“No,” Doyle replied bluntly. “So, I’ll give you the high sign, if I want you to think of an excuse to clear her out. You can say the doctor is comin’ over sooner rather than later, or somethin’.”
Surprisingly, the staid servant emitted a small flare of frustrated emotion as he nodded, “Very good, madam.”
With a smile, she teased, “My wretched doctor’s comin’ over this afternoon—never say you’ve forgotten? That’s very unlike you, Reynolds.”
“It may have slipped my mind,” he admitted, and it was not
true.
With dawning horror, she stared at him. “Holy Mother; he’s goin’ to take blood, isn’t he?” Doyle hated needles, and whenever
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such an occasion arose she could be counted on to pitch a fit, and thoroughly embarrass herself.
Poor Reynolds, who’d clearly been instructed never to admit to such a thing, could only stammer, “I—I cannot say, madam.”
“I should flee the scene,” Doyle groused unhappily, and flopped into a chair. “And now I know why Acton is comin’ home—he’s got to hold me down.”
“It’s just a pinch,” Emile piped up. “It only hurts for a moment.”
“It’s medieval, and stupid,” Doyle insisted crossly. “There has to be a better way, than all this pokin’ and proddin’. Why, in the old days, people had babies in the fields, and such.”
“I wouldn’t recommend such a course of action, madam.”
“I had to have a shot,” Emile told her importantly, and pointed to an area on his upper arm. “You can still see the mark, if you look closely.”
But Doyle refused to be consoled. “Well, you’re miles braver than I am, my friend. Mother a’ mercy, but childbirth is goin’ to be a rare crack.”
“I am certain you will handle it well, madam,” Reynolds soothed, and it wasn’t exactly true.
“Well, Edward better be worth it, is all I have to say.”
“I will play with him,” Emile pronounced. “I will teach him how to do things.”
“Now, there’s a comfort,” Doyle noted sourly.
Hurriedly, Reynolds steered the boy by his shoulders toward the door. “Come, Master Emile; we’ll take a quick walk over to the park.”
“We can play Ducks and Drakes again,” Emile enthused, bouncing in his excitement. “I can teach Edward how to play it, too.”
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This remark reminded Doyle that even more winkling was needful, as she was supposed to be finding out why Drake had murdered the suicide-fellow—another subject that doesn’t just come up in ordinary conversation.
“We will pick up a pastry for luncheon, madam,” Reynolds offered, as he escorted Emile out the door.
“There’s no bribin’ me, when it comes to needles,” she pronounced in an ominous tone. “Nice try.”
“What sort of pastry?” asked Emile with a great deal of interest, as the door closed shut.
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Chapter 27
Apparently, Tasza was coming for a visit. The Commander had lost the trail, then, and was growing desperate. Good.
It was no surprise, of course, that Tasza turned out to be a walking bundle of lies. She was also a bundle of frustration, but that couldn’t be helped, as Doyle wasn’t much inclined to
give her the information she was rooting around for.
They were having coffee on the sofa, whilst Emile sat with Reynolds at the kitchen table, practicing his letters in the faint hope that this would keep him quiet.
“Will there be a funeral?” As could be expected, the two girls were discussing DCI Drake’s unfortunate demise, and Doyle had the impression that behind her offhand manner, Tasza was carefully watching the fair Doyle’s reactions.
“I haven’t heard, although I imagine somethin’ will be held at headquarters. He had a long career.”
“I’m sorry that we left early, but we thought it best to duck
out.”
“And small blame to you, it was crackin’ awkward.” Of course, the fact that Tasza’s erstwhile beau had already ducked out with Munoz probably contributed to this decision, but Doyle held her tongue—the girl wasn’t aware that Doyle was aware, and it was too complicated to keep it all straight.
Tasza sipped her coffee. “Did you know him well?”
“Drake? No, we traveled in different circles; I was in a different unit.”
“He and Acton didn’t socialize, then?”
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Doyle drew her brows together, and pretended to think about it. “No—they weren’t particularly friendly.” This was a safe assumption, since Acton didn’t socialize with anybody, not to mention that he’d up and murdered the man. Doyle decided it would probably be prudent to turn the subject, and so she offered, “Gabriel says you work in forensic accountin’.”
Ah; a small flare of annoyance, which meant that the other girl wished that Doyle didn’t know this. “Yes. It’s rather dull work, I’m afraid. Nothing as clever as what you do.”
Thinks I’m an idiot, Doyle noted, and sipped her coffee. “Will you return to work, after the baby?”
“Yes,” Doyle returned with some fervor, happy to have a subject she could expound upon. “I’m goin’ barkin’ mad with boredom. And besides, the Met is shorthanded.”
Tasza offered up an insincere smile. “Thanks, in part, to your husband. Extraordinary, that he uncovered such extensive corruption, and exposed it all. We’re lucky there are a few honest police left, like him.”
Oh-oh, thought Doyle, with no small alarm. Oh-oh.
The girl continued to stir her coffee in a diffident manner, “Although there is a silver lining, I suppose; the DCS has found his true calling—he has a holy vocation, I think, and it took a prison sentence for him to find it. God indeed works in mysterious ways.”
“Amen,” Doyle agreed, after duly noting that Tasza didn’t think this was the case, at all. “I was surprised to hear it, I must say—he didn’t seem much like a believer, to me.”
Beneath her causal manner, Tasza was suddenly alert. “Oh? Did you know the DCS well?”
“Not at all,” Doyle confessed. “Although he gave me a commendation, once.”
The other girl smiled her thanks to Reynolds, who’d come over to pour more coffee. “Well, I can tell you that there’s no
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mistaking his sincere faith. I’ve listened to every one of his broadcasts, and I’m even more inspired, every time.”
Doyle nodded affably whilst hiding her wariness. It was becoming more and more clear that Tasza was monitoring the DCS for reasons other than religious, that she was working for Gabriel—who hailed from MI 5—and that she knew, apparently, that DCI Acton wasn’t all that he appeared to be. I’ve got to be careful, Doyle realized belatedly, and wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the best of ideas to have invited the other girl over.
Thinking to do a bit of probing, herself, she adopted a casual air, and asked, “How does the DCS go about his ministry? I know he’s become very popular, but it’s hard to imagine how it happened, with him bein’ in prison, and all. Does he preach at a chapel, there?”
The other girls lifted her coffee cup, and held it between her hands. “No—the prison ministry hour is put up on the internet, every week, and ever since he’s been contributing, it’s grown enormously—they’re broadcasting into other prisons, now, nationwide.” She paused, and took a sip. “He’s raised more money than they know what to do with—his story is so inspiring.”
Although Doyle knew that she was being watched for a reaction, she wasn’t certain why this was. “The evangelicals can raise money like nobody’s business,” she agreed. “They’re a lesson to us all.”
“I wonder what they’ll do with it?” The girl’s eyes slid toward Doyle.
But Doyle had no problem serving up an honest answer. “The
y’ll no doubt create some mismanaged program—church people don’t make for very good business people, at least in my experience. Better to give it to some nuns who understand how to work wonders on a shoestring—we’re very happy with the nuns who’re handlin’ the Irish orphanage, at my old school.”
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But Tasza was not interested in going off-topic. “Have you been over to the prison?”
Doyle blinked. “Me?”
The other girl laughed lightly, behind her cup. “Oh—I heard someone mention that Savoie’s son visits him.” The girl glanced over at Emile, seated at the table. “Such a sweet little boy.”
Doyle wasn’t sure which was the more surprising; that Tasza was keeping track of Savoie’s visitors, or that she believed Emile to be a sweet little boy. “I’m in no shape to go anywhere; instead poor Lizzie Mathis gets roped into it.”
The other girl’s eyes narrowed, and Doyle could feel her quick flare of dislike. “Lizzie? Yes, I met her at the reception.”
“She works in the forensics lab, at the Met,” Doyle offered, happy to have the chance to throw out her own dart. “You would get along well, I think—you have a lot in common.”
“I’m sure we do,” Tasza agreed, and Doyle noted uneasily that this was true, and not necessarily the good kind of true. Time to change the subject, she decided, lest we start comparing which are the best poisons, and such—although Tasza was an accountant-person, Doyle would not be at all surprised to discover that she knew her way around a poison or two.
Tasza continued, “It was so kind of you to take the little boy in, when there was no one else. Gabriel mentioned that he has an aunt, but that she is not in the picture.”
Nodding, Doyle informed her, “Yes, Mrs. Barayev—not a very nice woman, so it’s just as well. And she’s in poor health, anyway—she’s in a rehab center, somewhere.”
“Oh, I see.” Tasza lowered her gaze and sipped her coffee, carefully hiding the fact that she was thoroughly frustrated, beneath her quiet exterior.
Puzzled, Doyle took refuge in sipping her own coffee and then realized—rather belatedly—that she’d slipped up, in
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mentioning Solonik’s evil sister, because it was not generally known that Emile was Solonik’s son, and not Savoie’s son.
Tasza’s right, she thought in disgust; I am an idiot. Although in my defense, Tasza’s not one who should be speaking of the wretched Mrs. Barayev in the first place, so it’s no surprise that I was caught flat-footed—
Slowly, Doyle lifted her chin to stare out the window. Holy Mother, she thought. Holy Mother—of course.
“She’s never even tried to contact him? The aunt, I mean.” “No.” Doyle made a mighty attempt to pull together her
scattered wits. “Truly, I’ve never given her a stray thought.” Except that she should have, because she knew—in the way that she knew things—that the boy’s evil aunt no longer walked the earth, but instead it was her decidedly non-Filipino corpse that had been deposited amongst the rubble of the burnt-out church.
Doyle bent her head, thinking furiously. Why? Why had Acton killed the woman? It all made little sense—Solonik’s sister had been a major player in the corruption rig, but she’d been sidelined by a dose of poison, or something—Lizzie Mathis’ handiwork, no doubt—and then she’d been parked in a rehab facility, never to be heard from again. Except that—for some reason—Acton had decided that the evil woman needed to disappear—all these months later— and he’d cooked-up a crackin’ fine misdirection murder to do it. Why? And why would Tasza be interested?
The concierge buzzed, and after answering, Reynolds announced to the two girls that Officer Munoz was in the lobby.
And here I was afraid I’d be bored to flinders, Doyle thought, and instructed the servant to send up the new arrival. Tasza may not be romantically attached to Gabriel in truth, but Munoz didn’t know this, and it would be a rare treat, for once, to put the Spanish girl on the defensive—Doyle shouldn’t be the only one having to weather all the awkward situations.
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But as usual, Munoz was well-able to manage any social predicament, and expressed her insincere pleasure upon beholding Tasza. In turn, Tasza made a show of moving over for Munoz, whilst Reynolds served the newcomer coffee, and then left a tray of home-made madeleines on the table—apparently, Doyle and Tasza hadn’t been worthy.
Tasza explained her gift-leaving errand, and as a result, the two guests commenced to discuss Drake’s death yet again, with a meaningful show of insincere regret.
“Poor man,” Tasza offered. “There were those rumors about his lifestyle, of course, and I suppose it finally caught up with him.” This, with an arch glance at Munoz.
“Say what you will,” Munoz replied benignly. “He was a good detective, and solved a lot of cases.”
“Well, it must have been a shock; you dated him, I think?” Tasza smiled sweetly, having decided to take a more direct approach.
“Not recently,” Munoz replied, with her own sweet smile. “I’ve met someone new.”
Touché, Munoz, thought Doyle. And if it comes to fisticuffs, I’m not sure who’d win; I hope Reynolds has his gun somewhere handy.
“Lady Acton and I were just discussing the DCS, and his new-found calling,” Tasza continued, with another coy smile.
Never say Munoz had a fling with the DCS? thought Doyle with some surprise.
But—judging from the girl’s reaction—it did not seem as though this were the case. “He’s a charlatan,” Munoz opined bluntly. “He’s only found another way to get in front of the cameras.”
Tanya shook her head, slightly. “Oh, then I’m afraid we’ll I have to agree to disagree. I believe he has sincerely converted.”
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“I only hope he’s not duping the gullible,” warned Munoz, with all appearance of concern.
Two faint spots of color appeared in Tasza’s cheeks. “I suppose time will tell.”
Munoz seemed disappointed that Tanya was unwilling to rise to the bait, and so she turned her attention to Doyle. “I’m afraid I can’t stay, I just wanted to drop off the autopsy report.”
“Thanks, Munoz,” said Doyle, who no longer needed it.
“I am willing to prepare a quick lunch, ladies,” Reynolds interjected in a hopeful tone.
“What are you going to make?” Emile piped up with great interest.
“I’ll pass—I have a lunch date,” said Munoz, who slid a sly glance over toward Tasza.
Doyle said with pretend-regret, “I’ll have to pass, too, Reynolds; Acton’s takin’ me for a walk.” This was just as well, it was exhausting, having to absorb all the cross-currents, and Doyle was sincerely regretting that she’d invited Tasza over in the first place. I shouldn’t make any decisions when I’m out-of-sorts, she decided; mental note.
“Let’s have peanut-butter sandwiches,” Emile suggested to Reynolds.
“Certainly, Master Emile,” replied Reynolds with good grace. “Take one for your Papa,” Munoz suggested, as she hoisted
her rucksack. “He’s very fond of peanut butter.”
Whilst Tasza stared at the other girl in surprise, Munoz waved her hand in a casual gesture of farewell.
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It was time, perhaps, to take a step back, and allow the spite murders to play out.
R eynolds hurried over to hold the door for the departing Munoz, but it wasn’t necessary, because the door opened, and Acton walked in.
Oh-oh, thought Doyle, watching her husband take a glance around the room. The illustrious Chief Inspector is not happy with his wayward wife.
“Ladies,” he greeted them.
“Sir,” said Munoz. “I was just leaving.”
Murder in Misdirection: A Doyle & Acton Mystery (The Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard series Book 7) Page 18