Doyle took the bull by the horns, her intuition tuned on Williams like a laser beam. “Actually, I’m thinkin’ the body was lowered from this bridge by some sort of sling—somethin’ that didn’t leave rope marks. It’s the only way that makes sense, the evidence bein’ what it is.”
Williams nodded, but she could feel he was suddenly very wary, which told her she was on the right track. Doyle leaned out to inspect the underside of the railing, even though the movement worsened her headache. “There is some slight scratchin’,” she observed, indicating with a finger. “Not somethin’ that could be easily explained, in such a place—it is not as though the railin’ is used for anythin’.”
Williams dutifully leaned over to observe. “Yes—some friction has definitely been applied.”
She glanced at him. “A lot of trouble to take, one would think.”
“Yes,” he agreed. He offered nothing further.
Doyle scrutinized the cement floor of the aqueduct, fifteen feet beneath them. “And not a convenient dump site; I think it was deliberately chosen to obscure the time of death. A very careful killer, also; the body was completely clean.”
“So it would seem.”
Enough, thought Doyle; I know what I need to know—except for one more thing. “I am wonderin’ if there is a connection between the victim and our Mr. Solonik.”
Williams did not respond for a moment, and Doyle almost felt sorry for him, but then remembered that obstruction of justice was a felony, and she shouldn’t be feeling sorry for him at all. Of course, she couldn’t grass on Williams without grassing on her exasperating husband, but still and all, it was a matter of principle. With some impatience, she chided, “Thomas Williams; recall that I am knackered, and if you make me spend an hour researchin’ this, I am likely to keel over in my cubicle. Tell the truth and shame the devil.”
Williams related with no emotion, “He was Solonik’s brother-in-law; he was married to Solonik’s sister, before she died.”
She blinked in surprise; that this very significant fact was nowhere to be found in the notes spoke of a thorough scrubbing of the files. She rested her gaze on the cement below them, unwilling to force Williams to reveal anything further, and in truth, it was hardly necessary. Acton had instituted this turf war—probably by murdering the first two victims and then standing back so as to allow nature to take its course. Then he’d lured Solonik—the main target of this retribution plot—to England by murdering his brother-in-law. Perhaps it was the only bait that could have lured him; the two Russian men must have been close. This was why Barayev was shot in the face—to send a brutal message of vengeance. And presumably, now that Solonik was in custody, some of his DNA or other trace evidence would find its way into that cardboard evidence box, so that the Russian would be framed for his brother-in-law’s murder—icing on the vengeance cake. Only Acton had the stick by the wrong end—thanks to her—and this was exactly why the nuns taught you that even little lies have big consequences. He was taking a vengeance because she had lied to him; on that never-to-be-forgotten night, she’d told him that raving-lunatic Owens was working for Solonik because she didn’t want to tell him the real reason—and now look what she’d done. There was nothin’ for it; she must make a clean breast of it to her husband, and remedy the situation as best she could, although unfortunately the situation seemed without remedy. I tried to outfox Acton, she thought; I should have known that I was not up to the task.
Williams’s voice cut into her somber thoughts. “He may have been keeping a clean profile, Doyle, but Barayev was a bad actor. He was directly responsible for a lot of misery in the world.”
This was little consolation. “Murder is murder, Williams.”
“Not always,” he replied, and meant it.
She looked up at him and quirked her mouth. “Careful—that’s what the fair Munoz said, too.”
But it was no time for humor, apparently, and Williams did not smile. “Come on, I’ll take you back.”
They drove back to London as the light was fading—in a strange way, she was relieved not to have the niggling worry anymore, but her thoroughly Catholic soul was troubled by the current dilemma. Vigilantism was not to be condoned, no matter the ultimate good; if the rule of law was not respected, then only those with power would prevail, and the powerless would ultimately suffer. Law enforcement officers always walked a fine line to begin with; it was so tempting to arrange matters—or to intimidate others—so that the perceived correct result would be achieved, and again, to hold such power was dangerous, regardless of the purity of the motive. She could not be easy with what Acton had wrought, here; retribution was best left to God, whose motives were never suspect.
She and Williams did not speak on the way home. He knows that I know, she thought, and neither one of us dares to discuss it. She gave an inward sigh; it was so tiresome to guard what one said—and indeed, that is what got her into this mess to begin with.
Williams dropped her off at her building and watched as she went through the revolving door to the lobby. What are the odds he’s calling Acton right now, she thought; I wouldn’t take a bet on it.
She was exhausted and emotionally drained as she rode up the lift. She knew that Acton was already there; he wanted her to have an early night. Frettin’, she thought; I’ll fret him one, I will.
CHAPTER 24
WHEN DOYLE ENTERED THE FLAT, HOWEVER, IT WAS TO DIScover that Acton was to be given a reprieve in the form of a visitor. Father John and Acton were seated before the fire, drinking scotch, and Acton rose to greet her, approaching to kiss her cheek. He paused. “What is it?”
“It can wait,” she replied, and hoped this was true—although surely, as long as he was here with her he was not arranging to murder people, left and right. Or one would think.
“I thought we were to go to Candide’s,” he chided her gently as he helped her remove her coat.
“I completely forgot; I was too busy sleuthin’. Has Williams reported?”
“No.”
It was the truth. Interesting, she thought—Williams is going to stay well out of it. Perhaps he has divided loyalties; after all, his mother likes me. “Is it instruction night?” Occasionally Father John and Acton met at the flat for Acton’s instruction ; more often they met at the church.
“No; he wanted to come speak to both of us.”
Reminded of the probing questions the priest had asked at the end of lunch, Doyle found this to be ominous—faith, it never rained but it poured—and indeed, it seemed the clergyman was not his usual self as he rose to meet her. “Kathleen ; I’m sorry to be disturbin’ you at home.”
“Not at all, Father; I’m that glad to see you again.”
“Come sit down,” suggested Acton, and Doyle could only sink gratefully into the sofa next to her husband, resisting an urge to put her head in his lap like a child, and sleep away every unsolvable problem.
The priest hesitated, and Doyle could see that he was deeply troubled. “I am not certain how to go about broachin’ the subject.”
Oh-oh, thought Doyle, and remembered his questions about Acton’s fidelity. Merciful God, she pleaded; no more bad news, please—a body can only bear so much. She sat up straighter and sidled closer to Acton. No matter what, she thought as she firmly took his hand in both of hers, I’m his wife and I love him.
Acton glanced at her in surprise before addressing the clergyman with his best interrogation technique. “Why don’t we start with explaining what you were doing, and then we can explore what it was you saw and heard.”
“Oh,” said the priest, startled. “It’s not that I’m a witness, or anythin’. Well, not in a manner of speakin’, anyway.”
Doyle reminded herself that she should not be impatient with a man of the cloth, even if he was taking forever to get to the point and it was something very bad—she could feel it. She clung to Acton’s hand and closed her eyes to ward it off, whatever it was.
“I hope you’re not thinkin�
� I’m a foolish old man,” Father John continued, apologetic. “I read a lot of mysteries and it puts ideas in my head, sometimes.”
“What is it, then?” prompted Doyle, who had opened her eyes because she was thinking rather optimistically that this didn’t much sound like an adultery speech, thanks be to God.
“I’m wonderin’,” said the priest, “if Kathleen is bein’ poisoned.” There was a profound silence for a moment, whilst Doyle stared at the priest in astonished silence. “Look at her nail beds,” the clergyman urged Acton.
Acton snatched up her hands and walked over to the floor lamp, Doyle necessarily following. He studied them under the bright light. “Christ,” he breathed.
“You mustn’t blaspheme, Michael.” And in front of a priest, no less. She tried to look around her husband at her nails, which were bitten embarrassingly short.
Acton pulled her around without ceremony and held her face to the light, turning up her eyelids one at a time whilst she winced from the brightness. He then held her head in both his hands; closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. Rattled, he was, and he was not one who was easily rattled. Gently she placed her hands on his arms and squeezed them. “It’s all right, Michael; it’s a hardy banner I am, and I’m goin’ to be fine.” I hope, she added silently. She was shaken herself, but had to put on a brave front for her husband, who had a tendency—apparently—to overreact when something went badly for her.
Father John stood at a small distance, bewildered. “Who would be wantin’ to do such a thing?”
Acton pulled back to look at her, carefully shuttering his reaction. She knew they both harbored the same thought; the dowager Lady Acton had been at the flat, unsupervised. He replied, “I don’t know. We should isolate the source and perhaps that will be indicative—it may be the result of a mistake.” He didn’t believe this, and neither did she.
“I haven’t been eatin’ much lately.” She thought about it. “Mainly the lattes at work, the ginger tea, and the cereal.”
“Any of which I don’t eat,” Acton pointed out. “It must be one or a combination of them. We will have them tested.”
“Will you be callin’ the police?” asked Father John, equal parts horrified and fascinated.
They both looked at him in silence. “We are the police,” Doyle pointed out gently.
“Of course, of course—forgot for a moment,” said the priest in flustered apology. “All the excitement.”
Excitement is not what we need, thought Doyle. “Father, it may be best to say nothin’ of this until we know a bit more.”
“Kathleen is right,” Acton agreed. “We may need to set up a trap and seizure, if someone is attempting murder. We shouldn’t let him know we are on to him.”
Father John completely understood this strategy, as it was a common ploy in murder mysteries. “Not a word,” he agreed, nodding.
Doyle assured him, “As soon as we know somethin’, I will bring you up to speed.” Hopefully there would be no need to bear false witness to a priest, which must be some sort of double sin.
Acton explained they needed to seek immediate medical attention, and Father John took his cue to leave. They saw him out the door, Doyle embracing him as Acton thanked him for his sharp work.
“Thank yourself,” said the priest practically. “If you hadn’t called me I wouldn’t have had the chance to notice.” He paused and put a hand on Doyle’s arm. “I’ll be prayin’, lass.”
“Go raibh maith agat, Athair.”
As soon as he shut the door, Acton pulled Doyle into his arms, holding her so hard it was difficult to breathe. She cautioned, “Don’t forget that you can break my bones.”
He loosened his grip, but she had a quick impression of fury, white-hot and frightening in its intensity. The last time she’d seen such a glimpse, the ensuing wreckage saw the demise of half the criminals in greater London. “I’m goin’ to be fine, Michael. Truly.”
He buried his mouth in the side of her neck and murmured against it, “How did I miss this?”
“We assumed it was the pregnancy makin’ me sick,” she said soothingly, stroking his back and hoping he’d ease up a bit, or her fingernails would be even bluer. “You’d have noticed, sooner or later.” She could only imagine his chagrin; he studied her constantly, and he must feel that he had failed her.
“What now?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact. No need to point out that the next step needed careful consideration.
He was thinking, and had thankfully loosened his grip. “First, we need to assess the damage; you may need treatment.”
She nodded. “Do we keep it private, or go to the hospital?” She had a feeling that she already knew the answer.
“We’ll ask Timothy.”
She made a sound of acute embarrassment. “He’ll think you married a walkin’ disaster, Michael.”
But Acton had already pulled his mobile. “We need to keep it quiet, but you must be examined immediately.”
This was unarguable, and she bowed to the inevitable. “All right, then; ask him if we can get some sort of discount.”
Acton met her eyes, but she could see that he didn’t appreciate this attempt at gallows humor. Don’t be flippant, she cautioned herself; he’s hiding it now, but he’s still simmering on the edge of an eruption, and if he does erupt, Katy bar the door. To soothe him, she began gently stroking his arm, in a manner similar to his own as he waited for Timothy to pick up.
“Tim, can you come over at your earliest convenience?” Acton glanced at Doyle when listening to the response. “No; no need for the surgery kit this time.”
Doyle suppressed an inappropriate urge to giggle; God only knew what Timothy thought was going on over here at the House of Acton.
“He’ll be over.” Acton lifted her hand from his arm and kissed it. “Come into the kitchen, I imagine that milk is a good idea.”
“Unless it’s poisoned,” Doyle cautioned. “I put milk in my cereal, and you don’t drink it a’tall.”
This gave him pause. “Water, then; and plenty of it.”
He sat across from her whilst she obediently drank a large glass of water without protest; she was shaken by the discovery but was trying to bear up so that Acton didn’t run amok. He watched her, his dark brows drawn together. “I wish I knew how long.”
“Not long, Michael,” she assured him. “My symptoms changed; I started gettin’ a splittin’ headache, and my bones would ache.” She thought about it. “Less than a week, I think.”
There was a small pause while he regarded her with an unreadable expression. “You didn’t tell me this.”
“No.” She found that she didn’t want to explain why she hadn’t wanted to tell him; he hated any sort of discussion about his condition, and the last thing she wanted, just now, was a discussion about his condition since she may be forced to confess about Solonik and she truly wasn’t up to it. Not yet.
He regarded her for a silent moment, and she had the lowering conviction that he knew exactly what she was thinking. You are a coward, she chastised herself—you are married to this man, and you mustn’t tiptoe around him.
“A week,” he repeated, breaking the silence, and she knew neither of them wanted to say what was uppermost in their minds—the wicked dowager had visited about a week ago. Doyle pointed out, “Marta would know the items that only I would be eatin’ and Marta didn’t like me much.”
“So Marta may or may not have acted alone.”
Doyle thought the same thing and was silent. She wondered what Acton would do if it could be shown unequivocally that his mother had tried to murder her.
“And Marta tried to get back in yesterday.”
She had forgotten about this. “Holy Mother,” breathed Doyle. “Another dose, d’ye think?”
“Or an attempt to remove the evidence; we will soon know. I intend to visit Marta tomorrow to seek some answers.”
There was no question he was fit to murder—which was not a good thing, as
apparently he was well-practiced. “Then I should come also, Michael, so we know if she’s lyin’.”
He looked like he might protest, but finally had to agree with the wisdom of this plan. “Right. I have her address—assuming she still lives with her cousin and has not yet returned to Trestles. We can go in the morning.”
They conferred, and decided to tell Timothy that Doyle had shown symptoms but they weren’t certain of the source. Acton said he would take samples into the forensics lab early tomorrow and when she looked up in alarm, he assured her that he had someone at the lab that would do the testing off the record for him. So, she thought with interest as she examined her bitten-and-blue fingernails; there were other loyal foot soldiers—aside from Williams—scattered about the Met. And small wonder he wanted to keep it off the record; it was entirely possible that his mother was poisoning his wife. Faith, thought Doyle; like a Greek play, it was.
CHAPTER 25
TIMOTHY APPEARED IN SHORT ORDER, LOOKING CALM AND GE- nial, and as though being called to address yet another home-bred emergency at Oakham Mount Mansions was completely routine. He became quite serious, however, when the situation was explained. “Poison?” He stared at Acton, incredulous, but Acton only nodded.
“She has the symptoms, and has been doing poorly.”
Timothy immediately regained his composure. “I see. Well then; let’s have a look.” He walked briskly to the kitchen to wash his hands, and Doyle was reminded that he handled all manner of strange cases at his free clinic; it probably took a lot to shock him.
“Am I back on the sofa?” she asked nervously. She hated doctors, but did not hate Timothy, so she harbored mixed emotions.
“Please sit here right here, Kathleen—under the light.”
Pulling up a chair, he examined her, gently probing along her throat with his fingers and taking a look under her eyelids as Acton had.
“Have you had any secretions from your nose?”
“No—not to speak of.”
He reached in his bag for one of those things with the light bulb to look down her throat. Thus far, he had given no indication that he was going to give her a shot, and she was cautiously optimistic that no needles were slated to make an appearance.
Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Page 14