Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  There was a pause. “Perhaps if you lie completely still—”

  “Remove your clothes, husband; I shall lie as still as a stone.” She put her hands on his head and pulled his mouth to hers.

  Later, while she showered, she willed herself to feel better. Two days hence she was to visit her new obstetrician, and she was dreading the ordeal, but perhaps it wouldn’t be all to the bad; she would make a list of questions, including how to survive this miserable morning sickness which seemed—unfairly—to last all day. Closing her eyes, she let the water run over her head and sighed. Faith, how she’d love to put a stop to this foolishness and quit frettin’ her man; he had enough on his mind as it was, what with the whole outfoxing the Home Office on the guns-running thing. At least he was finally discussing the turf wars with her—she’d been anxious about nothing, it seemed.

  After she turned off the shower, she stepped out in her towel to find that Acton was leaning against the vanity with his arms crossed, watching her. This was not a surprise; when they were home he was drawn to her, and especially now, when he was worried. Stepping over, she raised up on tiptoe to kiss him, and then, teasing, rubbed her wet head on his shirt, making him flinch away with a smile. “I’m feelin’ much better; Michael. Truly.”

  He continued to watch her in the mirror as she began combing out her hair. “I’ve been screening some candidates to take Marta’s place, and I’d like to give one or two a trial.”

  “Aye then,” she agreed, rather surprised that he’d found the time—usually when there were multiple connected murders like this he was frenetically busy at all hours. On the other hand, it seemed every time they got a lead, the witness wound up in the morgue. And there was no question that the general mood at the Met was not the exigent one that would have existed had the victims been young schoolgirls; justice should be blind, but no question she would turn a shoulder on those who’d chosen to lie down with dogs.

  “If you would, let me know if you see anything amiss in any of the candidates.” He was referring to her intuitive ability; he was intensely private, and with good reason. It was only to be expected that he would be very particular about anyone who would be given access into their lives.

  She smiled at him in the mirror. “No one who answers to your mother.”

  He gave her a half-smile in response, but had already moved on to the next subject. “I spoke to Caroline, and I asked her not to patronize you to the extent she does.”

  With acute dismay, Doyle met his eyes in the mirror, but he continued in all seriousness, “I want to make it clear that I will tolerate no disrespect from anyone. You are my wife.”

  “Saints, Michael,” she remonstrated gently, lowering the comb. “Perhaps not the best tack to take, my friend; if Caroline doesn’t know how to get on with the likes of me it’s because we hardly know each other, and the three of you are miles smarter.” She paused for a moment, trying to put her instinctive reaction into words. “She’ll unbristle once she becomes accustomed—and become accustomed she must. She is only being a bit territorial about you and you can hardly blame her; I am quite the shockin’ surprise.”

  He looked as though he meant to say something, but thought the better of it.

  Thoughtfully, Doyle resumed combing her hair. “And she may be resentin’ that I’ve taken Fiona’s place for the four of you—it’s a new grief, after all. Be patient; she’ll come about. Please say nothin’ more.”

  “Right, then.” He stood and kissed the top of her wet head. “And it was kind of you to lose; she doesn’t like being beaten.”

  “No; not by me, leastways.” He had twigged her, then—can’t put much past this husband of hers; mental note. She turned to look up at him, fingering the ends of her hair. “No one ever married? Of the four of you, I mean.”

  “No. I was the first.”

  “Good one.”

  “Very good one,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

  CHAPTER 9

  IT WAS CLEAR TO DOYLE THAT CAROLINE MADE AN EFFORT THAT evening to modify her behavior. When she arrived with her brother, she presented Doyle with a bottle of wine in a very friendly manner and suggested they share it, glancing at Acton to make sure that he observed this show of good grace. Doyle was forced to confess that she didn’t drink alcohol, but Caroline laughed good-naturedly and promised to bring ginger ale the next time.

  Once they advanced to the cards portion of the evening, Caroline insisted they play Forty-five, the game Doyle had taught them. She’s to be killing me with kindness, thought Doyle, which is rather sweet and shows how much she values Acton’s good opinion. The game commenced, and if Caroline was operating under duress, the only symptom was that she drank scotch along with the men and the wine went untouched.

  Timothy did surgeries once a month at a charity medical clinic, and he related some amusing stories of the unusual conditions he was forced to confront because a large percentage of the patients were recent immigrants from third-world areas. Doyle found it very interesting and asked many questions, wishing she had some skill to offer those less fortunate—she couldn’t very well offer to tell them if they were lying, after all. The clinic was funded by the local Catholic diocese and this led Timothy to ask if Doyle attended a church in the area.

  “St. Michael’s,” she replied. They looked at her a bit blankly and she added, “Near Chelsea; not a very large parish, I’m afraid.”

  “We attend Holy Trinity,” explained Caroline. “You must join us; it would be closer for you.”

  Doyle was not certain what to reply, as it had never even crossed her mind to transfer from her old parish.

  “I am taking instruction at St. Michael’s,” interjected Acton smoothly.

  “Why, Acton, that is wonderful,” exclaimed Caroline in astonished surprise. “To think that Kathleen has managed such a feat—well, well done.”

  Doyle blushed with embarrassment; faith, everyone would be much more comfortable if Caroline took her new attitude down a peg or two. Deftly, she changed the subject by asking the other woman about her work.

  “We are making enormous headway with enzymatic applications for nonregenerative cells,” Caroline enthused as she looked up from her cards. “It is very exciting.”

  “That does sound excitin’,” offered Doyle, who hadn’t a clue.

  But Caroline only smiled in good-humored acknowledgment as she made a discard. “It’s very dry and dull, unless you’re immersed in it, as I am. And so I’ll say no more, except that I’m to speak at a conference next week, and I haven’t yet been told what I’m supposed to speak about. I hope it is nothing I have to get up to speed on.”

  “Out of town?” asked Acton as he took his turn.

  She laughed, as though this were a private joke, and said as an aside to Doyle, “He knows that I think civilization ends at the city limits, and I rarely set a foot outside.” Playfully, she tapped Acton’s arm with her cards. “You are not one to speak, Acton—you never go anywhere, either.”

  “There are too many people gettin’ themselves murdered in London,” Doyle offered, hoping to avoid a discussion of Acton’s reclusive habits. “He’s in dire need, here.”

  “Perhaps we should all take a trip together,” the other woman offered with a friendly smile at Doyle. “I imagine if we put our minds to it, we could all find the time.”

  Doing it too brown, thought Doyle, who was well-aware that Caroline had not the smallest intention of going anywhere with the likes of her.

  “Have you traveled much, Kathleen?” Timothy gathered up the cards to take his turn as dealer.

  “Only the trip from Dublin to London, I’m afraid.” And best not to mention that when she’d lived in Dublin with her mother, they usually walked everywhere because they hadn’t enough money for bus fare.

  “We will take you on a tour, then,” Caroline enthused, including Acton in her glance. “The enzymes can mind themselves for a week—and so can the criminals, Acton.”

  “If only that were
the case,” said Acton mildly as he won the hand.

  With a nod of his head, Timothy indicated his sister. “Caroline’s being modest—she’ll be the keynote speaker at the conference; she’s making some huge inroads into paralysis treatment, and she’s to be written up in the Medical Journal.”

  “How rewardin’, Caroline,” offered Doyle in all sincerity. “To be helpin’ people as you are.”

  Shaking her head slightly, the other woman disclaimed with a smile, “It’s purely selfish—I positively relish the work, and I’m lucky they pay me.”

  When she has the attention she craves, she can be gracious, Doyle observed; it’s only when the attention is centered elsewhere that she acts up. I’ll keep it to mind, so that Acton doesn’t feel he must defend me at every turn, which only gets her back up. Her fond gaze rested on her husband for a moment. Knocker, she thought; I’m not so very defenseless. Feeling her gaze upon him, he lifted his head from his cards to meet her eyes. Ah, she thought; he is eager to attempt the cure again.

  “May I fetch you something to drink, Kathleen?” asked Caroline with an abundance of good will.

  Acton forestalled her, “I’ll do it, Caroline—Kathleen, what would you like?”

  “Water—or perhaps iced ginger tea.” She saw Timothy and Caroline exchange a glance; Timothy must have told his sister she was pregnant—ah well, it would be hard for him to keep such news from his sister, and Doyle had the impression she ruled the roost. “There’s the plate of cheese and fruit on the counter also, Michael.” This was courtesy of the blessed concierge; neither Doyle nor Acton were handy in the kitchen, and most of the time they sent out for food; hence the dire need to hire another housekeeper.

  “Is Marta off tonight?” asked Caroline as she idly played with the pack of cards. “I wanted to ask her advice about a recipe.”

  Acton was in the kitchen, so Doyle was forced to disclose, “I’m afraid Marta no longer works for us.”

  The other two stared at her in surprise. “Why—what has happened?” asked Caroline.

  “We had a fallin’-out.” Doyle hoped this bald announcement would discourage any interest in the details.

  Apparently, this gambit was not successful as Caroline frowned. “Will she return to Trestles?”

  “I do not know,” Doyle replied, and offered no more. She could feel that Caroline was shocked and unhappy; but if she believed that the upstart bride had thrown out a devoted retainer, she was welcome to do so. After routing both Acton’s mother and the disapproving housekeeper, Doyle was gaining some confidence, secure in the sure knowledge of her husband’s devotion. The only good opinions I care about are God’s and Acton’s; in that order, she thought. And perhaps the CID’s, if it doesn’t clash with either of the above—her intuition told her that Acton was up to something, after all.

  Caroline stepped into the awkward silence, saying briskly, “Then you’ll need some help. Let me lend you our Kitty, or allow me to send over some meals; I do love to cook.” It was apparent she was sorry she had reacted so negatively, and was trying to make up for it.

  “Acton’s handlin’ it, I’m not sure what’s to be done,” Doyle confessed, which was not very housewifely of her, and probably only added to Caroline’s ill-concealed dismay.

  “I will speak with him, then,” Caroline announced with a martyr’s air, and rose to join Acton in the kitchen.

  Doyle was thus left alone with Timothy. There was a pause, and then they both spoke at once: “I want to thank—” said Doyle.

  “Let me say—” said Timothy. They both abruptly stopped speaking, and then laughed together. “Ladies first,” offered the doctor.

  “I wanted to thank you for all your help,” Doyle told him in all sincerity. “You are a good friend to us.”

  The doctor blushed, which endeared him to Doyle, who was a raging blusher, herself. “My pleasure; happy to be of service.” He then offered with a hint of embarrassment, “I only wanted to say that you have made a remarkable change in Acton. For the better,” he added, as though this had not been made clear.

  She smiled. “It is my own pleasure, and I am certainly happy to be of service.”

  He laughed in appreciation, and then added, “And more changes coming—I was so pleased to hear your good news. We can hardly credit that Acton is to be a father; it is wonderful.”

  “It is indeed,” she agreed with some firmness.

  They were shortly rejoined by the other two, and the card play resumed. Doyle nursed her ginger tea and began to wish the evening was over so that she and her warm and heavy husband could go to bed. They played a few more hands, then Acton announced he had an early morning and the McGonigals took the hint and made ready to depart. As they were leaving, Caroline asked Doyle if she would be available for lunch sometime.

  Since she normally met Acton for lunch whenever he was free, Doyle cadged. “It depends on whether I am in the field, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can send an e-mail on a day you are available, and I can let you know.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Caroline. “I would love to share some meals with you—it would do me good to watch my weight.”

  Unsure as to how to respond to this, Doyle just smiled. She was slender and fast becoming more so; Caroline was slightly overweight.

  After the guests had left, Doyle stood to help Acton carry the glasses to the kitchen. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Why don’t you lie down?”

  “Michael, you are makin’ me crazy.” She smiled to take the sting from the words, and put her arms around him. “If I don’t want to help, I will not hesitate to say so.”

  He put the glasses on the counter and turned to return the embrace, holding her close. Ah, this was heaven. She stroked his back for a moment, feeling the lean muscle under his shirt and thinking that perhaps the dishes should wait.

  He said against her head, “I don’t think this should be a standing event, do you?”

  Cautiously, she responded, “I don’t mind, Michael; truly. And Caroline was so much nicer tonight, after her scold.” It had been a false front, but Acton probably already knew this, he was a fair judge of human behavior, himself. “And besides, we have to take the Caroline with the Timothy; we can’t separate the two.”

  He was silent, as though unconvinced, and so she added, “And we don’t want everyone to think I’m one of those jealous brides, tryin’ to separate you from your friends.”

  “I have no interest in what anyone thinks.”

  This was true, and she’d forgotten there was no point in making such an appeal. “Then we’ll play it by ear, my friend; we can always tell her I’m feelin’ down-pin, which would be true ninety percent of the time.”

  He bent his head to rest his mouth against the top of her shoulder and rocked her gently. “If I could take this away from you, I would.”

  Shame on her, for bringing it up. “Michael, you are frightenin’ me—next you’ll be recitin’ poetry. Snap out of it, man.”

  He straightened up to smile down at her. “To bed, then.”

  She smiled back. “I am actually a little hungry.” It was a lie, but she had decided she would force herself to eat so that he did not fret himself to death.

  He sat and watched her silently whilst she ate a small bowl of her favorite frosty flakes, which sounded the least repulsive of the possibilities, and tried to pretend it was delicious. “How things have changed,” she lamented as she crunched. “In the early days of our marriage—so long ago—you would not have allowed me to finish my cereal before carryin’ me off to bed.”

  “Eat,” he directed. “Things have definitely changed.”

  CHAPTER 10

  She was a very nice lady. It was hard to understand her

  sometimes; she was not English. They said she was married

  to a rich man, a policeman. This was good; she

  would have care taken of her. She needed care to be taken,

  he could tell, and it worried him. Although the new God

  said
do not fear death, she was mganga, and he was worried

  that it meant death. Sometimes it did.

  DOYLE STRUGGLED OUT OF BED THE NEXT MORNING AND PRE-pared to go to work. Her joints now ached on top of the general queasiness, and for two pence she would have gone straight back to bed. It’s a good thing you’re to see the wretched doctor, she thought; you’ll probably fall into his arms, weeping with gratitude. Doggedly, she ate some cereal and was glad Acton had already left; she would be hard-pressed to be civil to the poor man—although she was in desperate need of the cure. After debating, she decided to lie on the tile floor with a heavy book upon her abdomen, and this home remedy actually seemed to help. Not as well as a tall and heavy husband, but it would do in a pinch.

  When she felt up to it, she dressed and tried to convince herself that she was feeling somewhat better; she was due to assist Williams with the turf war murders and the last thing she needed was to miss this prime opportunity for fieldwork. He had gotten back to her last night with an apology for not getting in touch sooner, and she couldn’t very well take a turn at calling in sick—it would be crackin’ unbearable if Munoz took her place on this investigation and was promoted to DS before she was; this was the type of high-profile major crime that could do it. Can’t be quitting now, she rallied herself, examining her pale face in the mirror; although I wish I owned a dab of makeup.

  After exiting the building, she was crossing the sidewalk toward her waiting cab when a short, slightly stout man wearing a rumpled trench coat approached; it appeared he had been waiting for her. “Lady Acton,” he called. “My name is Kevin Maguire; may I have a moment?”

  Doyle halted in surprise at being thus hailed, but the man spread his hands to show his harmlessness and did not appear to be threatening. Doyle thought of the gun she always wore in an ankle holster and was not alarmed; not to mention the concierge was within calling distance, if she needed reinforcements.

  Maguire smiled in a friendly fashion. “I’m with the London World News,” he explained, “—and I wondered if I could ask a few questions.”