifted the chopsticks and pulled out a long strand of noodles before stopping to examine them suspiciously
. “Wait; is this kale, sprinkled atop?”

  “Oh? Is it?”

  Making a face, she eyed his sandwich. “And what on earth is that, Michael?”

  “Eggplant, with beets and bean sprouts.”

  “Holy saints, Michael; who’s idea was it to make a sandwich out of such things? I think someone’s havin’ a very fine joke.”

  “Would you like a taste?” he teased, offering it.

  “I would, just to show you that I’m braver than most.”

  She took a bite, and after a moment, concluded, “That’s actually not half-bad, if you can get past the colors.”

  “The colors are distracting,” he agreed, and took his own bite.

  Since he wasn’t bringing up the subject, she decided she’d waited long enough. “Well, Sir Stephen is rolled-up—thank all available holy angels. And I’m never goin’ to marry Williams under any circumstances, so you may as well save your mastermindin’ for another subject.”

  He did not disclaim, but instead tilted his head slightly as he contemplated his sandwich. “It would be best, perhaps, to have a contingency plan.” He paused. “There is a vault, hidden on the grounds; you have only to ask Hudson about it.”

  Thoughtfully, she pulled his sandwich out of his hand. “Oh? Are there molderin’ corpses, in the hidden vault?” She knew of two potential candidates, after all.

  “No,” he smiled. “There are not.”

  She eyed him over the sandwich. “Listen, husband; I’m on to you, and how you steer the subject away from where it’s supposed to be goin’. You’re not to set Williams up as a husband-in-waitin’—I’m not havin’ it.” She took another bite. “Instead, I’ll retire to Trestles, like a proper dowager. I’ll wear a veiled hat, and try my hand at gardenin’, or somethin’ worthwhile. I could grow kale, and beets, and do some tinnin’ for the local church. Do they put kale in tins?”

  “I don’t believe they do,” he admitted.