But their conversation was interrupted, because Emile could be heard to shriek, “Papa!” and Doyle looked up in surprise to see the boy race across the room to be swept up in a bear hug by Philippe Savoie.
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Savoie, on time to the minute.
“Well,” said Doyle, blinking. “Now, there’s a surprise.” “I believe he was granted a day pass, so long as he wore a GPS device,” Acton explained
smoothly. “I didn’t want to mention it, in the event permission was withdrawn.”
“A strange sort of prison,” she remarked dryly, when in reality, she was thinking that she’d a strange sort of husband. “Let me go explain the situation to Mary—we can’t have her tryin’ to wrestle Emile away from Savoie.”
But when Doyle approached, she found that Mary seemed unalarmed, and was standing patiently next to Savoie and Emile, holding Gemma’s hand as they listened to Emile gave his Papa a lengthy and disjointed recitation of a story the driver had told him on the way over.
Upon seeing Doyle, Savoie set Emile down. “I have the big surprise, yes?”
“You’re a rare wonder,” Doyle agreed. “Did you break out?” The pale eyes gleamed. “Non, but I could. I have broken out
of better prisons, je vous assure.”
“Never in doubt,” Doyle agreed. “You take the cake, my friend.”
“Non—it is Emile who eats all the cake.” Savoie ran his hands over Emile’s head, making the boy’s hair stand on end as he grabbed at his Papa’s hands, giggling with delight.
“Emile is eatin’ us out of house and home,” Doyle agreed. “We can’t fill him up—I think he has a hollow leg.”
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The boy threw back his head and laughed, and Savoie bent forward so that he addressed Emile upside-down. “You are happy? Yes?”
“Of course, he’s happy,” Doyle supplied, since Emile was too busy giggling. “He rules the crackin’ roost. And shouldn’t you have been charged and released by now? Or are you enjoyin’ yourself too much?”
“Soon,” Savoie promised. “Soon I will go home, and then I will take Emile to rule the cracking rooster.”
Any further conversation was curtailed, as Emile excitedly introduced his Papa to Mary and Gemma, Gemma clinging to Mary’s legs, and no doubt wondering how Savoie had earned his scar.
As she watched the little group, Doyle belatedly remembered that Munoz was due to appear, and was probably unaware that her erstwhile beau had slipped his chain. Hastily, she decided that she’d stay well-away from that little tangle patch, and so instead, she cautioned Savoie in a generalized manner, “Behave yourself; I’ve a bad feelin’ about all of this, and I’ll not have Acton bounced out of the church the minute I finally get his foot in the door.”
Savoie smiled his thin smile—which had the effect of making her very uneasy, when it should have had just the opposite effect. “Non-non; me, I am the St. Bernard. I am the helping.”
This was true, and Doyle asked suspiciously, “What sort of helpin’?”
She was not at all surprised when Acton suddenly materialized at her elbow, and seemed intent upon steering her away. “If you could spare a moment, Kathleen, we should thank the bishop.”
“By all means,” she replied. “Lead on.”
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“It should take but a moment,” he apologized. “Then you can return to your chair.”
“Not to worry, Michael. I’m doin’ fine.” She pronounced it “foine” just to tease him. “Truly.”
He covered her hand with his own, and she mentally girded her loins to make nice again, even though she was fast running out of reservoirs of nice-ness. She needed to make the effort, though, because it was truly something to celebrate—that Acton had been confirmed—and she shouldn’t let the fact that she didn’t handle crowds very well steal her enjoyment away from what was important, here. Why, she need look no further than her husband’s exemplary behavior; Acton himself was the next thing to a hermit, and yet here he was, making nice, and chit-chatting—
Oh, she thought, as he led her across the room, stopping occasionally to respond to a greeting. Oh—I’m a complete knocker not to have realized it before now, which goes to show you that pregnancy does tend to make you lose a step. The last person on earth who’d consent to a cake-and-punch reception was the man walking by Doyle’s side—faith, they could award him the George, and he’d refuse to go to Buckingham. Which meant that the only reason he was here was because he wanted to serve his own purposes, and Acton’s own purposes often could not withstand the light of day.
Alarmed by these thoughts, it seemed an opportune time to mention, “Reynolds tells me you have a cannon.”
Acton glanced down at her in surprise. “Reynolds is mistaken.”
“Oh. Well, Emile will be hugely disappointed—we were goin’ to go shoot it at the ducks.”
He cocked his head. “You seem very anti-duck, I’ve noticed.” “Don’t you dare take their side against me,” she warned. “Never for a moment.”
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She eyed him sidelong, because despite all his light and charming duck-talk, he was a simmering pot of—of something; some powerful and ominous brew of satisfaction, and anticipation—he was well-pleased, for some reason, even though Drake had been pestering him, and Acton was not the sort of person to suffer a roomful of well-wishers.
Whilst Doyle was trying to tamp down her alarm, Timothy McGonigal approached them, looking a bit distracted, and apologizing profusely. “Nanda is not well, and I’m afraid we must leave.”
This was not true, which came as no surprise to Doyle. The couple seemed to be quarreling, and as Nanda was nowhere to be seen, she’d probably already left—lucky thing. It was a little out-of-character, that the woman would embarrass McGonigal in this way—she was usually so easy-going—but there was no question that she’d been mighty angry, when Doyle had glimpsed her earlier.
Acton expressed his regret, and shook his hand. “I hope she recovers soon, Tim; please come by for a visit.”
“Will do.” After attempting to muster up a smile, he left. Doyle noted in an undertone, “They’re havin’ a tiff, I think.” “So it would seem; she left without him, about ten minutes
ago.”
Trust Acton to have noticed, but further discussion was curtailed because they were now being hailed by a couple coming in the entry way; a tall, lean gentleman accompanied by an impeccably-dressed young woman, who wore a very stylish hat.
“Acton,” said Howard with a smile, offering his hand. “Well met. How do you do, Lady Acton?”
“Howard—good to see you.” Acton greeted the other man with what Doyle called his public-school voice, which came out from hiding when he was speaking to members of his own tribe. “Thank you very much for coming—much appreciated.”
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Howard, now an MP, had been the government official most responsible for taking down the massive corruption rig. He’d done so at no little risk to himself, and was now held in high esteem by the public. Not coincidentally, he was very much a fan of DCI Acton, who’d thwarted a scheme by the villains to have him arrested before he could do them any damage.
“May I introduce my fiancée, Lady Abby?”
They greeted the gracious young woman, and Doyle had the immediate impression that she was nice enough, if a bit self-centered—which, to be fair, was an unavoidable by-product of being an attractive member of the aristocracy. And good on Howard, for hitching his rising star to a such a woman; it would no doubt stand him in good stead, whilst he navigated his bright future.
For her part, Lady Abby was heard to gasp in polite surprise, upon beholding Savoie’s party. “Oh—isn’t that Grosvenor’s little niece? Do you remember her, darling, from the Ascot Gala?”
Withanindulgentsmile,Howarddutifullyreviewed
Gemma,st
illclingingtohermother’shand.“Ibelieve
Grosvenor’s niece is a few years older, my dear.”
His fiancée laughed her captivating little laugh. “Sorry—I’m not good at guessing how old children are.” But her eyes strayed over to Gemma again.
They exchanged inconsequentials for a minute, but Doyle knew that Acton was hiding his impatience, and so she was not surprised when he made their excuses, and then they continued over to the bishop’s group, where they were warmly welcomed, with hands shaken all around.
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Very soon, he could take her home—she was tired.
Acton expressed his polite gratification to the bishop, who was flanked by the two priests who’d attended the ceremony—Father John, and Father Gregory from Holy
Trinity.
Doyle hadn’t met Father Gregory before, but when she’d seen him during the ceremony she’d entertained the brief impression that he was rather preoccupied, and small blame to him; his church had burned down, there were no insurance funds to rebuild, and the bishop didn’t have the look of a man who thought this sort of carelessness was a trifle, being as money didn’t grow on trees—especially trees in London, where the RC population was small and unmighty.
Rather surprisingly, she’d also had the impression that Father Gregory was a bit vain about his looks, which might be appealing to certain female parishioners, but was perhaps not so appealing to the communion of saints, which was, after all, the more important audience. For example, the man wore trendy, dark-framed eyeglasses, which for Doyle was an automatic black mark—couldn’t imagine him risking yellow fever in an African outreach, with those sleek frames. He was overly-muscular, too; as though he spent a great deal of time working out, which also didn’t seem quite in keeping. Mustn’t judge, she reminded herself sternly; different gifts, same spirit.
After greeting the other clergymen, Acton began without preamble, “I hope you don’t mind if I inject a bit of business. I’ve brought along a witness—one of the participants in the
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government corruption case you may have read about.” He raised his head, and his eyes met Savoie’s. “I believe he can shed some light on Father John’s absolution issue—whether the young man’s death was a suicide, or a homicide.”
Immediately, Doyle could sense a wave of deep dismay from Father Gregory—he was very unhappy that the subject had arisen, and Doyle was reminded that the dead man’s parents had sidestepped Father Gregory, in this matter.
Savoie promptly came over to join them—he’d obviously been awaiting his cue—and for once, he shed his insolent manner, and instead humbly bent to kiss the bishop’s ring.
Oh, thought Doyle, reminded; I should have kissed his ring, too. It’s setting a bad example for Acton, I am.
Acton continued, “Unfortunately, it appears the dead man was involved in the very same corruption scheme.”
There was a moment of surprised silence, and then Father John offered sadly, “Then he did take his own life, poor soul.”
“Non,” Savoie corrected. “He did not take his own life. Instead, he was murdered, to keep him quiet about the money.”
This was the truth, and—aside from her own profound surprise—Doyle was treated to a jolt of panic, emanating from Father Gregory.
“Mr. Savoie was kind enough to act as an informant, in the corruption case,” Acton explained in his cool voice. “And I would appreciate it if his role in this matter remains confidential, as his life has been threatened.”
Gravely, the bishop stepped forward to take Savoie’s hand. “Thank you for coming forward, Mr. Savoie. We will ask for absolution from God in good conscience, and say no more on the matter.”
Savoie—who was never one not to press an advantage— asked, “You will bless my boy, yes?”
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“I will. Are you married to his mother?” This asked in a slightly ominous tone.
Sadly, Savoie shook his head. “His mother, she is dead.” He then turned to call Emile to him.
As Doyle watched the bishop make the sign of the cross over a fascinated Emile, she noted that Father Gregory had taken the opportunity to slip away from the group, emanating a panicky sort of dread.
“Shall we find your chair, again?” Acton asked Doyle, as he took her elbow. “This way, please.”
Willingly, she let him lead her away, mainly because she wanted to tell him, “There’s somethin’ smoky about Father Gregory, Michael. I think he was in on it.” This, of course, shouldn’t come as such a huge surprise—since the priest’s former church was ground central for evil doings—but all the same, Doyle’s thoroughly RC soul was a bit shocked by the realization that a priest could abet the aforesaid evil doings.
“That is of interest; thank you.” Acton’s reply was in a neutral tone, and she was not at all surprised to discover that she was—as usual—ten steps behind her husband.
As she was treated to the sight of Lizzie Mathis giving Drake a flirtatious look over the rim of her punch glass, Doyle thought, this is a very strange sort of reception—it’s rather a shame that Acton doesn’t truly have a cannon.
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Another ten minutes, perhaps.
A cton turned to greet the new deacon, who was hovering nearby, and awaiting an opportune time to express his extreme admiration. As the deacon was the type of man who tended to rattle on, Doyle took this opportunity to cast an
uneasy glance over toward the group chatting by the punch bowl—although Father Gregory wasn’t chatting as much as he was anxiously touching Drake’s elbow, and attempting to draw him away from Tasza, who seemed to be competing with Mathis in the flirting-with-Drake department.
A sorry group, if I ever saw one, thought Doyle; I’m glad I’m over here. And she decided that Acton must be avoiding them, too, since he was patiently listening to the deacon—now joined by the facilities manager—as the men discussed the rise in church attendance since the sad demise of Holy Trinity parish, and not-so-subtly noted that several new pews should probably be added to their own nave, so as to accommodate the new attendees.
Whilst Acton was content to engage in this mundane conversation, Officer Gabriel took the opportunity to draw a folding chair over, and settle in next to Doyle. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I owe you one. Remember when you warned me that you thought I was headed into a trap? It made me think twice about some evidence I’d come across that seemed a little too convenient. Good thing.”
Doyle nodded, not at all surprised. “You were bein’ set up by the ACC, then?”
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“I think so.”
He offered nothing more, and so she prompted, “Was it evidence that Acton was runnin’ a weapons-smugglin’ rig? They tried the same thing with Munoz, but she didn’t fall for it, either.” A bit absently, his gaze rested on the group by the
punchbowl. “A ludicrous notion, of course.”
This was not true, and she had the distinct feeling that he was trying to gauge whether or not the fair Doyle knew that it was not a ludicrous notion at all. Therefore, she decided to change the subject, and referenced the odd assortment of persons who were assembled at the punch bowl. “Are you worried that Tasza is goin’ to step out on you?”
He smiled. “Not particularly. Are you?”
She quirked her mouth. “I just think you’re a very tolerant sort of boyfriend—Drake has that reputation, you know.”
“I’m no match for him,” he agreed, and it was not true. “Well, Munoz should be here, soon, and then you can noodle
up to her, and wage a counter-attack.” Over the past few weeks, Doyle had garnered the strong impression that Gabriel very much admired the fair Munoz, but was constrained by events from acting on this admiration. Not to mention that the fair Munoz did not seem remotely interested in him, which was a drawba
ck, all-in-all.
Gabriel smiled. “More like she’ll elbow her way in for some Drake-action.”
“It’s hardly fair,” Doyle teased. “Drake’s in no shape to handle all of them—he should share.”
“He does look a bit stressed, doesn’t he?”
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