Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  The servant bowed slightly. “I wanted you to know, madam, that if assistance is ever needed, I stand at the ready.”

  Poor man, thought Doyle, hiding a smile. All he can figure is Williams is trouble, one way or another. “Thank you, Reynolds. You are a trump.”

  As she watched the servant begin to inventory the pantry—he must be as bored as she was—she decided she should actually be a bit insulted by his offer. She was a trained police officer, after all, and Reynolds was not a large man. On the other hand, she shouldn’t be resentful that she had a surfeit of champions.

  Her mobile pinged and she pounced on it. “Michael,” she asked in a low voice, “who do you think would do better in a fight; me or Reynolds?”

  To his credit, he did not hesitate. “You.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, feeling vindicated. “That’s what I thought, too.”

  There was a pause. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “No. I was just thinkin’ about it.”

  “Ah.”

  She giggled. “How goes it?”

  “Dr. Harding rented the vehicle, using a false ID.”

  “Oh? Well, how’s this: Percy killed Moran.”

  “You win.”

  She smiled. “Did you already know?”

  “I did not,” he said, and it was the truth.

  “She was savin’ his reputation.”

  “And her own,” he reminded her.

  “Yes; she’s grateful to you for that.”

  “A little too grateful,” he said, with a great deal of meaning.

  “Well, you can’t be surprised; that’s the way she does business, and you’re such a handsome thing. And she covets your flat now, too.”

  “Fortunately, I’m unassailable. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m well. How is your mother?”

  “She thought that I’d come alone, because I’d left you.”

  “Oh—how disappointin’ for her, Michael.”

  “You’d best her in a fight, too.”

  “Anytime, anywhere,” she teased.

  “It would be a forfeit; she’s terrified of you.”

  “That’s because she thinks I’m a barbarian, and half-expects me to paint my face blue, and come after her with a pike. Cheer up; when Edward marries, it will be my turn to be the dowager, and she’ll finally have to descamp.”

  “Decamp; but good attempt.”

  “Next you’ll be tellin’ me what ‘unassailable’ means.”

  She could feel him smile. “It means I love you.”

  Smiling in turn, she was touched; her husband was not one to wax romantic on the phone. Or at any time, come to think of it. “Have you discovered anythin’ of interest?”

  “Some pieces are falling into place.” Wily, he was; he didn’t want her to know, and knew better than to lie to her.

  “Well, that is excellent news,” she said with irony, so he’d know she didn’t appreciate being treated like a child.

  He didn’t budge, however. “Please rest; perhaps no more visitors, today.”

  “Now there’s a shame, I was thinkin’ of postin’ up a sign, downstairs.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have your promise, Kathleen; you both need your rest.”

  Instantly contrite, she assured him, “I promise. Please don’t worry, Michael, I am eatin’ like a cow, and bored to flinders.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said, and rang off.

  So as to give Reynolds a little breathing room, she retreated into the bedroom to have a lie-down, and whilst she dozed, she had another dream. Maguire was standing beside her with his hands in his pockets. He was alone this time; no Marnie, or Edward, or Acton’s father. “Look alive; you’ll be needed.”

  “Needed for what, exactly?” Doyle asked.

  “Pack your bag.”

  “Acton won’t let me leave,” she explained. “I’m a princess, locked away in a tower.”

  He shook his head. “You’re no princess; you’re the bridge-jumper.”

  “Exactly. Visit Acton’s dream and tell him, if you please.”

  “It’s all very symmetrical. What he doesn’t know could hurt him.”

  Frowning, she regarded him, trying to make sense of it. “What doesn’t he know?”

  “Look alive, you’ll be needed,” he repeated, and the next thing she knew she was gazing up at Reynolds, who was leaning over to speak to her in a soft tone.

  “Madam, I am sorry to wake you, but the concierge has called to say that there is a visiting nurse, downstairs.”

  Propping up on her elbows, she looked at him through her tousled hair. “A visiting nurse?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. “Do you know anythin’ about this?”

  “No madam. Shall I make a further inquiry?”

  With the dream still fresh in her mind, Doyle’s scalp prickled. “No—allow me, Reynolds.”

  Running her fingers through her hair, she padded over to the intercom, and asked the concierge to put the nurse on the phone.

  The man on the other end introduced himself rather impatiently as a visiting nurse from the Metropolitan Service. “I have an order from Dr. Easton, who wants a follow-up visit after your injury. Since you cannot leave your house, I was sent.”

  Doyle listened carefully, but what the man said was true. However, it was also true that Dr. Easton would be unlikely to send anyone other than himself to attend to such an illustrious patient. Assuming a neutral tone, she asked, “Are you affiliated with the Health Professions Council?”

  “No, ours is a private service.” This was true.

  “Are you affiliated with Dr. Easton?”

  “No, I’m with the Metropolitan visiting nurse service,” the man repeated as though she were a simpleton. “Dr. Easton will come by after office hours, but asked that I take care of the preliminary screening—vital signs, vitamins, that sort of thing. It will save him a lot of time, and I will let him know if there are any areas for concern.”

  Every word rang true. Frowning, Doyle tried to think of another question. “And you are a registered nurse?”

  “Yes. I can show the concierge my credentials, if necessary.” This was also true, but Doyle found it hard to believe that—given the circumstances—this fellow would just show up and demand entrance without someone letting them know that he was coming. And on top of that, there was something that Acton did not know that might hurt him.

  Coming to a decision, she said, “Give me the concierge, and I’ll have them send you up, then.”

  After she rang off, she warned Reynolds, “I’m not sure if this is on the up-and-up, Reynolds. I will take you up on your offer, and ask that you stand at the ready.”

  The servant was duly alarmed by this assessment, and stared at her. “Is that so, madam? Perhaps it would be wisest to contact Lord Acton, and await instruction.”

  “No,” said Doyle slowly. “Instead, I’m to pack my bag, and look alive. Let’s find out what this is all about.”

  45

  When the visiting nurse came to the door, he introduced himself as Mr. Rooke. Doyle beheld a harried-looking middle-aged man, carrying a black medical bag which would have been thoroughly screened, downstairs. She didn’t have the impression that he was anything other than what he said he was, and she let out a breath, not aware she’d been holding it. “Come in.” With a gesture, she indicated where he could set up at the table. “Do you do this type of thing often?”

  “Oh, yes, all the time. Pregnant housebound are a large percentage of our cases.” He paused, and then said with dawning recognition, “Say; aren’t you that policewoman who jumped off the bridge?”

  “I am,” she confessed, and pinned on a smile.

  “I would never have done it,” he pronounced with certainty, as he dug into the bag. “I’m not one to take risks.”

  “I see,” she said, not certain what type of response was called for.

  “It’s good for people like
me that there are people like you.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “It’s the way of the world. Open up.” He took her temperature, recorded her blood pressure, and examined the cuts on her hands and face. “Untempered glass; a real hazard. Had any other problems?”

  “No. Mornin’ sickness,” she amended.

  “Your first?”

  “Well—yes, I suppose. I did have a miscarriage, earlier this year.”

  “You’ll do just fine,” he assured her. “Everything’s in order.”

  “That’s just grand.” She smiled upon him, grateful that apparently there was to be no further physical examination; she was not one who liked to be poked and prodded about.

  “Let me give you your injection, and we’ll be finished here.”

  “Injection?” asked Doyle in surprise. “What injection?”

  He lifted an instruction card and read from it. “Prenatal vitamin injection.” With a deft movement, he pulled out a pre-filled syringe, and snapped off the cap. “Doctor’s orders; hold still.”

  Danger, Doyle’s instinct warned, and she reached out to clasp his wrist. “Hold on. Who gave you this?”

  Rooke looked at her in surprise. “Dr. Easton.” It was the truth. “I went by his office to pick up my orders, and he said your husband had called to say that an injection would be necessary, since you’ve been so sick.”

  “My husband?” Doyle stared at the syringe, and suddenly remembered the two Mrs. Addersleys. “What did Dr. Easton look like?” She turned to Reynolds. “Where’s Munoz’s drawing?”

  “Why? Is there a problem, here?” Rooke was a little annoyed as he lowered the syringe. “If you want to refuse your shot, that is your prerogative; take it up with your doctor.”

  But Reynolds had produced Munoz’s drawing of Dr. Harding, and Rooke stared at it in surprise. “Why, yes; that’s him. That’s Dr. Easton.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Doyle breathed. “That’s what Acton doesn’t know. She’s framin’ him—the matron is framin’ him for my murder, and this is Plan B.”

  While both men stared at her in confusion, Reynolds ventured, “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  For the love o’ Mike, one fine day she’d quit blurting out things in front of people. Thinking furiously, Doyle asked the nurse, “Are you to report back to Dr. Easton, after this visit?”

  “Of course. Particularly if there are any concerns.”

  “I would like you to call him and report that I seem to be doin’ fine, and that you gave me my shot.”

  Rooke drew himself up in outrage. “I will not tell him you had the injection of vitamins when you refused; that would be very unprofessional.”

  Doyle pulled her gun from her ankle holster, rose, and aimed it at his forehead. “Do it anyway.”

  The man gaped at her for several long moments, and Doyle could feel Reynolds emanating waves of alarm behind her.

  “My stars,” Rooke said weakly, holding out his hands. “Let’s all stay calm.”

  “I’m calmer than a ferryman. Make your call.”

  Doyle watched Rooke cast a panicked glance of appeal at Reynolds, who rallied to announce, “She’s a very good shot, you know. And she’s a police officer. I would do as she says.”

  Rooke pulled out his mobile and, with hands that trembled slightly, began to scroll for the number.

  “Take a breath,” Doyle instructed him. “Try to sound normal.”

  Rooke did as she asked, and if he sounded a bit reedy, Doyle decided no one would know anything was amiss; he was the reedy sort to begin with. He rang off.

  “Shall I phone Lord Acton, madam?” asked Reynolds.

  “Not yet. Mr. Rooke is going to be locked in the laundry room. Be very careful when you take the syringe—put on the cleaning gloves, first.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Still holding him at gunpoint, Doyle directed the visiting nurse into the laundry room, and asked Reynolds to take the man’s mobile, and search him for any other items of interest. Rooke did not resist, but protested that he had other patients awaiting him.

  “This is police business,” Doyle announced, which was sort of the truth, if you didn’t count the illegal weapons, and the ongoing personal vendettas.

  “Then I have rights,” Rooke insisted.

  “Good one; I’ll get back to you.” Doyle locked the door on him, and turned over various protocols in her mind. It’s all very symmetrical, Maguire had said, and now she knew what he meant; it was another Solonik trap, only this time with his sister-the-matron pulling the levers.

  She had the advantage; the villains didn’t know she’d twigged them. She could have Harding arrested as soon as she knew what was in the syringe; together with Rooke’s testimony, he’d be a gone goose. But Acton was being framed for her murder—she was certain of it—and this meant she had to be very careful about how she went about this. There’d been the attempt at the church, with evidence left like a bread-crumb trail; evidence that the phone calls, the rental car—and no doubt the hunting rifle—had originated from the Trestles area. Now this second attempt on her life would be shown to be at the request of her husband, and the current rumor going around the Met was that he was regretting his impetuous marriage. It was only luck that Munoz had mentioned meeting Harding, and the deception had come to light. Her scalp prickled, and she knew she was on the right track.

  “Would you like me to ring up Lord Acton, madam?” Reynolds asked for the third time. The poor man was on pins and needles, and small blame to him.

  “No,” she said slowly. She should assume all communications were being monitored, just to be safe. Her priority should be to set up a trap at this end, and then get to Acton before she was supposedly dead, to show him that she truly wasn’t. Look alive, Maguire had said, and now she knew what he meant.

  With a knit brow, she thought about the set-up for her trap and seizure—no doubt Harding would be lurking about, waiting for her lifeless corpse to be removed from the flat, so as to verify that the plan had worked. He would then report to the matron, who was waiting like a spider to set some sort of frame-up for poor Acton, who wouldn’t handle the news of his wife’s death very well—understatement of the century; they had no idea what they were dealing with.

  She paused with that thought. Perhaps they did indeed know what they were dealing with; there would be scorched earth for miles, which would only add validity to the theory that Acton had murdered his wife. Dr. Harding was no doubt counting on Acton’s extreme reaction, since he’d analyzed him, and knew what to expect. Then, once he was in the witness box, Harding wouldn’t hesitate to testify against Acton; the psychotherapy privilege didn’t exist, where a crime was involved.

  Tamping down panic, Doyle chewed on her thumbnail. First things first; she needed to know what was in the syringe, so that she knew if they had a case against Harding, and also how much time she would have to fake her own death, and hotfoot it over to Trestles. Unfortunately, both Reynolds and Trenton were under strict orders from Acton not to allow her to set foot outside the flat. Pack your bags, Maguire had urged—you’ll be needed. Apparently, it was time for the princess to break out of her tower.

  She turned to Reynolds. “First, I’ll need to have Trenton come up here, but the call has to come from you.” She thought about it for a moment. “Please text him on your mobile and tell him his lunch is ready.” Reynolds never made Trenton lunch; with any luck he would come straight up to investigate this strange message.

  While he was texting, she pulled her hooded jacket out of the hall closet, and carefully wrapped the syringe in plastic wrap before stuffing it into a pocket. “If anyone asks, say I’m sleepin’. I’ll switch mobiles with you; don’t let Mr. Rooke out, but don’t tell anyone he’s here.” She frowned, thinking. “That’s all; if anyone asks, I’m sleepin’, and you’d rather not disturb me. I’m goin’ to call you, once I find out how much time we have, and give further instructions.”

  “Very goo
d, madam.” The servant’s tone changed slightly. “Am I to understand you are departing?”

  She looked at him apologetically. “Yes. It’s very important, Reynolds, that you don’t call Acton—I must have your solemn word of honor. I want to set up a trap and seizure at this end, and I have to be very careful, in the meantime, to make sure I don’t make things worse for Acton. If you like, I can tell him that I held a gun to you, and you’d no choice.”

  “I would rather,” the servant suggested delicately, “that Lord Acton believe I was hoodwinked.”

  “Done,” she agreed. Best not mention to Reynolds that he was going to have to stage a heart attack before the day was done; one step at a time.

  46

  Trenton’s voice could be heard from outside the front door. “Ma’am?”

  She opened the door, and saw he stood to one side, weapon drawn, and on edge. “It’s all right, Trenton, we’re clear. I just needed to speak to you without usin’ the phone.”

  He holstered his gun. “Quickly, please; I should be downstairs.”

  Not a chit-chatter, was our Trenton. “There’s been another attempt on me. The visitin’ nurse was goin’ to give me an injection, and I’ll swear on all the holy relics that it’s somethin’ toxic. They don’t know we’ve twigged them, and we’re to set up a trap and seizure. After an appropriate time, Reynolds will send for an ambulance, so as to draw in the suspect. The suspect—” she handed him the drawing of Harding “—will be lurkin’ about, probably waitin’ to take a snap. Hold him, and await instruction.”

  “Right,” he said, and took the drawing.

  “They may be monitorin’ the calls, so don’t call Acton, and don’t call here.”

  “Understood.”

  “Thanks, that’s all for now.”