Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  “Never you mind,” she replied mildly—as shame, that he hadn’t answered the question. But Doyle had already gained the impression that Gabriel was well-aware that the illustrious Chief Inspector tended to sail a bit too close to the wind, and— probably because he was MI 5, after all—that this was not, in fact, objectionable to the young officer.

  Teasing, Gabriel slid her a glance. “Big day, tomorrow.” Doyle smiled in response, happy he’d turned the topic.

  “Faith, don’t remind me; the confirmation’s timin’ couldn’t have been worse, what with me as big as a whale, and the Met so short-handed. At least the corruption rig is windin’ down—it’s hard to believe that it’s all finally over and done with.”

  She then paused, wondering why her scalp was prickling. Truly, the conspiracy was indeed over and done with; all the lower-tier evildoers had twigged out all the upper-tier evildoers—as they always did, faith, you’d think the upper-tier evildoers would learn a lesson or two from history—and now everyone seemed confident that the corruption rig was dust and ashes, with salt sown into the ground, for good measure. Certainly, Acton seemed to think so, and Acton was someone who was warier than most.

  Except that Acton was in a good mood, and it shouldn’t worry her, but it did; there was something brewing, just under

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  the surface, that he didn’t want her to know about. Something that he was very pleased about, and that was apparently going forward at Layton’s—although a less-likely fellow schemer than the elderly banker would be hard to imagine.

  “Any chance I can attend? Or is it an exclusive event?” Smiling, she shook her head. “Anyone can come witness a

  sacrament, Gabriel—they’re not allowed to keep it private.” “I wouldn’t want to offend.”

  She quirked her mouth. “You’ll not fool me, my friend—you love to offend. But please come; Tasza too. Cake and punch in the church hall, after.”

  “Exactly the type of offerings I most enjoy. I’ll bring my gun.” This, in a sly reference to a best-be-forgotten occasion, where each of them had discovered that the other was carrying an illegal weapon.

  “Well, don’t shoot my poor priest, he’s a vanishin’ breed.” “Then I’ll shoot all the evangelicals, instead, and even out

  the numbers.”

  This seemed a provocative comment, but Doyle was not about to delve into the Tasza-the-evangelical ruse, and merely quoted Father John. “We all have the same aim, Gabriel.”

  “That’s as may be,” he replied in an equivocal tone, and then rose to greet Tasza and Marnie as they approached; Marie having the look of a child who knew she had to be nice to her brother’s girlfriend, but was not so inclined.

  Mother a’ mercy, but I hate crowds, thought Doyle, and went to seek out Williams, who’d wandered from Mary’s side.

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  The furniture was ready to be delivered,

  with no one the wiser.

  “Ho, Thomas,” said Doyle. “Are you regrettin’ your kind offer, yet?”

  “It’s going exactly as expected,” he admitted with a smile. “And I don’t mind at all—I’d forgotten how much fun the zoo is.”

  Doyle stood beside him, and watched the unbridled energy on display. “D’you think when Edward is this age, he’ll be wantin’ to climb up on everythin’? Faith, I’m goin’ to have a daily heart attack.”

  Williams laughed. “A few cuts and bruises go with the territory, I’m afraid. If you’re anything like my mother, you’ll learn to take it in stride.”

  In an offhand manner, Doyle noted, “And Gemma’s such a timid little thing—I wish we could rub some Emile-energy off on her.”

  “Very shy,” he agreed, glancing over at the girl, who was clinging to her mother.

  “Acton wants to send her to Emile’s fancy school—there’s a preschool, there. I haven’t yet broached the subject with Mary, though; she may not like the idea.”

  Williams immediately gave Doyle a look that told her he was aware that she was trying to draw him out on the subject of Mary, and that he refused to be so drawn.

  Smiling at being so easily caught out, Doyle rested a hand in the crook of his arm and squeezed. “Sorry.”

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  “Allow me to handle my own affairs, Kath.”

  “Right-o,” she agreed. “Instead, tell me why Gabriel would be angling for an invite to Acton’s confirmation.”

  “Is he?” Williams thought about this, and shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt his career—maybe he’d like to transfer in on a permanent basis. I’m coming to it, myself, in the hope that I can work myself back into Acton’s good graces.”

  But Doyle disagreed with this assessment. “You’re not in Acton’s dog house, Thomas, my hand on my heart. Instead, I think there’s somethin’ brewin’, and he wants you well-away from it, for some reason.”

  Frowning slightly, he met her eyes. “What sort of thing?”

  “I wish I knew.” For a moment, she teetered on the edge of asking if he knew anything about the blood-money, but decided against it. Unlikely he would know, since Thomas was being kept out of the loop, and anyways, it sounded too ominous to say aloud—as though Acton was up to something truly evil, which he wasn’t; please God, amen. Honestly, the ghost-priest needed to make it all a bit clearer, and not be so caught-up in contemplating the eternal mysteries.

  “Oh? Are you expecting any trouble at the confirmation?” Doyle could tell he was half-hoping; never one to shun a

  fistfight, was our Williams. “I hope not; the bishop will be there, and I hear that he’s a righteous bishop, with a no-nonsense attitude. Which doesn’t bode well for our poor suicide-embezzler, come to think of it.”

  She caught a sudden flare of emotion from her companion, and turned to him in surprise. “Why—what is it? What about the bishop?”

  There was a small pause, and then Williams replied, “Nothing, Kath—it’s probably nothing. I just want to look into something, is all.”

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  Thoroughly alarmed by his reticence, she shook his arm impatiently. “Look into what? Thomas Williams, if you know somethin’ about the bishop, tell me this instant.”

  “No—it’s not about the bishop.” He offered slowly, “It’s about the embezzler—the suicide, who may-or-may-not be a misdirection murder.”

  She waited, then prompted, “And?”

  He dropped his gaze to the pavement for a moment. “The parents said the son’s new girlfriend was named Tasza, remember?”

  There was a moment of alarmed silence, whilst Doyle resisted the urge to turn and stare at Gabriel’s pretend-girlfriend. “Holy Mother, Thomas. What does it mean?”

  But Williams was a good detective, and not a leaper-to-conclusions. “It may be a coincidence. I’ll see if I can get a description from someone, to find out if it was really her. If it was, then she was two-timing Gabriel, and it’s probably none of our business.”

  “Well, Gabriel was two-timin’ her with Morgan Percy, lest we forget,” Doyle noted fairly, “although I think that was strictly business.” She decided not to mention that she also had the sense that the Gabriel-Tasza connection was strictly business, too; first, she had to decide what it all meant.

  He shrugged slightly. “It may be nothing.”

  But she knew that he thought there was something there, and couldn’t help but agree—it seemed too much a coincidence. “Tasza will be at the confirmation,” Doyle disclosed with some alarm. “Do we warn anyone?”

  Again, he shrugged. “I vote for no. It’s none of our business.” Doyle decided she had to speak the thought aloud. “Unless she murdered the embezzler-suicide. Then it’s our business, in

  spades.”

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  But Williams only rested his thoughtful gaze on the rest of their party. “Let’s not ruin Acton’s confirma
tion with wild accusations, Kath.”

  She could only agree, and rather glumly contemplated the coming sacrament, which was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but which was fast devolving into a crackin’ minefield, what with a potential murderess having open access to the punchbowl. “I hope it’s not like one of those Agatha Christie stories with that funny little detective, where everyone’s gathered together—all nice and polite—and then—bang—the boom gets itself lowered, when they least expect it.”

  He laughed. “I hope not, too, Kath.” The conversation abruptly came to an end as he moved forward to separate two of his cousins, who had started shoving at each other with wild abandon.

  Almost as soon as he walked away, Doyle was much heartened to see that Mary came forward, bringing Gemma, and smiling upon the sight of Williams separating the two tusslers.

  “Such energy,” she observed with a smile. “Their mother must appreciate this day off.”

  Doyle agreed whole-heartedly. “Williams is a semi-saint, to volunteer for this outin’. It was his idea, in fact—Emile was drivin’ me mad.” May as well openly boost Williams’ stock; unlikely that Mary would give Doyle the let-me-handle-my-own-affairs snub.

  Emile, who’d managed to stay out of the current round of trouble, called out to Gemma to join him at the railing, and Doyle noted—and not for the first time—that beneath the boy’s madness-inducing energy he had a kind heart; he’d no doubt noticed that the little girl was outmanned and outnumbered.

  Very pleased, Gemma hurried over to join Emile, after glancing back to make certain her mother stayed nearby.

  “She’s such a sweet little thing,” Doyle offered.

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  Mary sighed. “She’s so timid, though. I should join a play-group, but I’m not sure if that would only make matters worse.”

  This seemed to be an appropriate opening, and so Doyle ventured, “Acton was hopin’ that you’d allow us to enroll her in Emile’s school for two mornings a week. They’ve a preschool, and it may be just the thing for her.”

  Mary looked upon Doyle with alarm. “Oh—oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Before you say no,” Doyle interrupted, “remember that it would be to our benefit, too. You’d be able to concentrate on baby Edward, without any distractions.”

  Silently, Mary contemplated the small girl who was listening, wide-eyed, to whatever Emile was telling her about the animals presented before them. “She might feel out-of-place.”

  But Doyle already had a rejoinder prepared. “The church runs the school, Mary—I can’t imagine they’d make her feel unwanted. And she’s a bright little thing—it would give her an amazin’ opportunity.”

  There was a small pause, whilst Doyle could sense Mary’s desire to capitulate, but the woman’s next words were a surprise. “I’m worried—I suppose I’m worried about filling out the necessary paperwork. I’ve never done anything to adopt her.”

  Doyle drew her brows together, surprised, but at the same time, not surprised—Blakney wasn’t long dead, and Mary wasn’t the sort of person to put herself forward. “Well, you could start the process now, and that would count for somethin’ with the school, I would think. You were married to her father, after all— and besides, she’s got no one else. It’s not as though they’d take her away from you, Mary.”

  Mary pressed her lips together for a moment. “I think—” She paused. “I’m almost afraid to mention it, but I think she may not have been Bill’s child—I think she was one of those foreign

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  adoptions, that you hear about. Gemma used to speak a few words from other languages, once in a while, although it’s happening less and less. I recognized a bit of French, I think, although I don’t speak French, myself—and neither did Bill.”

  Now, there’s a wrinkle, Doyle thought with all due surprise. And it does go to show that everyone speaks French but me. “But you’re not sure? Faith, if she was a foreign adoption, it seems a bit odd that he’d never mentioned it to you.”

  She shook her head. “No—which is one of the reasons I’m a bit worried about starting a formal proceeding. Why would it be such a secret? And he was genuinely fond of her, there was no question about it. So, I suppose I can’t be certain, it was just— just the feeling that I had. That, and the foreign words.”

  Thinking this over, Doyle’s gaze rested on the children for a moment. “Did you ever run into Bill’s ex-wife, Giselle? She hung about with some shady characters at a racecourse—a lot of them were French or Russian, with some shady Irish thrown in, for good measure. Mayhap Giselle took Gemma in from one of them, for some reason.”

  But Mary shook her head. “We never saw Giselle—she didn’t seem to be involved with Gemma at all. It was another reason that I had the feeling I did.” A bit stricken, she met Doyle’s eyes. “I’m afraid to say anything that might alert the Child Protection Board.”

  But Doyle stoutly assured her, “If you think Acton’s goin’ to let anyone come between you and Gemma, you’ve sadly misjudged your man. Instead, they’ll do whatever he asks— there’s a different set of rules for the aristocracy—there shouldn’t be, but there is—and may as well put it to good use.”

  “Oh,” Mary said, brightening considerably. “Oh—I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Let me approach him, and see what’s best to be done about St. Margaret’s.” With a small qualm of conscience, Doyle

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  considered the fact that yet again, she was helping to pull the wool over the poor school’s eyes, since Savoie had forged Emile’s school-papers, too. Faith—it seemed like everywhere you looked, there were loose-end children, having to be buttoned up and put in their places.

  She paused suddenly, because her scalp was prickling, and she immediately thought of Acton, although it made no sense. Acton wasn’t a loose-end child; there was no dispute about his parentage—although it had practically taken an Act of Parliament to set it all straight, come to think of it. It’s my overly-pregnant brain, again, she thought a bit crossly; I’ve too much on my plate, between the stupid ghost, and stupid Williams’ star-crossed romance, and stupid Gabriel’s pretend-girlfriend who may-or-nay-not be a murderess. It’s truly a wonder I haven’t gone barkin’ mad.

  Williams called out, “Come along, you two; we’re going over to feed the elephants.”

  “Such a kind man—d’you see how he cares about animals?” Doyle dutifully observed to Mary.

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  It was a long day for her, but if she were kept busy, she wouldn’t have a chance to look into the murders.

  D oyle was sitting in her usual perch on the sofa at home, gazing at the fire and recovering from the day’s events. Acton was not yet home, and by some miracle, Emile had

  been tired enough to consent to a nap, which meant the place was quiet, and Doyle had a few minutes to gather her thoughts together. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t decide why her instinct had raised the alarm when she’d been discussing the children’s school with Mary.

  Loose-end children, she mused—that’s what brought it on. And it just so happens that I’ve got two such children, currently living underfoot. Although—although to be accurate, neither one of them is what you’d truly call a loose-end; Emile’s parents are dead, but Savoie has stepped into the breach and seems genuinely fond of the boy—even though the man is in prison for an uncertain amount of time. On the other hand, he’d maneuvered the fair Doyle into taking care of Emile in the meantime, which was—all in all—an excellent strategy, and was paying off like a trump.

  And although Gemma’s father and mother were also tragically dead, the girl had managed to wind up with Mary, who loved her as though she were her own. And—in a truly amazing coincidence—like Emile, Gemma had also managed to get into the good graces of the House of Acton, and was now reaping the substantial benefits. />
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  I don’t understand it, Doyle thought, as she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands; I don’t know why I think this is significant, in some way. It’s not as though any of this was planned, after all. I’m the one who asked Mary to be my nanny, and she’d no inkling it was in the offing—faith, I’m sure she thought she’d never see me again. And although Williams may have presented himself as a potential step-father to little Gemma, Bill Blakney went off and got himself murdered, thereby throwing a spanner into the spokes of that promising romance.