“Rise up, Nellie,” the deacon admonished, as he grasped Doyle’s right hand and held it up over her head, pressing tightly. “Not a time for the faint o’ heart.”
Thus prompted, Nellie began speaking to the emergency personnel, as Acton carefully worked Doyle’s shirt over her head, assisted by Father John, who now crouched down beside Acton, his lips moving in silent prayer. With quick fingers, Acton unfastened Doyle’s Kevlar vest, and pulled it carefully away; she saw that a disc-shaped metal object was embedded in the center front.
“Glory be to God,” breathed the deacon in amazement. “Another miracle, for the blessed lassie.”
Acton quickly examined her, running his hands carefully over her torso. “Only the one,” he pronounced with relief, “and it was caught.”
“I was shot?” Doyle rasped out, gasping to catch her breath.
“Don’t talk, sweetheart.”
Doyle was bemused; Acton had never called her “sweetheart” before, and it sounded very strange.
Acton pulled her against him, and said into her ear. “Try to breathe; you’ve had the breath knocked out of you.”
“I love you,” she whispered, clinging to him. “I don’t tell you near enough.”
“You don’t have to say; not to me.”
They waited, listening as the sirens approached, the deacon firmly holding Doyle’s hand above her head, and Father John crouching silently beside them. Doyle looked over Acton’s shoulder at Nellie, and at the shattered glass, scattered on the pews and on the floor, the colors glinting in the light that was streaming in through the open window. “We were lucky, Nellie. Lucky the heater’s not workin’, and that we were wearin’ our coats.”
Nellie bent her head, and began to sob again, so the deacon awkwardly put his free arm around her, until Father John could come around, and help with the comforting.
When they arrived, the EMT personnel didn’t blink when informed that a woman wearing a Kevlar vest had been shot through a stained glass window. They’re rather like the CID, thought Doyle; they’ve seen it all, and nothing surprises them.
As they examined her hand, Acton explained it was a through and through—the bullet had passed through the webbing between her thumb and index finger, and no bones were broken.
“Lucky it’s only my right hand,” Doyle offered. She was left-handed.
“I like that hand,” Acton protested, and she blushed.
Once in the ambulance, Acton was immediately on his mobile—despite the fact the medic told him it was not allowed—and Doyle had the impression he was speaking to Williams. “I want you there with a crack SOCO team; go over everything, and check for CCTV. Get Mathis to come in, and start processing immediately. I’ll get ballistics, I’ve got the bullet.” He paused, listening, and then held the mobile to Doyle’s ear. “Tell him you are all right.”
“I am all right,” she announced dutifully, and the mobile was taken away.
“I’ll keep you posted.” Acton finished. “Get on it.”
He then rang off, and scrolled for another number. Again, he explained briefly what had happened, and added, “You find him, you name your price.”
He must be speaking to Savoie, Doyle realized.
“But I sign the report.”
Doyle closed her eyes, and hoped no one else recognized Acton-speak as well as she did, but he was already ringing up someone else, this time his tone quite different. “Previ? This is Lord Acton, and I must I beg your pardon—I’m always disturbing you on a Sunday, it seems. My wife was injured when a stained glass window was shot out at St. Michaels’s church—vandals, I imagine. I would appreciate it if you could run something on the news and in the papers as soon as you can, to find out if anyone saw anything; it’s a sorry state of affairs if she can’t be safe in a church, after jumping from Greyfriars Bridge.”
Doyle could hear the publisher speak with great excitement about such a follow-up to the original story, and so Acton gave him the particulars, and then rang off.
“Good one,” said Doyle. “Nicely done.”
“Sir, I must ask that you refrain from using your mobile,” ventured the medic.
“Police business,” said Acton briefly, not even bothering to look at the man. He then leaned into Doyle, looking into her eyes, as the vehicle swayed. “How are you?”
“I am all right, Michael; truly.” The young medic was lucky Acton hadn’t taken a swing at him; he was that angry.
“If you know anything at all about this, Kathleen, you must tell me.”
Acton was asking if her perceptive ability was giving her any clues and for the first time, it occurred to Doyle that this was what the dreams were all about—faith, she owed Maguire an apology, for giving him so much sauce. “I don’t know, Michael. Truly, I don’t.”
She reached for his hand, and they said nothing further for the rest of the journey.
37
“I think,” said Doyle, “that there is not enough scotch in London, for this one.”
“No,” Acton agreed.
They’d arrived at the hospital, and had been whisked up to a private suite, a team of very efficient doctors at the ready. There is nothing like having money and a title, thought Doyle; mental note.
On being informed that Doyle was pregnant, x-rays were scotched, and one of the doctors carefully palpitated Doyle’s ribcage whilst she bit her lip—she was beginning to feel the effects of being flung about like a rag doll.
“None broken,” he pronounced. “And even if one or two were, there’s little we could do, anyway. Take it easy for a few days.”
Not a problem, thought Doyle gloomily; Acton will never allow me out of the flat again.
After her hand was treated for the bullet wound, Dr. Easton arrived, accompanied by a radiologist with a portable ultrasound machine.
“The baby’s been moving,” Doyle offered. Indeed, Edward had been very active since the attack, almost as though he was protesting such ill-treatment.
The doctor nodded. “Good; the baby’s still very small and well-insulated, so I am certain there was no harm done. I’d like to have a look to see if the placenta has been impacted, though.”
He and the radiologist sat and viewed the screen, moving a small wand over her abdomen. Doyle couldn’t make out anything, until the screen froze as a photo was taken.
“Ah,” said Acton.
Doyle could see spindly arms and legs; skinny, and alien. In wonder, she compared what she saw on the screen with the young man from her dreams, and began to cry. Acton stroked her forehead, and asked the doctors in his cool, authoritative voice to finish it up, please.
“No harm done, Lady Acton.” Easton touched her arm gently. “I’d like you to stay overnight for observation, however.”
Acton responded for her. “We appreciate your concern, but we are going home.”
Nellie came by to see her, and to say that she’d only needed a stitch or two on her hand; the others would heal. She was leaving with her husband, and Acton asked if Doyle could borrow her coat, being as her own had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her chest, and he wanted to discard it.
Small wonder Nellie and the deacon had been horrified, Doyle thought. While she made herself ready, there was a knock at the door, and Trenton announced that he’d arrived.
Doyle saw that he was carrying another Kevlar vest, and she suppressed a groan; Acton would take no chances. After indicating that Trenton should wait in the hall, he gently fastened it over her torso. “Ready?” he asked.
“I should ring up Williams,” she ventured. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t, but quickly, please.”
Williams answered immediately. “Are you really all right?”
“Yes, we’re goin’ home, in fact, with no harm done.”
“There’s an awful lot of blood here for no harm done.”
“Thomas, don’t make me unwell.”
“Sorry. May I come by?”
“Tomorrow,” she o
ffered. “I’ll ring you when I’m up and about. Please don’t worry.”
She rang off, and then was quietly loaded into Trenton’s sedan at the service entrance, in the basement of the hospital. Both men remained vigilant and on edge during the drive home, and Acton called the concierge at their building to ask that they be extra alert with respect to anyone seeking access. Once at the flat, Acton remained with her by the door, while Trenton carefully searched the rooms, gun drawn, before calling out an all clear. After exchanging a significant look with Acton, Trenton then left. Acton locked the door, and with no further ado, lifted Doyle off her feet, and carried her to the bed.
“This is familiar,” she said into his neck.
“No more getting shot,” he replied firmly.
“I promise.” She kissed his throat; he was in a state, was her poor husband.
He set her on the bed, and examined the bandages on her hand. “Let me get some ice.”
“Put it in your scotch instead—I’m all right. I’d like you to come sit with me, is all.” Mainly she wanted to keep him close; the last time they’d encountered this type of situation, he’d gone off half-cocked, and she needed to cling to his coat tails, so as to prevent more mayhem.
An hour later, she was pretending to sleep so that Acton could drink in peace—which he’d been ably doing, like a dockman on strike. Despite the near-empty scotch bottle, however, she could sense that her husband was deeply abstracted; trying, no doubt, to figure out who would attempt such a bold murder, in broad daylight. Doyle hadn’t had a chance to think this over herself, but now that she did, it was truly a crackin’ puzzler. Someone had attempted to murder a peeress-turned-famous-bridge-jumper in spectacular fashion; but it seemed so—so much overkill, if one could pardon the pun. If someone truly wanted her dead, there were much easier ways to get the job done.
Hard to believe it was the matron, who was playing least-in-sight, and hard to believe it was anyone connected with the Wexton Prison case, since they were falling all over themselves trying to grass on the others. Stymied, she decided that she wasn’t up to putting on her thinking-cap, just yet. In any event, Acton was still emanating so much rage that she didn’t think she could concentrate, even if she wanted to—hopefully he’d go to sleep soon, and the black mood that hovered would dissipate. The usual cure for the black mood was a hearty helping of rough sex, but while her spirit was willing, her flesh felt like a beaten mule, and so regrettably, sex was out of the question.
“Can’t you sleep?” he asked quietly.
So much for pretending. “I’d give a year’s salary for a pint o’ your scotch.”
He ran a sympathetic hand over her hip. “The pregnancy book says you can take an over-the-counter acetaminophen.”
“I’d rather not.” She’d already given this poor child a fright; no need to drug him as well.
“Hot shower?” he suggested.
She thought about it for a moment. Ironically, the force of the shot had pushed her away from much of the falling glass, but what cuts she had on her hands and face would no doubt sting in the shower. Also, she was worried that Acton may be unsteady on his feet. “Not just yet.”
Very carefully, he pulled her against him, and even though the movement hurt her back, she didn’t protest. He smelt of scotch, and began gently stroking her arms. “Don’t die; I couldn’t bear it.”
“All right then; I won’t.”
“Christ, it was such a noise. . .”
“Michael,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to talk about it, just now.”
“Sorry. I am afraid I am drunk.”
He was truly in a sorry state, if he was willing to admit as much. She took one of his hands, and lifted it to her mouth, kissing the palm. “Knocker.”
His hands continued their circuit and he was quiet for a moment. “So extraordinary, to see Edward. He’ll be the fifteenth baron.”
“He looks better in my dreams.”
“Thank God for your dreams.”
“Thank God for you and your vest.”
“It worked.” He was sounding sleepy, and his hands slowed.
“Good to know.”
“Yes.” The stroking stopped, and then his arms tightened slightly around her. “Love you,” he murmured.
Ouch, ouch, ouch, she thought, but said gently, “Go to sleep, Michael.”
She must have gotten comfortable enough to fall asleep, because she was once again having the dream, only this time Edward was not present. Instead, Doyle stood beside Maguire, as they regarded the closed door.
Maguire said, “That’s the problem with this vengeance business; it never ends.”
She looked over at him in surprise. “That sounds more like somethin’ I’d say, not you.”
“It’s all very symmetrical, when you think about it.”
Doyle frowned, battling to pay attention. “What is symmetrical?”
With a shrug, he turned toward the locked door, and quoted her. “Some people are looking to get murdered, and some people are not.”
“I’m lost,” she offered apologetically. “Can you speak a bit more plainly?”
He laughed. “You are one to talk.”
After a moment, she turned to consider the closed door. “Who would want to kill someone in a church? A despicable act, for the love o’ Mike.”
“Depends on the church,” said Maguire.
“I’m going to see.” With a monumental effort, she forced herself to step forward.
“You are one of the bravest people I know.”
She opened the door to behold a man in his late forties, staring at her with an expression of unabated fury.
With a gasp, she sat upright in the bed, the sudden movement making her groan aloud. Acton began fumbling for the light, trying to focus.
“Máthir naofa, Michael; ‘tis him; I saw who was behind the door.” She paused, recovering her wits, and trying to decide how best to break it to him. But she’d been shot, and he was drunk, and there was no time like the present. “It’s your father.”
Propped up on an elbow, he rested his unfocused gaze on hers, and said nothing, his expression unreadable.
She repeated, “Your missin’ father; he’s tied up in this, somehow.”
He lifted a hand, and brushed a tendril of hair away from her face. “No, my father is quite dead.”
She frowned at him, trying to sort out what she could remember of the dream. “But Michael, I saw him—he may be alive, still.”
Acton held her gaze, his own eyes dark and opaque. “You are mistaken, Kathleen; I killed him myself.”
It was the pure truth, and she was speechless for a moment, staring at him. “Oh,” she said, striving for a normal tone. “I see. Well, then; I’m sorry for it.”
“I am not.”
This was also the pure truth, and she wasn’t certain how to respond.
He lay back down, and turned to switch off the light. “I would appreciate it if you did not mention it to anyone.”
“Yes—well, I think that’s probably a good strategy, all in all.” She hovered on the edge of asking him more about it—that he was willing to say even this much was surprising—but the black mood threatened, and she didn’t want to trigger it.
He gently closed ran a hand along her arm. “You should go back to sleep, Kathleen.”
This seemed an indication that he wasn’t going to tell her any more about his father’s death, and truth to tell, she was relieved; there were too many crises in the present, to try to dissect one from the past, and besides, she wasn’t completely sure she wanted to hear about it. Contrary to what Maguire seemed to think, she was a coward about most things. “All right,” she said, and laid her aching body back down next to Acton’s.
38
Acton’s mobile began vibrating as soon as the sun came up, and Doyle, who’d precious little sleep, was forced to awaken, also. She lay for a while, assessing herself, and then crept out to sit at the kitchen table, whilst Acton made and re
turned calls.
He looked up as she came in, covering the speaker to his mobile. “Sorry. I tried to be quiet.”
“Whist; I’ll take a nap later.” She’d have plenty of time; she knew she was going nowhere until this was resolved.
“How are you?”
“Better,” she lied—the aching was worse today than it was yesterday. On the other hand, she was actually in a fairly good frame of mind, all things considered; they’d dodged yet another catastrophe, and she was safe at home with a husband who was bent, as only Acton could be bent, on finding the attacker. He did not seem to be suffering any ill effects from drinking too much, and the black mood had disappeared to be replaced by the sharp and efficient DCI that the public knew and loved.
Doyle’s scalp prickled, and she paused in surprise; wondering what it was she was trying to understand. Acton was himself again—thanks be to God—and how he would have been if the killer had succeeded, almost didn’t bear thinking about. What he’d said last night was true, he couldn’t have borne it if she’d died; he’d have run amok—as he’d done once before—or simply shot himself, to put an end to his misery. Her scalp prickled again, and she was suddenly aware that she was on the wrong track. What? She thought in surprise. Of course Acton would be devastated; the man was a Section Seven stalker, after all—contrary to the occasional pretend-affair with a newspaper reporter, or the occasional rumor of marital strife, making the rounds at the Met.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Acton walked to stand beside her chair. As he listened to his mobile, he pulled her robe aside to look at her chest, and winced when he saw her bruise.
“Hideous,” she whispered. “Black as the third horseman.”
“Put a trace on it,” he said into the phone. “Well done.”
He rang off, and then scrolled for another number. “Williams is going to climb the walls until he sees you.”
She was embarrassed, and could feel herself blushing. “If you don’t want him over, Michael, that is perfectly all right with me. He should learn his limits.”
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 22