Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  Still troubled, she looked up at him. “Are you sure, Michael?” “As certain as I can be. And aside from that, why would Gemma be living with Blakney, if she were Solonik’s daughter?

  After all, the Barayevs were living here in London, at the time.” “Oh. Oh—of course; Gemma would be their niece, if she

  were Solonik’s daughter.” Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t know why I leapt on that notion—it doesn’t make much sense, to think that there’s any connection between Gemma and Solonik.” Struck with a thought, she lifted her face. “Although Gemma spoke of an ‘army-man’, visitin’ her; were either Solonik or Barayev in the army?”

  “No. Or at least, there is no record.”

  Thinking it over, Doyle looked out the windows for a moment, and concluded, “There’s something there, Michael— somethin’ that we’re missin’. I think we need to find out about

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  Gemma—it threw me back on my heels, when she said the word.

  I thought immediately of Solonik, even though I don’t know why

  I would.”

  “Right, then. I haven’t followed up, but I will tomorrow.” “Don’t think I’m lettin’ you go off-topic,” she warned, and

  then carefully laid back on the bed, so as to contemplate the bedroom ceiling. “I’m warmin’ up to lay into you like the rough end of a jack-saw, but first I have to rest-up.”

  Carefully, he crawled next to her on the bed, and lay back to contemplate the ceiling alongside her—he smelled of scotch, and remorse. “We could wait for tomorrow, if you are too tired.”

  “No. I am filled with righteous anger, and if I wait too long, my righteous anger will ease, and I’ll start recallin’ how very fond of you I am.”

  “Understood,” he said in a meek tone. “Lay away.”

  With some suspicion, she turned her head to eye him. “I’m not talkin’ about sex, you know.”

  “That is a shame,” he admitted. “But I’d guessed as much.” “You’re always thinkin’ about sex,” she accused, turning

  back to review the ceiling. “That, and who’s next to be murdered.”

  “Surely not,” he demurred. “I think about a good kidney pie, on occasion.”

  “It’s not a jokin’ matter,” she warned.

  “No,” he agreed.

  She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes for a moment. “Saints and holy angels, Michael, I hate this. I’d rather be havin’ sex, too.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to try to save your miserable soul. Faith, I’d be that fashed, if you were destined for hellfire, and I didn’t at least make a push.”

  “Understood. You’d feel badly about the hellfire.”

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  In an ominous gesture, she turned her head to eye him, yet again.

  Chastened, he took her hand, and held it against his chest. “I beg your pardon, Kathleen. I do indeed understand.”

  “I know you can’t seem to help it—manipulatin’ things to suit your own notions,” she observed fairly. “I know this, my friend. But I’m worried that you’re in for a terrible reckonin’, some day, and that I’ll be on the sidelines, weepin’ and wringin’ me own hands.”

  Slowly, he offered, “Believe me when I say that I am working to secure our future, Kathleen. Ours, and Edward’s.”

  This was true, and seemed a little surprising, as it was unclear how stupid Drake’s miserable death did anything to secure the fortunes of the House of Acton. Nevertheless, she explained, “That’s not our call, Michael—securin’ the future. You’re supposed to accept whatever’s thrown your way, with all gratitude.”

  This pronouncement was met with a doubtful silence, and so she lifted the hand that held hers, and squeezed it. “This—this right here—is all that matters, truly. We could be livin’ in a box under a bridge, and as long as we have this, nothin’ else is needful.”

  Again, she was met with a doubtful silence, and so she sighed, and contemplated the ceiling again. “At least tell me you’ll think about what I’m tellin’ you.”

  “I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.”

  This was true, and as a reward for this accolade, she lifted his hand to her mouth, and kissed it fondly. “Well, try to remember this one more than anythin’ else, please. And please don’t forget about the hellfire.”

  “I won’t.”

  Reminded, she turned her head toward him again. “Speakin’ of which, I think the bishop wasn’t at all happy with Father

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  Gregory. Faith, it didn’t look good—him all sweaty and nervous, whisperin’ to Drake like he’s another in a long line of sneakin’ weasels. The bishop’s not one to miss much.”

  “I cannot disagree.”

  “No hoity-toity backwards-speech,” she reminded him absently—when Acton was drunk, his speech tended to revert to House-of-Lords. “Well, it pains me to say it, but I hope that Father Gregory goes down with the Drake-ship, if he’s just another villain. Horrifyin’, to think he’d wind up in another parish, preenin’ somewhere.”

  “Unlikely,” he replied, and Doyle’s scalp prickled, because she knew—in the way that she knew things—that Father Gregory was a marked man, too.

  With some alarm, she propped up on an elbow, and brushed the stray hair from out of her eyes. “You can’t go about killin’ priests, Michael—whether they deserve it or not.”

  “No,” he agreed, looking up at her. “You’re RC now; it’s just not done.” “Understood.”

  She lay back down, relieved because she didn’t have the sense that Acton was winding up to murder Father Gregory— thank God fasting. “The bishop, now; he’s one who might think it justified.”

  “Very few Christian clergy have managed to survive Nigeria,” Acton observed. “He is a rarity.”

  “A scrapper,” Doyle agreed. “Let’s not get on his wrong side.”

  They lay, side-by-side, in the darkened room for a few minutes, until Acton broke the silence. “Are you still resting-up, or may I ask a question?”

  “We’re not goin’ to have sex,” Doyle warned. “You have to learn your lesson.”

  “It’s not about sex,” he promised.

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  “Ask away. I’m not sayin’ I’ll deign to answer you, though— I’m righteously angry, remember.”

  “Why would Howard want Mary’s phone number?”

  Despite herself, Doyle smiled. “Because he’s fallen in love with her.”

  His turned his head, and regarded her. “Is that so?”

  “It is indeed so. I think that’s one of the reasons I’m hesitatin’ to pull a switchblade, myself. Something very good came from all this.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Extraordinary.”

  She kissed his hand again. “What’s extraordinary is we’ve got a quiet house. Let’s go to sleep, and hope tomorrow’s a better one.”

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  She’d forgiven him, and now it only remained to finish up.

  It seemed to Doyle that she was barely asleep before the Filipino priest made his silent appearance.

  “Oh,” she said guiltily. “I’m that sorry, but your sister’s been pushed down in the things-to-get-fashed-about list. Acton’s gone and killed Drake.”

  “Yes.” He nodded a bit sadly. “He was next.” She stared at him. “Never say Acton has a list?” “Oh-oh, no; it is not his list.”

  Frowning, she regarded him. “Then whose list is it?” He answered easily, “It is Drake’s list.”

  Doyle closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself that it was probably a sin to be short with a saintly priest. “I have to say, Father, that you’re not the most sense-makin’ ghost I’ve ever met, and I’ve met more than my share.”

  He seemed rather pleased, and smiled in a friendly fashion. As he
seemed disinclined to expound further on the subject,

  she ventured, “Was your sister on the list, for some reason?” “Oh, no.” He raised his sparse brows in surprise, and shook

  his head. “No. But she has been forwarding the blood-money to the bishop, because she cannot bear to keep it.”

  “Is it possible,” Doyle ventured delicately, “That your sister is no longer alive? Perhaps she didn’t wind up in the same place as you, and therefore you’re all unknowin’.”

  He did not reply, but smiled his white, even smile.

  “Your teeth,” Doyle realized with dawning comprehension. “Holy Mother; of course—I’m that sorry I’ve been so dense.”

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  Her eyes flew open, and she lay still for a moment, recovering, then drew a deep breath as she carefully shifted her weight—although Acton tended to sleep soundly, when he drank overmuch. Faith, she’d been a clueless knocker not to have seen what the ghost was hinting at—if he’d only the one sister, and she was feeling guilty about gettin’ paid blood money, that meant she definitely wasn’t the corpse buried beneath the rubble at the church. Or at least, that should be Doyle’s working theory, until she could rule it out. And she could rule it out easily, if the coroner’s report showed that the victim had Pacific Islander teeth—teeth normally survived even the hottest of fires, and any remaining bones would have been photographed for the report.

  So, if the body wasn’t the charwoman’s, then where was the priest’s sister? And whose was the corpse?

  Frowning at the bedroom wall, Doyle mustered up her rusty detective skills—such as they were—and tried to create a protocol. It seemed clear there were two separate puzzles, here, and she had best go about solving both of them without her better half twigging on to it—a tall order, since she was homebound, and not what one would call mobile—not to mention when Edward made his grand appearance, she’d be even less mobile.

  First, she had to take peek at the charwoman’s autopsy—if the teeth were not Pacific Islander teeth, then it wasn’t the charwoman. Instead—apparently—it was yet another misdirection murder that Acton was trying to cover up, if he was sending blood-money to the charwoman to keep it all quiet. This fit; the blood-money must be to convince the charwoman to allow everyone to believe the corpse in the church was hers.

  Doyle paused, and traced the edge of her pillow with a forefinger, thinking on this. It all seemed so—so far-fetched, and so unlike her wily husband to go to such lengths to cover-up the

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  death of some woman at Holy Trinity Church. He’d bigger fish to fry, one would think.

  So; what was he about? Why would he do such a thing? There was no clear answer, and Doyle reminded herself

  that—confusing as it all was—Acton’s actions always seemed to center around her. I’m squarely at the center of Acton’s universe, she thought, and—if the past is any guide—his dark-deeds-doing is always connected to something that he thinks will work to my benefit, somehow. That, or he’s taking a bloodthirsty revenge for something that’s happened to me.

  She thought about the revenge angle for a moment, but discarded it. She’d seen Acton in vengeance-mode—a fearsome sight to behold—but he hadn’t been in vengeance-mode, lately. Instead, he’d been pleased—faith, even the chaos at the flat hadn’t put a dent in his benign attitude. And he did say that he was working to secure their future—although it seemed a strange thing to say; their future seemed as secure as it could possibly be, what with various hereditary estates all lined up, and a healthy heir on the way.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t even take a guess as to how the fair Doyle’s secure future was somehow connected to the unknown corpse—who’d been killed, in the charwoman’s place?

  I should follow the protocols for when we’re researching an unknown Jane Doe, she decided, and take a peek at the missing persons reports for the pertinent time period—I’ll do that next thing, after I establish that the teeth aren’t right. Mayhap some woman had some blackmail-worthy material to hold over Acton’s head—something he didn’t want the wife of his bosom to find out—and that’s why she’d been the victim of a misdirection murder.

  Doubtfully, Doyle tried to decide if she knew anyone at Holy Trinity Church who could serve as a candidate for an Acton arch-enemy. Timothy McGonigal and Nanda had gone to Holy Trinity,

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  but Nanda was at the confirmation reception, very much alive— and glowering a bit at the bishop, she was; didn’t seem to like him much.

  Caroline McGonigal, Timothy’s sister, had been a Holy Trinity parish member, but Caroline was already dead—no doubt about that, another best-be-forgotten event.

  With a sigh, Doyle carefully shifted her weight again. I’m flummoxed, she thought. But first things first; I’ve got to find out about the teeth, take a peek at missing persons, and go from there.

  The second problem was the Drake-puzzle. Acton had taken Drake down—but he’d waited until now to do so. Why? She knew—in the way she knew things—that the delay was significant, for some reason. The ghost had said that there was a list, and that Drake was on the list, but this did not seem helpful, as it made no sense—it was not as though Drake was on his own hit list.

  And then there was Acton’s explanation—or more properly, his implied explanation—that he’d set the trap for Drake because the man had murdered Morgan Percy. The only problem with this being that Acton had been doing his late-night-trap-setting well before Percy was murdered, and if he weren’t drunk, he’d have been a bit more careful with the tale that he’d made up for his righteously-angry wife.

  So; she was left with the original question—why had Acton been patiently setting a trap for Drake, and why had it been planned out for now, after Drake had already escaped any retribution for his role in the corruption rig?

  Flummoxed yet again; I need more information, she decided. And I should prioritize the priest’s puzzle first, since he’s the one haunting me, and I should probably make a push to stay in his good graces. She then paused in surprise, because she was given the distinct impression that there was some sort of

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  connection between these two puzzles—that Drake’s murder and the charwoman’s pretend-death were somehow connected.

  This seemed extraordinary, and she decided, after a moment, that there was no point in even trying to find a commonality—she needed to know more. So, some leg-work was needful, and—since her own legs were swollen beyond redemption—she’d have to recruit some other foot-soldiers to do the legging for her.

  With a small sigh, she tucked a pillow against her back, and settled in to try to catch some sleep.

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  He didn’t attempt to phone Layton; if the Commander knew about Drake, he’d have to step carefully.

  O n the whole, it was not surprising that Acton left early for work the next morning; he was no doubt behind on his caseload, what with the whole confirmation-with-attendant-murder taking up his week-end. That, and he was no doubt eager to duck out because the two children would be

  arriving soon.

  Prompted by this thought, Doyle quickly picked up her mobile where she was seated at the kitchen table. “I think I’ll meet Williams for a coffee this mornin’, Reynolds. You’re on your own, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

  “Certainly, madam. I thought to take the children on an outing to the park, before it becomes crowded.”

  Doyle’s fingers paused. “Behind all that bravado, Emile’s a bit nervous about the ducks, Reynolds. Just so you know.”

  “Is he? I will be circumspect, then.”

  As she rang up Williams, Doyle took a guess at what “circumspect” meant, and said with all sincerity, “I truly appreciate all your good works, Reynolds—you’re a rare wonder.”

  “Not at all
, madam; I would enjoy an outing to the park, myself.” There was a slight pause. “Will the schedule remain the same, madam, after Master Edward is born?”