Murder in Misdirection
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“Right then.” Privately, she hoped she wouldn’t be subject to yet another emotion-fraught conversation, today—she’d already had a bellyful. Of course, it went without saying that he wouldn’t ask it of her if it weren’t important; he tended to be more circumspect about her perceptive abilities than she was.
The concierge buzzed, and then announced, “The gentleman is here to see you.”
“Please send him up.”
Acton stood, and Doyle asked, “Shall I do pretend-work at the computer, whilst I listen in?”
“No—there is no need to get up; it shouldn’t take long.” Again, he looked at his watch.
The visitor came through the door—a rather somber man, late forties, perhaps—who emanated a combination of weariness and wariness. Not a danger, she decided immediately, but he’s not sure if we’re a danger.
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After greeting Acton, he walked over to bow over Doyle’s hand, briefly. European, she guessed—and perhaps a minor aristocrat; he had that old-world air about him.
“Would you care to sit?” Acton asked. “It may take a minute.”
With a stiff nod of acquiescence, the visitor perched on the edge of the chair he was offered, and waited.
Acton began, “I understand that you are in a difficult situation, and that you cannot simply trust me.”
Doyle blinked, because Acton’s manner was conciliatory, rather than his usual interrogation tactic, which was to frighten the poor detainee to within an inch of his life. So—she thought; we’re not doing an interrogation, then.
“What can you show me?” the man asked. Wary, he was.
“I think I can help you, but first I need assurances that you mean no harm.” Acton paused. “You must admit, it is an extraordinary story. I would not like to think that it hides a more sinister purpose.”
The man’s gaze rested on Doyle for a moment, and she could see that he was worried about speaking openly in front of her. “I have told you nothing but the truth. I swear it to you.”
There was another pause, whilst Acton gave Doyle a chance to brush the hair from her forehead—the signal that she used to tell him that lies were being told. She didn’t, though, because the man spoke the truth. He had the trace of an accent, and Doyle tried to identify it; she wasn’t good with accents, but this one seemed both familiar and unfamiliar, in a strange way.
“It is a delicate situation,” Acton continued. “And I must be concerned about her safety.”
Doyle hid her sudden uneasiness. Whose safety? Hers?
What did this fellow have to do with her?
Bowing his head, the man agreed. “Her safety is my first concern. Of course.”
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Doyle’s hands remained in her lap, and she sensed that her husband was immensely relieved.
“Then I believe I can be of help.”
To Doyle’s surprise, she could hear a card-key in the slot, and the door opened to reveal Mary, looking a bit confused, as she held Gemma’s hand at the threshold. “Oh—Lady Acton, I was so worried. The concierge asked us to go straight up, and I was afraid—”
But the woman paused in astonishment, because the visitor had leapt up, and after taking several long strides across the room, knelt before Gemma.
“Your Serene Highness.” Overcome, the man blinked back tears.
Gemma smiled. “The army-man,” she pronounced, in her little voice.
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This was probably what she would call an unplanned-for surprise.
“Didn’t see that one comin’,” Doyle observed. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, here, husband.”
They were watching the visitor speak in quiet tones to a clearly bewildered Mary, as the three of them sat together at the kitchen table, Gemma happily eating pretzels and coloring in her book.
Acton rested his gaze upon the trio at the table, and said softly. “Her true name is Georgievna. Most of her family was killed, over a hundred years ago.” He paused. “She is one of the only survivors of the male-line Romanovs.”
Doyle eyed her husband. “Haven’t a clue what that means, Michael.”
“The Romanovs were the Tsars of Russia.”
Frowning, Doyle followed his gaze. “You’re tellin’ me that Gemma’s Russian royalty?”
Acton nodded. “After a fashion. The Russians follow Salic Law, which means females cannot rule. And aside from that, after the Russian Revolution, all the direct heirs were killed, so it’s all rather uncertain. She’s a rare survivor, and probably a Grand Duchess.”
Doyle smiled. “Then you’re sayin’ she outranks you, husband?”
Acton smiled in return. “I suppose she does.”
Shaking her head in wonder, Doyle asked, “How, by all the holy saints, did a ‘serene highness’ wind up bein’ a loose-end child?”
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“In recent years, a new royalist party has emerged in Russia—an attempt to re-establish the traditional monarchy. But those who do not wish to relinquish their power are very much opposed to any suggestion that the Romanov line be re-established.”
Doyle tried to sort this out. “Because Gemma’s a royal, she’s in danger? Where are her parents?”
“Her parents died rather mysteriously, and she was immediately spirited out of the country, and placed with Blakney, where no one would think to look, until it would be safe for her to return.”
Taking a guess, Doyle ventured, “Was it Solonik, who did the spiritin’?”
“Yes. Solonik and his brother-in-law were affiliated with the new royalist group, and were undoubtedly promised a high position, if the group was ever successful in coming into power.” Acton tilted his head in concession. “None of the players are very principled, I’m afraid. This man—” he nodded his head in the direction of the army-man, “is one of the military officers who would not be averse to restoring the old order.”
“He seems very sincere,” Doyle ventured. “He truly loves her.” “No doubt. But theirs is a dangerous gamble, and he must keep a low profile, for fear that anyone who could make a challenge will be assassinated. That’s one of the reasons he dared not advertise what he was doing, or even identify himself.” Frowning, Doyle observed, “So—Solonik stashed her away with Blakey, thinkin’ it would be a good place to hide her. But then Blakney got himself murdered, and Mary—who had not taken Blakney’s last name when she married him—moved
elsewhere, and the little girl was lost.”
“Correct. And no one knew what had happened to them, because—”
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“—because you moved them into a better neighborhood,” Doyle completed. “Faith, it’s amazin’ he found her at all.”
But Acton examined his hands for a moment. “He only found her, because I found him, first. And I found him because you were alarmed when Gemma said a Russian word, and you insisted that I look into it.”
Doyle paused, much struck. “I’m spooky,” she admitted. Acton lifted her hand and kissed its back. “Sometimes.” “Edward’s not spooky,” she assured him. “Just in case you
were wonderin’.”
“Oh? I did wonder.”
She decided she’d turn the subject—she didn’t like to speak of her perceptive abilities, and despite his calm façade, she knew that the subject made her husband uneasy, too. “So; what happens now? Poor Mary’s been gob-smacked.”
“We’ve agreed that Gemma should remain with Mary, for the time being. She’ll be safe—especially since she’ll take up residence with us, when the baby’s born. If Captain Kolchak couldn’t trace her, it’s unlikely that anyone else can, either.”
Doyle nodded in agreement. “Then she’ll go to St. Margaret’s, as planned?”
“She will. All in all, it is unlikely that she’ll go back to Russia any time soon. We must keep it quiet, of course.”
“The Captain will monitor her well-being, of course, and he would like to make certain she doesn’t forget the language. I think it may be best to put it about that she and Emile are cousins, so that she can practice with him, and no one will think it strange.”
“They do practice,” Doyle informed him absently, as she watched the girl concentrate on her coloring. “I just didn’t realize
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it, at the time.” She rubbed her eyes. “Saints, Michael; it’s all very symmet— symetro—”
“Symmetrical?” he offered.
“Yes—thank you. Emile’s father stepped up to help, and then after he was killed, so did his son, all unknowin’.”
Acton tilted his head. “I think Emile may have purer motives.”
“Aye.” Doyle quirked her mouth. “Despite the fact he’s a basketful of trouble, he does mean well.” Teasing, she glanced up at him. “There’s a lesson for you, there.”
“Now, there’s an astonishing thought,” he observed, and bent to kiss her.
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He couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction. As
an added bonus, the Commander was thoroughly stymied, and he’d a Romanov, living under his roof.
“I ’m afraid,” the Filipino priest informed Doyle gently, “that it is a call-to-action, after all.”
Faith, I’d completely forgotten about this little side-serving of spooky, Doyle thought a bit guiltily. “Oh—hallo, Father. I guess I haven’t been thinkin’ about you lately, because I solved the puzzle about the blood-money Acton’s payin’ to your sister.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and nodded.
Since he seemed disinclined to speak further on the subject, she admitted, “I’m not sure what to do about it—it’s water under the bridge, now, and I imagine your sister could use a bit of extra money.”
Again, he nodded in understanding, but disclosed, “She is forwarding the money to the bishop, for the church’s rebuilding fund.”
Doyle stared at him for a moment. “Is she? Well, there’s irony and justice, shakin’ hands.”
“Yes.” He smiled his benign smile.
Doyle found that she wanted to draw the conversation to a close, and as quickly as possible. “Then all’s well that ends well, I suppose. I’ll keep workin’ on Acton—I’m tryin’; truly I am—and I appreciate the tip-off about the blood-money.” Not certain what one said, she added, “I hope you have a nice eternity.”
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But he shook his head slightly. “You know what must be done, my child. We sometimes must go where we’d rather not.”
This comment sparked a heated response, and she retorted, “No—I haven’t sworn obedience, and I’d rather not go anywhere. Look at you—you went to Africa, and then died, for your pains. It’s such a waste—that someone like you dies in—in absturity—”
“Obscurity,” he corrected gently.
“—in obscurity, and an out-and-out charlatan like the DCS is stupidly famous.”
“It is not ours to judge,” he reminded her in a mild tone.
But Doyle wasn’t having it, and blew out a breath in exasperation. “Well, that one’s not at all hard to judge, my friend. He’s a blackleg, through and through, and it’s not fair at all.”
The priest did not respond, but regarded her with his usual benevolence.
Something in his gaze inspired Doyle to rein in her temper, and so she conceded, “I suppose it’s a good thing that he’s bringin’ in believers by the bushelful—and in this day and age, that’s quite the accomplishment—but it’s not the right way to go about it, by swindlin’ people. Faith, that’s as bad as blood-money, if you ask me, and mayhap you should go visit him in his dreams, and tell him so.”
“Greed is a terrible sin,” the priest agreed, a bit sadly.
“A primary motivation for murder,” said Doyle, who realized that she was quoting what Acton had said, for some reason.
“But the blood-money is not sinful in and of itself, my child. It is the sinner, who stands for judgment.”
Doyle stared at him in surprise. “Never say there’s more blood-money, on top of the last? For whose blood?”
But there was no response, and then she gasped, as her eyes flew open and she stared into the darkness of her bedroom.
“Is it time?” Sleepily, Acton reached for the light.
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“No,” she replied, and stayed his hand. “I’m that sorry I woke you, Michael.”
He sank back down into the pillows, and drew her to him. “Need anything?”
“A good night’s sleep,” she teased, and kissed the face so close to hers. She couldn’t tell him that what she truly needed were some answers—the Filipino priest may be a kindly man, but she recognized a scolding when she heard one.
It was a call-to-action, he’d said. And apparently—surprise of surprises—there was even more blood-money being paid over to someone else, which apparently meant that the fair Doyle had to shake her stumps yet again, and find out what was afoot.
Frowning at the dark ceiling, she tried to decide what the priest had meant. At first, he’d said that she knew what had to be done, but then instead of telling her plainly—faith, they never spoke plainly—he’d wandered off-topic by talking about the crooked DCS, and about even more blood-money. Who was Acton paying? And for what?
Thoroughly frustrated, she decided she’d think about a protocol in the morning, when her head was a bit clearer. After intertwining her fingers in her husband’s, she then—almost surprisingly—fell immediately to sleep.
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He arranged for her the doctor to visit that afternoon.
She was tired, and hadn’t eaten much.
D oyle was no further along with a protocol the following morning, as she sat at the table and watched Emile poach her breakfast egg under the careful direction of
Reynolds.
“It’s turned white,” whispered Gemma, who stood atop her chair, observing the proceedings with wide eyes.
“Indeed, it has, Miss Gemma, and so we must take the ladle—carefully, Master Emile; the water is very hot—and slide it onto the toast.”
With a great deal of pride, Emile solemnly carried Doyle’s plate to her, and Gemma was entrusted with the small glass of orange juice, which was only sloshed a bit when it landed at its destination.
“Thank you, Emile, and you are an excellent assistant, Gemma.”
“My mum will bake cookies, when she comes home tonight,” Gemma disclosed in a rare burst of words. “She says a nice man will come to visit us.”
Reynolds advised a bit hurriedly, “Now, Miss Gemma; you mustn’t re-tell private conversations—”
But Doyle smiled. “It’s all right, Reynolds; Mary’s mum has indeed met a nice man, and I imagine it won’t stay a secret long.” She smiled to herself, thinking about Reynolds’ reaction when he found out about the Howard-and-Mary romance; the servant would have to reshuffle his deck of who-was-important, and
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who-was-not. A shame, that she couldn’t mention Gemma’s secret; that would be a reshuffling for the ages.
The servant took this opportunity to send a meaningful glance in Emile’s direction. “I think you should tell Lady Acton your own secret, Emile; I promise she won’t take it away.”
Doyle looked upon the boy with interest. “Have you a secret, Emile? Can you shoot ducks with it?”
The boy smiled, but Doyle could see that he was suddenly wary. “No—it was something I found at the park.”
Interestingly enough, this was an out-and-out lie, and so Doyle’s interest was piqued—Emile was usually too forthright for his own good. “Can I see it?”
&nb
sp; “May I see it,” the boy corrected.
“You must not correct Lady Acton, Master Emile.”