“It’s a thankless task, and better men than you have tried,” Doyle agreed. “May I see the secret, Emile?”
At Reynolds’ nod, the boy ran to his room, and then came back, holding something in his hand. With palpable reluctance, he opened his fingers to reveal a gold coin, nearly the size of his small palm.
Doyle stared at it, her scalp prickling like a live thing.
“You may hold it, Gemma, but only for a minute,” the boy offered importantly. “You mustn’t say anything to your mum, though; it’s a secret.”
“Where did you find it, Emile?” Doyle already knew the answer, but decided she’d double-check, on the off-chance that her call-to-action wasn’t staring her in the face.
“On the pavement, at the park,” the boy lied, his cheeks turning a bit pink.
“He wasn’t going to tell me, but I saw it in his hand,” Reynold disclosed. “In exchange for his confidence, Lady Acton, I assured him that he could keep it.”
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“Of course, you may keep it, Emile; besides, it’d be a sleeveless errand to try to find the true owner.” The coin was about two inches across, and sported an unfamiliar language, but if it had said “blood money” in capital letters, it couldn’t have been more clear. Here was the answer to all mysteries, and the reason for her soft-voiced scolding from the night visitor.
She was tempted to interrogate the boy, to see what he’d say, but she decided it was hardly necessary—they weren’t smuggling cigarettes or mobile phones to Savoie; they were smuggling gold. But why? Presumably, Savoie was rich—faith, he was probably swimming in blood-money, and lots of it.
“Impossible, to trace the owner,” Reynolds agreed. “A very lucky find, Master Emile.”
Doyle watched Gemma hold the coin with careful little hands, and realized this was an important point—money could be traced, particularly if was the police who were doing the tracing. But coins like this one could not be traced.
She lifted her gaze to the window, trying to decide whatever-it-was that she was trying to understand. Savoie was sitting in prison, larking about with the guards, and promising Emile that he’d be home soon. For some reason, Acton was smuggling gold coins to him, in Emile’s jacket—although more correctly, it was Lizzie Mathis who was smuggling the coins. But wait—Doyle should be a good detective, and not leap to conclusions. It seemed clear that Mathis was facilitating the smuggling, but she may not know its object—she wasn’t allowed in the room, when Emile visited Savoie.
Indeed, it was possible that Acton himself didn’t know about the coins—but of course he did; Mathis was following Acton’s orders, that much seemed evident. There was no other reason to recruit the unlikely Mathis to escort Emile to visit his father; Mathis could be trusted not to grass about whatever was going forward, and Acton trusted very few people.
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With a twinge of annoyance, Doyle contemplated the unpalatable truth that Acton trusted Mathis more than the wife of his bosom with whatever-this-was. He doesn’t trust me, she realized—at least not in this—because he thinks I’ll try to throw a mighty wrench into the works, and then beat him with a nightstick, for good measure.
Slowly, she lowered her head, a bit ashamed of herself. Acton’s concern was unwarranted, though—his fair bride wouldn’t have tried to throw a wrench, because she was too busy putting her head in the sand, and trying not to face what needed to be faced: Acton had one more misdirection murder to commit, and the victim couldn’t have been more obvious. As the Filipino priest had pointed out—in his gently scolding way— Doyle knew what had to be done.
She lifted her head to watch Emile tell Gemma something about the coin’s origin that Reynolds had told him—she wasn’t listening, because she was trying to come up with a protocol. Rescuing the wretched DCS from Acton’s bloody-minded vengeance seemed a tall order—given her present condition— but as she’d a saintly priest urging her on, she’d no choice in the matter, and best get crackin’ on a plan, because she truly should have a plan before she did something impulsive. She’d the feeling, she did, that she was about to do something impulsive.
If the blood-money was being delivered to the prison, it was probably not going to Savoie as much as it was going to bribe others at the prison—certainly the cheeky guard, which would explain his cheeky attitude. Faith, when you thought it through, it all made complete sense; she’d thought it odd that Acton hadn’t killed Mrs. Barayev and the DCS outright, on that Hound-of-the-Baskervilles night, and now it seemed that he’d just decided to delay his revenge a bit—mayhap he didn’t want to make it too obvious that it was his own hand, behind these misdirection murders.
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But Doyle frowned slightly, because try as she might, this theory didn’t piece together very well. Acton was nothing if not efficient, and it seemed the height of inefficiency, to take such pains to disguise the Russian woman’s death, and pay off a Filipino charwoman, to boot. Not to mention it was no easy thing to arrange to have someone murdered in prison—or at least, one would think. Much easier to do the deed before the villain had been locked safely away. “It doesn’t make sense,” she mused aloud.
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
Pulled from her thoughts, Doyle replied, “Sorry, Reynolds—I was woolgatherin’. It comes of nearly goin’ mad, havin’ to sit here, when everyone else is pickin’ up gold off the streets.” She noted that Emile and Gemma had decided to make a game of tossing the coin back and forth, and so Doyle made a show of placing an arm across her forehead, and leaning back into the sofa.
As could be expected, almost immediately Reynolds addressed the children. “Perhaps, Master Emile, you should put the coin away now, and we’ll go for a walk. It is a fine morning.”
“By all means, put it away,” Doyle agreed. “You wouldn’t want the ducks to seize it—the wretched thieves.”
The boy giggled. “These are London ducks, not the St. Petersburg ducks. It’s the St. Petersburg ducks who are the thieves, remember?”
“I wouldn’t trust a single duck a single inch,” Doyle advised darkly. “Mark me.”
“I’d no idea that ducks were such a hazard,” Reynolds remarked, and went to fetch the children’s jackets.
But Doyle wasn’t listening, because she’d suddenly stilled, reminded that Solonik’s evil sister had planned to take Emile back to St. Petersburg, for reasons unknown. Now, there was a niggling loose end to beat all the other niggling loose ends. Emile had said that the woman was at the prison when he’d visited Savoie—the same prison where Mrs. Barayev used to work as a
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matron, doing evil deeds behind the scenes—and that she’d seen to it that Emile had the requisite shots, and travel documents— faith, she’d even had the guards involved in the preparations.
Try as she might, she could make no sense of it; Doyle knew that the woman had no fondness for the boy—she was as cold as an ice shard, through-and-through. And besides, she must have known that Savoie would do whatever it took to fetch Emile right back again, and exact a terrible revenge, in the process. It seemed a very foolish thing to do, to make plans to steal the boy away, right there in the prison. Unless—
Slowly, Doyle lifted her head to gaze out the windows and contemplate a terrible, terrible thought. What if—what if Savoie had been allied with Mrs. Barayev, and was planning to take Emile to St Petersburg along with her, and thus take up the reins of the Solonik underworld? After all, the woman had been deeply involved in her brother’s evil deeds, but now that all her men-folk had been killed, she was in no shape to handle it herself. Why not recruit Savoie, and promise him riches, as well as an unfettered right to Emile?
Was it possible? It would mean that Savoie was willing to double-cross Acton—which ordinarily, wouldn’t be much cause for alarm, since half the villains in London would like nothing more th
an to double-cross Acton. But Savoie was not your usual villain; Savoie was dangerous, because he was—inexplicably— another one of those rare persons Acton apparently trusted. Although—although, it wasn’t truly inexplicable—it was because of Doyle; because Savoie had saved her life, once, and Acton knew they were friends. And now Savoie knew that Acton was arranging to murder the DCS, and was—perhaps—secretly planning to abscond to Russia, all without Acton’s knowing. Perhaps he was meaning to expose Acton, as well—leave him holding the bag. The implications were alarming, and Doyle tamped down a flare of panic.
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Reynolds paused at the door. “We should return before lunch, madam; please phone, if you require anything.”
Doyle pulled herself together, and mustered-up a smile. “Right then. Emile, I’m countin’ on even more gold, so please keep a sharp eye out.”
The boy’s laughter could be heard as the door shut, and Doyle immediately took the opportunity to press her fingers to her temples—she needed to convince her poor pregnant-brain to start thinking, and to start thinking fast.
If Savoie were double-crossing him, then there was nothin’ for it; she’d have to warn Acton. But—if she warned Acton that she’d twigged on to him, she’d probably not have another opportunity to rescue the wretched DCS. Instead, Acton would nod understandingly whilst she scolded him about not going about killing people, and then the erstwhile minister would probably be transferred to some far-afield Irish prison, and disappear from there.
The ghost-priest was right; I do know what needs to be done, she admitted to herself with deep regret. I’ve got to go to wretched Wexton Prison, and speak with Savoie, to sound him out. Then I’ve got to figure out some way to save the stupid DCS—depending on what Savoie has to say, and how bleak the situation is. It shouldn’t take but a few minutes, and I can’t see any other way out—there’s no one else who can do it.
As she gathered her feet beneath her, she remembered what the priest had said—that we sometimes must go where we’d rather not—and she made a wry mouth, now that she knew what he meant. I’ve got to stop the last misdirection murder, she thought with resolution; there’s no bunkin’ it, and shame on me, for thinking there was nothing I could do to stop it.
With grim determination, she hoisted herself up, and prepared to answer her call-to-action.
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Chapter 35
Today was the day. “Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity.”
“Mathis,” Doyle said into her phone. “I’m that sorry to bother you at work, but I wanted to ask you about somethin’ Emile told me about his prison visit. It
may not be important, but I wanted to double-check.” “Certainly,” said Mathis, who was probably rolling her eyes. “It’s somethin’ I’d rather discuss face-to-face,” Doyle added.
“It’s a delicate matter, and I’m not sure whether I should bring Acton into it.”
There was a small pause. She knows I’m up to something, thought Doyle; a wily one, was Mathis.
“Of course; I’ll be happy to come by at your convenience, Lady Acton.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mathis; it shouldn’t take more than a minute, and you won’t even have to park; if you’ll just pick me up at the front door, I’ll ride around the block with you.”
“I’ll be there shortly, then.”
On her way out the door, Doyle left her mobile on the sofa table, double-checked her ankle holster, and then grabbed Emile’s jacket from the closet, wincing because she’d moved too fast, and she must have tweaked her back, somehow. Once down in the lobby, she smiled at the concierge, and then watched out the revolving doors for Mathis, hoping the girl wouldn’t be long.
When Mathis pulled up, Doyle allowed the doorman to open the passenger door, and then settled in, as Mathis pulled away. “Thanks a million, Mathis. I’m truly grateful.”
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“Is that Emile’s jacket?” the other girl asked, and Doyle knew that behind her impassive exterior, she was very wary.
“Yes. It’s actually an excuse-in-disguise, because I’ve lured you in under false pretenses. We’re goin’ to Wexton Prison, and you’re goin’ to take me in to speak with Savoie.”
To her credit, the girl didn’t swerve into a tree, but instead, glanced at her passenger with a hint of incredulity. “What?”
Hurriedly, Doyle continued, “I can’t explain the details, but I’m worried that Acton’s in some sort of danger, and I have to speak with Savoie, in order to sort it out.”
“Lady Acton—”
“There’s no arguin’ with me, Mathis; I’m worried that Acton isn’t aware of somethin’ important.”
There was a pause, whilst Doyle could see that the girl was reconsidering an outright refusal. “Why can’t you tell Lord Acton?”
“Because Savoie’s a very good liar, but he won’t lie to me.” Doyle was aware that this was a mighty lame explanation, but it was as close as she could come to the actual one. Inspired, she added, “It has to do with Emile—and I can’t say more.”
But Mathis only shook her head, slightly, and turned to regard her companion with all sincerity. “Then I would trust Lord Acton, Lady Acton. I’m certain he can deal with whatever the problem is.”
“I can’t tell him—not as yet. Please believe me when I say that he may be in danger—it may be a trap.”
Although they weren’t yet heading toward the prison—as far as Doyle could tell—at least Mathis hadn’t pushed her out of the car, which seemed a promising sign. And the girl’s next comment seemed another promising sign.
“Perhaps we should enlist Williams, to assist.”
Doyle couldn’t help but smile. “Well, as thrillin’ as it would be to re-enact our favorite car trip, I’d rather not, because he’d
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queer the pitch, at the prison. You’re the one the guards are familiar with, and it would raise all kinds of eyebrows if I had a DI, taggin’ along.”
Into the other girl’s thoughtful silence, Doyle played her trump. “If you won’t take me, I’m afraid I will go all on my own, by hook or by crook.”
“Right then; I will take you.”
There was a small silence, whilst Doyle mentally breathed a huge sigh of relief. “It’s not like he’ll fire you, Lizzie,” she offered. “You’re one of the only people he trusts.”
As could be expected, this compliment evoked a small burst of pleasure, and Mathis rallied enough to disclaim, “Then I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue sea; if I don’t go, you’ll be the one to fire me.”
“Never,” Doyle proclaimed stoutly. “And besides, I wouldn’t know how to go about it; we peasants have no experience in such things.”
In an even tone, the girl observed, “And yet, Sir Stephen and the dowager are both gone from Trestles.”
Doyle turned to stare at her in laughing surprise. “I didn’t do that—for heaven’s sake, Lizzie, give Acton credit, where credit is due.”
But Mathis only countered, “It wouldn’t have happened, save for you.”
Doyle paused, because this was true; it wasn’t until he’d married his Irish bride that Acton was suddenly inspired to clear all grifting relatives out of his ancestral home. “Well then; I’ll take full credit, and must warn you never to dare cross me.”
Mathis smiled her dry little smile. “As you see.”
But Doyle only smiled in return, as she shifted to try to find a comfortable position—faith, she’d wrenched her stupid back. “You’re only comin’ along on this hare-brained scheme because you think it’s what Acton would want you to do.”
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Mathis didn’t bother to demur to this very valid point, but only asked, “What is the plan?”
Doyle considered her companion for moment, and then decided there was nothin’ for it. “I’m guessin’ that when you took Emile on your
prison visits, you weren’t required to check in, or go through the metal detectors. I’ve brought the jacket along, hopin’ for the same treatment.”
If Mathis knew why the jacket never went through the metal detectors, she gave no indication. “But won’t they recognize you?”
“Everyone recognizes me,” Doyle admitted, a bit glumly. “Never rescue anyone from the river, is the advice I would give to you.”
Mathis lifted a corner of her mouth in amusement. “What will you tell them, as the reason you’re there with me, then?”
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