Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

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  “Yellow fever,” he explained. “I was part of the immunization outreach, in Togo.”

  “Oh—I’m that sorry for it; it hardly seems fair.” He bowed his head. “I vowed obedience.”

  Doyle frowned doubtfully. “I don’t know as I’d be any good at obedience.”

  “Oh, no,” he agreed again, with a smile. “No.”

  She wasn’t certain whether it was a sin to be impatient with a priest, and so she decided that instead, she would be as subtle as a serpent. “Tell me, Father, is there anythin’ that I can do for you?”

  Thus prompted, the man’s expression grew a bit grave. “Your husband is paying my sister, and she is troubled by it.”

  There was a small pause, whilst Doyle wondered if she’d heard him aright. “He—he is?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded. “Blood-money.”

  Doyle stared at him, astonished. “Why—whatever d’you mean? Who’s your sister?”

  But instead of hearing an answer, she found that she was staring at her darkened bedroom wall, and listening to the sound of her accelerated heartbeat, echoing in her ears.

  Doyle slept deeply the remainder of the night, and woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than her usual. As she lay in bed and watched Acton review his caseload updates, she debated her options. Apparently, her better half was paying blood-money to a dead priest’s sister—talk about your improbable scenarios, there was the corker. But the priest seemed sincere, and the fact that he was willing to haunt her dreams about it meant that she should shake her stumps and find out what it was he was talking about, no matter how fantastic the idea.

  No point in asking Acton; if it was something he hadn’t yet told her, it was something he wanted well-hidden. Besides,

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  sometimes these dreams seemed to center on the proposition that Acton needed to be saved from himself—with Doyle as prime saver—since she was literally the only person on earth who could persuade her renegade husband to veer from his chosen course. With this extraordinary talk of blood-money, this seemed to be one of those times.

  So; Acton was paying the mysterious sister blood-money— and for a mysterious purpose, since you didn’t just throw blood-money around like penny-cards on the bar. She could try to ask Layton, who handled Acton’s finances—it would come as no surprise that Layton knew more than his share of secrets, both of the bloody and non-bloody variety. The problem, of course, was that Layton wouldn’t give them up to the likes of the fair Doyle, and instead would grass to her spouse at the first opportunity— he’d regret having to do it, but Layton was nothing if not loyal.

  She paused, because Acton had been at Layton’s yesterday—ostensibly to pick up his birth certificate—but clearly that was an excuse, and if Doyle didn’t have overly-pregnant brain, she’d have seen right through it. After all, there were probably a hundred suited minions at Layton’s who’d be only too happy to deliver Lord Acton’s birth certificate wherever he directed them to.

  So, the remaining option would be to investigate from the other end of the stick—discover who the sister was, and why she was troubled about whatever it was that she was troubled about.

  With this object in mind, she ventured in a casual tone, “I’d like to meet Nellie for coffee today, just to make sure we have all our ducks in a rope for the confirmation.”

  “Of course,” Acton agreed, and turned his chair around to face her. “I only ask that you don’t venture too far afield.”

  But she’d caught his flare of amusement, and with a smile, she teased, “Knocker. You should correct me when I get somethin’ wrong; I’ll never learn, else.”

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  With his own small smile, he bent his head, and contemplated the floor. “The ducks are in a row.”

  Frowning, she considered this. “Truly? I think it makes more sense to put them in a rope.”

  He tilted his head. “A rope seems a bit cruel.”

  “They’re Irish ducks,” she declared. “They’re used to it. Not like your St. Petersburg ducks, who’re fed cinnamon pastries all day, and would probably faint if someone shook a rope at them.”

  At this, he raised his brows, amused. “What is this?” Smiling, she sank back into the pillows. “Just a conversation

  I was havin’ with Emile, during one of the rare times he was sittin’ still for more than a minute at a time. He thought he was going back to St. Petersburg, and was tellin’ me all about feedin’ the ducks.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry I missed it.” He turned his wrist to check the time on his watch.

  Why, she thought in surprise; there’s something here— something he doesn’t want me to know. Watching him from under her lashes, she casually stretched her arms over her head. “He misunderstood somethin’, of course. Small chance of his goin’ back to Russia, even if Savoie weren’t coolin’ his heels in the nick.”

  “Small chance,” he agreed, and closed his laptop with a click. Ah. Doyle considered the ceiling, and wondered what it all meant. It must have to do with Savoie’s escape, she realized; and wouldn’t it be crackin’ grand if Savoie was planning to take Emile, and flee to Russia? After all, Solonik—the boy’s real father—had tried to muscle in on Savoie’s operations, and so Savoie might want to return the favor, and muscle in on the Russian operations. Although from what she knew of the Russian underworld, they wouldn’t take kindly to foreigners trying to muscle in on their turf—and besides, with Solonik long-dead, no

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  doubt the vultures had already descended on that particular carcass.

  She repositioned a pillow, and tried to remember what it was like to lie comfortably in bed. So, that probably wasn’t it— Savoie wasn’t planning on fleeing to Russia. Mayhap he was worried about stashing the boy somewhere safe, whilst he was imprisoned? It was no secret that he doted on the boy, and Savoie had a basketful of enemies. Although—although that didn’t make a lot of sense, either. Presumably, there was no safer place to stash Emile than here at castle Acton, seven stories up in a Kensington security building.

  Acton rose. “Have we a full contingent, today?”

  “We do. Best make your escape whilst you can, my friend.” He leaned to kiss her, and rest a fond hand on her belly. “Let

  me know if anything is needed.”

  “Courage,” she teased. “Along with a side helpin’ of patience.” “I have every confidence,” he replied, and—rather to her

  surprise—it was true.

  With a small frown, Doyle stared out the window for a moment, listening to him take his leave of Reynolds and Emile. Now, here was another interesting little wrinkle; she’d been so busy being a crosspatch that she hadn’t considered the extraordinary fact that Acton was in good spirits, and—knowing her husband as she did—he shouldn’t have been, what with the corruption trials mucking up the system, and the baby about to be born. She knew that he wasn’t putting up a brave front just to reassure her—instead, he was genuinely content, even with the daily chaos in the flat, and the unwanted attention on his religious conversion.

  He’s got some sort of gambit going, she concluded, and it appears to be going well—so well that he’s not putting away a bottle of scotch each and every day, which would be much more in keeping.

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  The mysterious blood-money? Could that be at the root of her husband’s good mood? Although—although she didn’t get the sense that he was pleased because he’d covered up something; instead, she’d the sense he was pleased because he was outwitting somebody—the same sense as when he was on the brink of solving a thorny case. There was nothing Acton liked better than turning the tables.

  With a small sigh, she decided that whatever-it-was would have to wait until after the confirmation—one crisis at a time, and besides, the crisis with the priest-ghost
should probably take precedence over all non-religious-themed crisises. Rising to her feet, she resisted the temptation to peek at Acton’s laptop, and instead headed to the shower.

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  Chapter 9

  He spoke with Hudson about the furniture delivery for the nursery, and the need to distract Williams.

  B ecause Reynolds wanted to do some housecleaning, Doyle decided that she would take the two children with her when she walked over to the coffeehouse to meet

  with Nellie. In general, Emile behaved himself in public— Savoie’s influence, no doubt—and Gemma was too shy to act up.

  Nellie was already waiting for them, and had saved a table by the window. She was a capable Filipino woman who volunteered at St Michael’s, and generally acted as Father John’s administrator, since the parish hadn’t sufficient funds to hire anyone in that capacity. As an experienced mother of nine, Nellie sized-up Emile at a glance, and commandeered the boy to assist her in placing the order at the counter, leaving Doyle and Gemma to watch the passersby out the window.

  As the little girl seemed disinclined to speak, Doyle offered, “We were thinkin’, Gemma, that you could go to Emile’s school, in the fall. It would only be for the mornin’s, and it might be fun for you, to play with the other children.”

  “Oh,” the girl replied, her dark eyes gazing up at Doyle. “Will my mum be at the school?”

  Hearing the thread of anxiety in her voice, Doyle reached over to cover the little girl’s hand. “Your mum will be at my flat, helpin’ with baby Edward. But you’ll come home to be with us, and we’ll all have lunch together.”

  The small face brightened. “Will Reynolds make lunch?” “Indeed, he will. Never doubt it.”

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  Gemma ducked her head and smiled. “All right.”

  With a pang, Doyle squeezed the girl’s hand. Small blame to her, for worrying about any coming changes; her short life had been nothing but upheaval, starting from day one.

  Nellie and Emile appeared, Emile carefully balancing the cup-holder that held Gemma’s cocoa. “Here you go, Gemma,” he said, and only spilled it slightly, as he laid it before her.

  “Thank you,” the girl replied in her soft voice.

  “Spasibo,” the boy corrected, with a gleam.

  “Spasibo,” she amended.

  “Pazhalooysta,” he replied.

  Grand, though Doyle; Emile is teaching Gemma to speak Russian. Better she improves on her English, first—although I suppose I’m not the one to cast that stone.

  Nellie doled out the coffee, and took her seat. “Have you heard? The bishop will stay for the reception after the ceremony.” Her voice held equal parts gratification and dread. “I wish we’d thought to have the floors refinished in the hall, when we were refinishing the pews.”

  Doyle blew on her cup impatiently. “Paint a mural on the ceilin’, like they do at the Vatican. He’ll never even look at the floor.”

  But Nellie was in a fine fret, and wasn’t about to be distracted. “I’ll have to use plastic ware—we haven’t enough china plates.”

  “Nellie, for heaven’s sake, if he’s any decent kind of bishop, he won’t care. Not to mention Acton will gladly stand the ready for a new set of plates.”

  But Nellie shook her head with resolution. “Acton’s the honoree, Kathleen. I cannot ask it of him.”

  “Suit yourself,” Doyle advised, and smiled to herself; Nellie was a wily one.

  “Father Gregory will attend, also.”

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  “Ah—now I see why you’re so worried about the plates,” Doyle teased. Father Gregory Brown was the pastor from the now-defunct Holy Trinity Church, and was generally known to appreciate the finer things—it was often the case, with a priest from a wealthy parish; the parishioners tended to spoil their pastor, and it was a hard thing, indeed, to resist such treatment. “Hope we’re servin’ somethin’ worthy.”

  “Punch and cake,” Nellie advised, not quite concealing her disappointment. “Father John asked that we keep it simple.”

  Doyle couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean Acton did; Father John would have barkers out front with megaphones, if he thought he could get away with it.” They shared a smile, and Doyle sipped her coffee—it was still too hot, but well-worth the scalded tongue. “It seems a little odd that Father Gregory is comin’ over for the confirmation, after all that’s happened. I wonder if he wants to put Acton to the touch for the rebuildin’ fund, since there was no insurance.”

  Nellie suddenly looked stricken, and lowered her voice. “I’m not sure there is a rebuilding plan, Kathleen.”

  Doyle stared at her in surprise. “What? They’re not goin’ to rebuild Holy Trinity?”

  “There are—” here, she glanced around, “there are rumors of criminal wrongdoing.”

  “Faith, I could have told you that, Nellie; the place was brimful of villains. But it seems strange that they’re not plannin’ on startin’ afresh—that’s a crackin’ big parish to shut down.” She slid her companion a glance. “Hope they’re not just goin’ to turn it over to the evangelicals, and concede defeat.”

  “Father John knows something about the plan, going forward,” Nellie admitted. “But he’s not saying.”

  The children had finished their treat, and so Nellie instructed them to guess how many women would pass by the window before they saw one in a red coat. While they were thus

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  occupied, Doyle decided she’d best get to finding out what she needed to know before a red-coated woman wandered by. “Speakin’ of priests, I’m investigatin’ somethin’, and I came across the snap of priest who looked as though he might be Filipino. A small man, fiftyish—d’you know who it could be?”

  “There are many Filipino clergy,” Nellie observed with no small pride. “Which parish?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he was part of the immunization outreach in Africa.” She paused, trying to remember. “Gogo, or someplace like that.”

  Startled, Nellie met her eyes. “Oh—could it have been Father Danilo? He died on the African mission.”

  “Why—yes,” Doyle agreed, suppressing her satisfaction. “I think that’s the one.”

  Nellie nodded a bit sadly. “I knew him well—he was the associate pastor for Holy Trinity Church, before he left to lead the medical mission, in Africa. A very good priest—many thought he’d be appointed pastor, when Father Hugh retired, but then Father Gregory was transferred in, instead. We couldn’t have an absent pastor, after all, and—” here she lowered her voice in disapproval, “I think some of the congregants didn’t want a Filipino pastor to lead the parish.”

  But Doyle wasn’t as interested in church politics as much as she was in following up on her own late-night puzzle. “And then he died, whilst he was ministerin’ in Africa.”

  Hesitating, Nellie lowered her voice. “Yes, but it may have been a blessing. His sister was the charwoman there—the one who started the Holy Trinity fire.” She shook her head. “It would have killed Father Danilo—he was so devoted to that church.”

  There was a long moment of silence, whilst Doyle struggled with this confusing revelation. “Are they certain she’s the one who did it?”

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  Nellie sighed. “Well, I suppose we can never be certain, but it does makes sense. She was—” here, Nellie hesitated. “She was a bit simple. Someone who’d be easily persuaded by the evangelicals.”

  But this was a bridge too far for Doyle, who openly scoffed, “For heaven’s sake, Nellie; the evangelicals aren’t tellin’ people to torch RC churches.”

  “Oh, no; no, of course not. But it was very much in keeping—that she’d think it necessary, for some reason.” She fingered her cup, and repeated with regret, “She was a bit simple.”

  Doyle frowned, utterly confounded. “And now she is dead.” “Yes—poor
soul.”

  Hitting on a possible explanation, Doyle ventured, “Did Father Danilo have any other sisters?”

  Nellie raised her brows. “Not that I am aware—although his mother is still alive, and lives near Sabu. Why?”

  Doyle watched the children breathe fog-clouds onto the window glass, and carefully chose what to say. “I’m just—well, it would help with my investigation if you’d ask around, Nellie. I’m lookin’ for relatives.”