Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  She stared at him, because this was true; as incredible as it seemed, somehow Acton had enlisted Savoie to help him with the Wexton Prison corruption case. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

  “I can say no more. You are très ingénue, and if your husband has not told you of this, you must be as quiet as a mouse at the church.”

  “Not a problem, my friend; believe me.”

  “I will speak to my brother about this Munoz.”

  “Thank you; I appreciate it. Do you happen to have a sister?”

  He arched a brow in surprise. “Non. I have only Gerry, and the brother who was killed by the English policeman.” He gave her a significant look.

  Doyle blinked, as the dead brother was in fact killed by the fair Doyle, but as this was unbeknownst to Savoie, it seemed best to move on from the subject. “I’m thinkin’ there is a sister in this, somewhere. Cherkay la femme.”

  “Ah,” he agreed with a gleam. “Cherkay la femme.”

  She smiled and shook her head at him. “You should correct me when I get it wrong; else I’ll never learn. You’re as bad as Acton.”

  “Non—if I was as bad as Acton, I would find a way to bring you to my flat, for tortes. Perhaps you have a sister?”

  “I do not, but I’m sure you’ll find a nice girl, who appreciates you.” This said a bit dubiously, as it seemed unlikely Savoie would be interested in a nice girl, or a nice girl in him.

  He bowed his head. “Sans doute.” He continued very amused—a laugh a minute, she was.

  Trying to sound casual, she cautioned, “I’d rather Acton didn’t know about—about how we know each other, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oui,” he concurred. “Me, I do not want Acton trying to take my goat.”

  “Definitely not,” she agreed fervently.

  30

  Doyle tried without much success to stifle a yawn; she’d forgotten that Timothy and Nanda were coming over for dinner, and so she was forced to muster up some energy—she was tired, after her very busy day. At least she was able to participate in the meal without being sick, thanks to the blessed peanut butter, and the absence of any fish products.

  Reynolds was in his element, formally serving up the Cornish game hens in a manner more suited to Kensington Palace, with Timothy waxing enthusiastic as he asked for another.

  Dr. Timothy McGonigal was a genial, rather shy man who’d gone to university with Acton, and Doyle often wondered at the friendship, as the two men were nothing alike. After the tragic death of Timothy’s sister Caroline—at Acton’s hands, unbeknownst to Timothy—the man’s life had undergone a dramatic change. Doyle had asked him to offer a position at the medical clinic to Nanda, a Rwandan widow of her acquaintance, and Nanda had conveyed her gratitude by becoming his lover. Timothy appeared to be blissfully happy as a result; Caroline, the dead sister, had kept him on a tight leash.

  Nanda had a baby who was just beginning to walk, and they explained that they felt they should leave him at home. “A shame,” Doyle had said to Acton, when they were in the kitchen. “I should be practicin’, I suppose.”

  “In a few months, you may wish to consider interviewing a nanny, madam,” Reynolds suggested, as he carefully arranged the convenience store fruit pies on a silver tray.

  “Oh,” said Doyle, who was still trying to get used to having friends in her life, let alone strangers. “Do we need a nanny?”

  “I would supervise the nanny, madam; you needn’t worry.”

  He’ll be wanting to run a staff, one way or the other, Doyle thought in resignation, as she watched the servant carry the tray over to the table. He has his eye on Trestles, and good luck to him, what with that cast of characters over there.

  Timothy looked upon the dessert with enthusiasm, and offered, “We miss you at the clinic, Kathleen. Very busy there, lately.”

  “I did enjoy volunteerin’ there, Tim; I met the most interestin’ people.” Best not mention that two of the aforementioned people were an aspiring rapist, and the notorious Philippe Savoie.

  In turn, Timothy took Nanda’s hand and smiled at her. “As did I.”

  Doyle enjoyed Timothy’s company because her husband did—and Acton was not one to tolerate anyone—and because Timothy was genuinely kind, and didn’t think Acton’s marriage was a mismatch of epic proportions. Nanda could cast no stones, of course, having recently gone from impoverished Rwandan refugee to dining with the English aristocracy.

  “I saw your mother, Acton,” said Timothy, between bites. “She visited my office just the other week, when she was in town.” Somewhat abashed, he added, “I’m afraid I mentioned the blessed event—I assumed she would know already.”

  Doyle assured him, “It’s not a problem, Timothy. We were keepin’ it quiet, but now it’s common knowledge.” Privately, she wished she’d been a fly on the wall; the dowager would not have been happy to hear that the Irish upstart was pregnant with the heir to the House of Acton.

  Nanda turned to smile upon Doyle. “I was most happy to hear that you are going to have a baby.”

  “Thank you, Nanda; I’m that happy, myself.”

  “I will try to speak with Aiki, he will tell me whether the child is a boy or a girl.” She nodded. “He knows such things.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Doyle decided she may as well ask. “Oh—oh, do you still speak with your late husband, Nanda?”

  “From time to time,” the young woman said placidly, as she cautiously tasted the pie.

  To smooth over this strange pronouncement, Timothy asked with bluff heartiness, “Should I be worried? Wouldn’t want him unhappy with me, after all.”

  “Oh, no,” the widow said, and bestowed her gleaming smile upon him. “He does not mind; some are dead, and some are not.”

  “Why, that’s exactly what Maguire said,” Doyle exclaimed in surprise.

  “Who?” asked Timothy.

  “He’s one of the dead,” Doyle explained.

  “An old friend,” Acton interjected smoothly. “How is your caseload at the clinic, Tim?”

  Whilst Doyle sat, and waited for her scalp to stop prickling, Timothy replied with pride, “Nanda has been very helpful in convincing some of the young mothers to trust the clinic; we have a persistent problem, trying to persuade them that their folk remedies are actually more dangerous than our treatment.”

  “They are afraid their babies will be stolen,” Nanda agreed. “Or that they will be arrested.” Her dark eyes slid for a wary moment in Acton’s direction.

  There was a moment’s silence, whilst Doyle could feel Acton’s sharp interest, which aligned with her own. “Oh? Who arrests them, Nanda?”

  A bit flustered, Timothy made an attempt to divert the subject. “It’s just a misunderstanding—a problem with the language, I think. Nanda was worried that Acton would try to arrest her, if we came over.” He covered the woman’s hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “It is a common fear among the immigrant community; that the police will arrest them for no particular reason.”

  Nanda’s gaze dropped to her lap, but Acton leaned forward and said something to her in French—it sounded to Doyle as though he was asking her something, and reassuring her.

  But Timothy was embarrassed, and it was clear he’d already cautioned his sweetheart not to raise this controversial subject. “No, no need at all; it’s only a misunderstanding—born of ignorance, of course. Thank you, Acton, but I’m certain there is nothing to it.”

  To change the subject, they began to discuss Timothy’s recent purchase of a piano, and Doyle feigned interest, even though her mind was preoccupied with the startling things one learned during dinner parties—perhaps entertaining wasn’t such a terrible chore, after all. Although Reynolds was going to drive her mad, with all of his that’s-not-the-correct-fork-madam. What difference did it make, for the love o’ Mike? She should stab him with one, just to prove the point.

  “Do you play, Kathleen?” Timothy asked Doyle kindly.

  Privately amused that he would
think she grew up in a household that could afford piano lessons, let alone a piano, Doyle shook her head. “I do not; I’m not very musical, I’m afraid.”

  “Not true; you have a very clear soprano,” Acton said.

  Doyle hid her surprise; the only time she sang was at church—and Acton never sang. He also never listened to music, which wasn’t very Holmesian, when you thought about it. She remembered an uncomfortable conversation at Trestles—one of the many—when the others had mentioned that Acton’s late father was musically gifted. Of course, one couldn’t be certain the man was dead, being as he’d gone missing many years ago—although apparently, there were rumors that the dowager did away with him. All in all, not as unbelievable as it sounded; perhaps that kind of thing ran in the family.

  They made an early night of it, and as soon as Reynolds departed, Doyle retreated to the sofa, dying to discuss the remarks Nanda had made. Acton had shared an after-dinner scotch with Timothy, and Doyle noted that he now poured himself another, before he joined her. Upset about something, he was; he’d been quiet, after the piano discussion.

  He settled in beside her, seated on the edge of the sofa, and cradled the glass between his knees so that he could watch her face. “Tell me.”

  “Someone that we think is dead is not truly dead—I’m certain of it, Michael. And I think it’s important.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “Solonik,” Doyle said promptly.

  “No; Solonik is definitely dead.”

  But Doyle could not let it go. “Are you certain, Michael? He died in Wexton Prison, after all, and there are some smoky goings-on with the medical examiner, over there.”

  “I am certain. I verified that it was his body in the prison morgue.”

  “Oh—oh, I see.” With Solonik eliminated, she tried to think of other players from the turf war, and mused, “No question that Barayev is dead.” The man was Solonik’s brother-in-law, and apparently a shady character in his own right, although he’d worked in the guise of a well-to-do businessman.

  “Unequivocally,” said Acton with a trace of satisfaction.

  Doyle was reminded that Acton had killed Barayev himself, and so as to gloss over this unfortunate fact, she hastily continued, “How about the Irish contingent from the turf war—the Rourke brothers, from the Laughin’ Cat pub?”

  “Both dead,” Acton verified, as he reached to pour another half-glass.

  “Ironic, is what it is,” Doyle noted a bit crossly. “I’ve had my fill of laughin’ cats, lately; the SOCO’s stupid cat is probably lordin’ it over that poor buildin’ manager, and feastin’ on sardines every day.”

  Acton looked up. “Would you like a cat, Kathleen?”

  With gentle exasperation, she lifted his hand, and kissed it. “No, my friend; I do not want a cat. Or a horse. Or lapis earrings.”

  She caught a flare of chagrin from him, and had to laugh aloud. “Oh, Michael; did you buy me the earrings, already? Let me see them, then—although they’ll probably clash with my hair.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said with a small smile, taking her hand. “Tonight, let’s concentrate on the undead.”

  Recalled to this topic, she wished she had a better grip on what this was all about—there were too many variables. “Mayhap it’s not related to the turf wars, Michael; mayhap it’s more personal. Perhaps Marta your evil housekeeper is not truly dead—oh,” she exclaimed, startled. “There’s a sister, somewhere in all this, and Marta’s sister is Greta, at Trestles.”

  Acton lifted his head, trying to keep up, despite having made impressive inroads into the scotch. “A sister?”

  She looked over in apology. “I know I’m not makin’ a lot of sense.”

  “Nonsense; you are charming.”

  Hiding a smile at this gallantry, she persevered, “I think the woman in question—the foreign woman—is someone’s sister.”

  “Then not Greta, as she is not foreign.”

  “Oh. Oh, I suppose not, then—although are you certain Greta’s English? Remember, it’s someone who everyone thinks is English, but she’s not.”

  Acton was idly playing with her hands, his head bent, but she suddenly had a swift impression of something; a leap of excitement—quickly suppressed, but not quickly enough. “What?” she demanded, bending her head to look up into his face. “What is it?”

  “It’s just an idea that may go nowhere. Let me check on it, first.”

  Frustrated, she tried to contain her annoyance. He didn’t want to tell her whatever it was he’d just thought of, because—as Savoie would say—she was trays-in-june. But I’ve got to figure it out, she thought; that’s why Maguire keeps poking at me—it’s all tangled up together, somehow, and I am needed, even though no one trusts me enough to tell me what’s going on.

  So as to turn the subject, she observed, “To think that Nanda was afraid of you—even though she was comin’ over for dinner. Those poor women, to be livin’ in such fear.”

  “Immigrant women are the most vulnerable, and are least likely to grass on the perpetrators.” He paused, then added, “And it was probably standard procedure, in many of their home countries.”

  “It’s so wrong,” Doyle pronounced with some heat. “To be takin’ advantage of the helpless, in such a way.”

  “Yes. They are forced to negotiate at the most expedient level.”

  When Acton drank too much, his language reverted to House of Lords loftiness, and so Doyle decided little more would be gleaned this night from her better half, who was fighting off some sort of dark emotion, poor man. She leaned over to wrap her arms around his neck and nuzzle it. “Enough debriefin’, husband; should we go climb into the back seat of the Range Rover?”

  “Insufficient space.” He set down his glass with a click. “Let’s to bed, instead.”

  She bit his ear gently, and teased, “What should I be negotiatin’?”

  He put an arm up to press it against hers, around his neck. “No more drinking, tonight.”

  She blushed at being so easily caught out. “Bring the bottle if you’d like, Michael; I truly won’t mind.”

  “No,” he said, rising to steer her toward the bedroom. “I want to concentrate.”

  Later, he lay in bed with his hands behind his head, watching her. She was sitting up, gazing at the bedroom fire, and congratulating herself for diverting him from a black mood—the cure for the dismals always seemed to be a healthy bout of uninhibited sex. While the nuns at St. Brigid’s always advised fervent prayer as a cure, fervent sex appeared to be just as useful. The nuns wouldn’t know, of course, and therefore couldn’t be faulted.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked quietly.

  She looked over at him. “Do we have amazin’ sex?”

  “Yes,” he answered immediately. It was the truth.

  “I thought so.” Small wonder Munoz didn’t want to give up Lestrade, despite his dubious connections. “Is Timothy still seekin’ advice?” Early in his relationship, the good doctor had sought Acton’s counsel about matters sexual.

  “Not as much; he’s getting the hang of it.”

  She giggled, and rested her chin on her knees. “It’s hard to imagine, Michael.”

  “Apparently she is very comfortable on the subject. They do a lot of role-playing.”

  Bemused, Doyle thought about this. “I can’t think of anythin’ I’d like more, than me bein’ me, and you bein’ you.”

  “Precisely,” he said, and pulled her down beside him.

  31

  Once again, Doyle was watching Edward barricade the door. Poor boyo, she thought; he must be as tired of this as I am.

  “You’ll be needed,” said Maguire.

  “You again,” said Doyle crossly. “You’re precious little help, and now I’m wearin’ a vest.”

  “There’s gratitude, for you.”

  But she continued irritated, watching her son perform his seemingly endless task. “Tell it to Williams; he’s the one who thinks you did everyone
a favor.”

  The newspaper man shrugged. “Except for the one, of course. For a detective, you don’t always pay attention.”

  Startled, she looked over at him in apology. “I’m that sorry; I didn’t see it at the time. I was distracted by the Masterson mess.”

  “You do tend to get distracted. Cherchez la femme.”

  She was instantly cross again. “Everyone speaks French but me.”

  “That’s just as well; you’d be more worried than you are.”

  Making a monumental effort to focus, she frowned at him. “I need to ask you somethin’, and I’ve forgotten what it is.”

  “It’s not a person, its people.”

  “Oh, I see.” This, even though she didn’t truly see at all. “And the cat?”

  “The cat is not a person,” he explained patiently. “Or he’d be dead, too.”

  “I suppose that goes without sayin’,” she mused, and found that instead of Maguire, she was now standing beside Marnie, who looked up at her with a pale little face. “Tell me about heaven, but try to speak normally.”

  Doyle found she could say nothing to the girl, normally or not. With a start, she awoke to stare into the darkness of her bedroom, forcing herself to lie quietly, until her heart stopped pounding. Acton hadn’t awakened this time, and she decided she’d let him sleep. She had a lot to think about.

  The next morning, Acton paused to drop a kiss on her head. “Ready for the doctor tomorrow?”

  “Do you think he’ll need to draw blood?” She had no problem mucking about with corpses, who were lying in congealing puddles of blood and brain matter, but having a doctor wave a needle in her direction was another thing altogether.

  “If he tries, I will take him down with a chokehold.”

  With sincere gratitude, she pulled him down by the necktie for another kiss. “I’d appreciate it, my friend.”

  As Reynolds helped him into his coat, Acton remarked, “I believe Dr. Easton will be pleased; you have put on some weight.”