“Done,” she said readily, and started sipping. “We’ve got the blessed place to ourselves; Emile was jumpin’ about like a jackdaw, and so Reynolds went to run him ragged in the park.”
“A good strategy,” Acton agreed, as he made his way toward the kitchen. “I confess I do not recall having half as much energy.”
She had a glimpse, for a moment, of a lonely little boy, immersing himself in books to escape the reality of his terrible parents, and she suddenly decided she wasn’t going to give him the third degree about whatever was going forward at Wexton Prison. I’m truly not very brave, despite what everyone thinks, she thought, and I’m afraid if I have it out with him about the smuggling—and the murder of Mrs. Barayev—it will wind up as somehow being a call-to-action for me to fix the situation, and I’m in no shape for a call-to-action, just now.
Acton pulled the orange juice bottle out of the fridge, and then loosened his tie, as he sank down beside her on the sofa.
“What’s your news?” she asked with interest. “It’s a simmerin’ brew, you are.”
For once, Acton seemed uncertain as to what he wanted to say, and he contemplated the orange juice bottle for a moment. “I don’t like to impose upon you—you know that.”
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Teasing, she asked, “Is this about sex? Text Reynolds then, and tell him to take the long way home, again.”
Smiling, he tilted his head. “Unfortunately, not. I’ve come across something of interest, and so I’ve invited a visitor over. He has a fantastic story, and I’m not certain I believe it.”
“Then I stand ready to help,” she said lightly. Acton needed a truth-detector, then, to sort out whatever-it-was.
He met her eyes with all sincerity. “I’m sorry, Kathleen, but I think it is necessary.”
But she wouldn’t hear any apologies. “Whist, husband; this used to be our stock-in-trade, back when we were doin’ field-work together, and clearin’ out the villains like so much brushwood.” She smiled fondly, and leaned in against his arm. “Those were the days, weren’t they? ‘Terrified’ was my middle name, back then—I was that nervous around you.”
He smiled. “And mine was ‘frustrated’.”
Laughing, she teased, “That’s as may be, but look how well it’s all turned out.”
“It will be even better,” he assured her.
This seemed a golden opportunity to bring up the Acton-improvement topic, and so she gently reminded him, “Life is an unendin’ series of unplanned surprises, my friend, both pleasant and unpleasant. There’s truly not a lot you can do about it.”
But Acton—being Acton—was not about to admit to such a thing. “I must disagree; a bit of planning can tilt the field immeasurably.”
With a smile, she lifted her head to look at him. “Is that so? Well, good luck to you—I can think of a few fields that tilted in the wrong direction, right off the top o’ my head. Greyfriars Bridge comes to mind. And a certain detective trainee.” Running her hand up his arm, she offered, “I appreciate the attempt, Michael—truly I do, but you can’t try to control the uncontrollable. You’ll only go down to certain defeat.”
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He rested his head against the top of hers. “Nonetheless, I can tilt the field.”
With a mental sigh, she decided that she’d beaten her wings enough today, and so said no more.
Her husband lifted his arm to look at his watch. “Our visitor should be arriving, soon.”
“Sounds a bit ominous,” she ventured, wondering why he was being so mysterious.
He gazed into the fireplace for a moment. “I don’t think he’s a threat of any kind, but I cannot be certain.”
“Is he in the database?”
“No,” Acton replied slowly. “He is not.”
Straightening up, she declared, “Well then; that’s why you need me, and my apt-ness. What’s the case?”
“There is no case.” He hesitated. “I think I’d rather not say anything more; it may be best if you listen in to our conversation, and draw your own conclusions.”
“Right then.” Privately, she hoped she wouldn’t be subject to yet another emotion-fraught conversation, today—she’d already had a bellyful. Of course, it went without saying that he wouldn’t ask it of her if it weren’t important; he tended to be more circumspect about her perceptive abilities than she was.
The concierge buzzed, and then announced, “The gentleman is here to see you.”
“Please send him up.”
Acton stood, and Doyle asked, “Shall I do pretend-work at the computer, whilst I listen in?”
“No—there is no need to get up; it shouldn’t take long.” Again, he looked at his watch.
The visitor came through the door—a rather somber man, late forties, perhaps—who emanated a combination of weariness and wariness. Not a danger, she decided immediately, but he’s not sure if we’re a danger.
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After greeting Acton, he walked over to bow over Doyle’s hand, briefly. European, she guessed—and perhaps a minor aristocrat; he had that old-world air about him.
“Would you care to sit?” Acton asked. “It may take a minute.”
With a stiff nod of acquiescence, the visitor perched on the edge of the chair he was offered, and waited.
Acton began, “I understand that you are in a difficult situation, and that you cannot simply trust me.”
Doyle blinked, because Acton’s manner was conciliatory, rather than his usual interrogation tactic, which was to frighten the poor detainee to within an inch of his life. So—she thought; we’re not doing an interrogation, then.
“What can you show me?” the man asked. Wary, he was.
“I think I can help you, but first I need assurances that you mean no harm.” Acton paused. “You must admit, it is an extraordinary story. I would not like to think that it hides a more sinister purpose.”
The man’s gaze rested on Doyle for a moment, and she could see that he was worried about speaking openly in front of her. “I have told you nothing but the truth. I swear it to you.”
There was another pause, whilst Acton gave Doyle a chance to brush the hair from her forehead—the signal that she used to tell him that lies were being told. She didn’t, though, because the man spoke the truth. He had the trace of an accent, and Doyle tried to identify it; she wasn’t good with accents, but this one seemed both familiar and unfamiliar, in a strange way.
“It is a delicate situation,” Acton continued. “And I must be concerned about her safety.”
Doyle hid her sudden uneasiness. Whose safety? Hers?
What did this fellow have to do with her?
Bowing his head, the man agreed. “Her safety is my first concern. Of course.”
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Doyle’s hands remained in her lap, and she sensed that her husband was immensely relieved.
“Then I believe I can be of help.”
To Doyle’s surprise, she could hear a card-key in the slot, and the door opened to reveal Mary, looking a bit confused, as she held Gemma’s hand at the threshold. “Oh—Lady Acton, I was so worried. The concierge asked us to go straight up, and I was afraid—”
But the woman paused in astonishment, because the visitor had leapt up, and after taking several long strides across the room, knelt before Gemma.
“Your Serene Highness.” Overcome, the man blinked back tears.
Gemma smiled. “The army-man,” she pronounced, in her little voice.
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This was probably what she would call an unplanned-for surprise.
“Didn’t see that one comin’,” Doyle observed. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, here, husband.”
They were watching the visitor speak in quiet tones to a clearly bewildered Mary, as the three of them sat together at the kitchen table, Gemma happily eating
pretzels and coloring in her book.
Acton rested his gaze upon the trio at the table, and said softly. “Her true name is Georgievna. Most of her family was killed, over a hundred years ago.” He paused. “She is one of the only survivors of the male-line Romanovs.”
Doyle eyed her husband. “Haven’t a clue what that means, Michael.”
“The Romanovs were the Tsars of Russia.”
Frowning, Doyle followed his gaze. “You’re tellin’ me that Gemma’s Russian royalty?”
Acton nodded. “After a fashion. The Russians follow Salic Law, which means females cannot rule. And aside from that, after the Russian Revolution, all the direct heirs were killed, so it’s all rather uncertain. She’s a rare survivor, and probably a Grand Duchess.”
Doyle smiled. “Then you’re sayin’ she outranks you, husband?”
Acton smiled in return. “I suppose she does.”
Shaking her head in wonder, Doyle asked, “How, by all the holy saints, did a ‘serene highness’ wind up bein’ a loose-end child?”
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“In recent years, a new royalist party has emerged in Russia—an attempt to re-establish the traditional monarchy. But those who do not wish to relinquish their power are very much opposed to any suggestion that the Romanov line be re-established.”
Doyle tried to sort this out. “Because Gemma’s a royal, she’s in danger? Where are her parents?”
“Her parents died rather mysteriously, and she was immediately spirited out of the country, and placed with Blakney, where no one would think to look, until it would be safe for her to return.”
Taking a guess, Doyle ventured, “Was it Solonik, who did the spiritin’?”
“Yes. Solonik and his brother-in-law were affiliated with the new royalist group, and were undoubtedly promised a high position, if the group was ever successful in coming into power.” Acton tilted his head in concession. “None of the players are very principled, I’m afraid. This man—” he nodded his head in the direction of the army-man, “is one of the military officers who would not be averse to restoring the old order.”
“He seems very sincere,” Doyle ventured. “He truly loves her.” “No doubt. But theirs is a dangerous gamble, and he must keep a low profile, for fear that anyone who could make a challenge will be assassinated. That’s one of the reasons he dared not advertise what he was doing, or even identify himself.” Frowning, Doyle observed, “So—Solonik stashed her away with Blakey, thinkin’ it would be a good place to hide her. But then Blakney got himself murdered, and Mary—who had not taken Blakney’s last name when she married him—moved
elsewhere, and the little girl was lost.”
“Correct. And no one knew what had happened to them, because—”
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“—because you moved them into a better neighborhood,” Doyle completed. “Faith, it’s amazin’ he found her at all.”
But Acton examined his hands for a moment. “He only found her, because I found him, first. And I found him because you were alarmed when Gemma said a Russian word, and you insisted that I look into it.”
Doyle paused, much struck. “I’m spooky,” she admitted. Acton lifted her hand and kissed its back. “Sometimes.” “Edward’s not spooky,” she assured him. “Just in case you
were wonderin’.”
“Oh? I did wonder.”
She decided she’d turn the subject—she didn’t like to speak of her perceptive abilities, and despite his calm façade, she knew that the subject made her husband uneasy, too. “So; what happens now? Poor Mary’s been gob-smacked.”
“We’ve agreed that Gemma should remain with Mary, for the time being. She’ll be safe—especially since she’ll take up residence with us, when the baby’s born. If Captain Kolchak couldn’t trace her, it’s unlikely that anyone else can, either.”
Doyle nodded in agreement. “Then she’ll go to St. Margaret’s, as planned?”
“She will. All in all, it is unlikely that she’ll go back to Russia any time soon. We must keep it quiet, of course.”
Smiling, she lifted her palms. “No problem there, my friend. I can scare believe it, myself.”
“The Captain will monitor her well-being, of course, and he would like to make certain she doesn’t forget the language. I think it may be best to put it about that she and Emile are cousins, so that she can practice with him, and no one will think it strange.”
“They do practice,” Doyle informed him absently, as she watched the girl concentrate on her coloring. “I just didn’t realize
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it, at the time.” She rubbed her eyes. “Saints, Michael; it’s all very symmet— symetro—”
“Symmetrical?” he offered.
“Yes—thank you. Emile’s father stepped up to help, and then after he was killed, so did his son, all unknowin’.”
Acton tilted his head. “I think Emile may have purer motives.”
“Aye.” Doyle quirked her mouth. “Despite the fact he’s a basketful of trouble, he does mean well.” Teasing, she glanced up at him. “There’s a lesson for you, there.”
“Now, there’s an astonishing thought,” he observed, and bent to kiss her.
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He couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. As
an added bonus, the Commander was thoroughly stymied, and he’d a Romanov, living under his roof.
“I ’m afraid,” the Filipino priest informed Doyle gently, “that it is a call-to-action, after all.”
Faith, I’d completely forgotten about this little side-serving of spooky, Doyle thought a bit guiltily. “Oh—hallo, Father. I guess I haven’t been thinkin’ about you lately, because I solved the puzzle about the blood-money Acton’s payin’ to your sister.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and nodded.
Since he seemed disinclined to speak further on the subject, she admitted, “I’m not sure what to do about it—it’s water under the bridge, now, and I imagine your sister could use a bit of extra money.”
Again, he nodded in understanding, but disclosed, “She is forwarding the money to the bishop, for the church’s rebuilding fund.”
Doyle stared at him for a moment. “Is she? Well, there’s irony and justice, shakin’ hands.”
“Yes.” He smiled his benign smile.
Doyle found that she wanted to draw the conversation to a close, and as quickly as possible. “Then all’s well that ends well, I suppose. I’ll keep workin’ on Acton—I’m tryin’; truly I am—and I appreciate the tip-off about the blood-money.” Not certain what one said, she added, “I hope you have a nice eternity.”
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But he shook his head slightly. “You know what must be done, my child. We sometimes must go where we’d rather not.”
This comment sparked a heated response, and she retorted, “No—I haven’t sworn obedience, and I’d rather not go anywhere. Look at you—you went to Africa, and then died, for your pains. It’s such a waste—that someone like you dies in—in absturity—”
“Obscurity,” he corrected gently.
“—in obscurity, and an out-and-out charlatan like the DCS is stupidly famous.”
“It is not ours to judge,” he reminded her in a mild tone.
But Doyle wasn’t having it, and blew out a breath in exasperation. “Well, that one’s not at all hard to judge, my friend. He’s a blackleg, through and through, and it’s not fair at all.”
The priest did not respond, but regarded her with his usual benevolence.
Something in his gaze inspired Doyle to rein in her temper, and so she conceded, “I suppose it’s a good thing that he’s bringin’ in believers by the bushelful—and in this day and age, that’s quite the accomplishment—but it’s not the right way to go about it, by swindlin’ people. Faith, that’s as bad as blood-money, if you ask me, and may
hap you should go visit him in his dreams, and tell him so.”
Murder in Misdirection: A Doyle & Acton Mystery (The Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard series Book 7) Page 21