“Have you felt confused, or unable to concentrate?”
“No more than my usual,” she teased, and he smiled in response, but she could tell he was alarmed beneath his kindly manner.
He applied to Acton. “Have you noticed any problem with her mental faculties?”
“Not at all.”
The doctor sat back in his chair, regarding her. “That’s good news; it does not appear to be anything that attacks the nervous system. Arsenic, maybe; or an organophosphate pesticide. It could be the devil to figure out how you got it.”
Doyle and Acton carefully did not look at each other.
“I’ll take some blood and hair follicles for testing, just to verify, but you are right, she does have the symptoms.” The doctor glanced at Acton. “A blind test; no names.”
“No need,” said Acton. “I will make the arrangements for testing.”
“Timothy,” Doyle ventured in a small voice. “Is the blood test truly necessary?”
“Perhaps not,” said Acton immediately.
But Timothy took her hand in his. “I should do a multiple screen, Kathleen; I must rule out liver damage, and check for other indicators.”
“Oh.” For the first time, she felt the prickling of tears. Don’t cry, you knocker, she chastised herself; you’ve been poisoned, for heaven’s sake.
“Don’t watch.” Acton gathered her up into his arms and she ducked her head into his chest, gritting her teeth while the tourniquet was deftly twisted around her arm. I am such a baby about this, she thought; and rubbed her face back and forth on Acton’s shirt when the needle pinched. I think it comes of feeling that I am a fortress, or something, and I don’t much like being breached. Unless it is Acton, doing the breaching in bed, of course. This seemed such a profound thought that she almost forgot her present misery.
“Almost finished,” said Timothy.
I tend to stay very much within myself, she realized, because of the—of the gift, or the sight, or whatever it is; but Acton scaled my walls and planted his flag despite this, and I am very happy he did. We are alike, in that way; he stays within himself too—even with me—but he is in turn very happy I breached his walls. We will sort this marriage business out, between us; we are not your ordinary mister and missus, after all.
“Well done; do you need to lie down?”
“I am fine, Timothy. Truly.”
She disentangled from Acton while the good doctor rooted around in his bag. “Good—I have some charcoal tablets in my kit—rarely see the need for them, of course. Take them—it can’t hurt—and it will also help to eat sulfur products; eggs and such.” He paused. “Best not to eat any of the food on hand; I imagine something is tainted and until we know, don’t take any risks.”
Acton nodded. “I will take care of it, Tim.”
The doctor reached to take Doyle’s hand again. “Please don’t be alarmed; as long as there is no damage to the organs—and I don’t believe there is—this type of thing will clear up in no time.”
Mustering up a smile, she assured him that he relieved her no end.
He had not made any reference to her miscarriage, but now offered, “I haven’t had a chance to offer my sympathy for your sad loss, Kathleen; I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “So am I.”
Acton swiftly interceded to engage the doctor in a conversation about a his caseload, and Doyle thought with relief that she would hear sympathy from only one person more, and then she could be done with it. With a stab of guilt, she offered, “I must call Caroline—I have neglected her.”
“Don’t worry about Caroline,” Timothy assured her. “She’s a brick.”
Yes, Caroline was a brick and they were lucky that they have each other, thought Doyle. She wondered why neither had married, as they were about Acton’s age, in their late thirties. Caroline could be a little trying, but some men liked that type of officious, managing woman, and as for Timothy, not only was he a kind man, he was a doctor, to boot. Of course, Timothy had little chance for romance, with Caroline constantly about, but if any of the four friends had wanted to make a push to get married, presumably it would have happened. Yet again, she tried to imagine a young Acton, attending classes at university and becoming the man he was today, but fell short in this exercise. Perhaps it was because he never spoke of his past, his family, or even his estate, and she respected his fortress in the same way he respected hers. She knew instinctively that she made him vulnerable, and so was very reluctant to press him; to use her power to control him. On the other hand, murder was murder—despite what everyone else seemed to think—and she should make a push to curb some of his more bloodthirsty tendencies.
They thanked the doctor and saw him out; then Doyle made ready for bed while Acton gathered samples from the food in the pantry to be tested tomorrow, his movements quick and efficient as he worked in silence. He wanted to be busy, she could sense, and although his manner was carefully controlled, beneath it all simmered the white-hot rage. She waited for him, thinking she’d have to tell him about raving-lunatic Owens soon, but not just yet; tomorrow was soon enough. They had already wrestled with a basketful of drama tonight, and mainly she wanted to soothe him; he was in a state, was her husband.
As Doyle watched him from the bed, she realized that she felt relieved in a strange way. There was a good reason for her recent misery; it wasn’t just her body showing an exasperating frailty. And God had not broken faith with her; an evildoer had interceded. Doyle may not understand God’s mysterious purpose, but she could well-and-away understand murder; it was her job, after all. She fell asleep before Acton came to bed, and for the first time in a week, slept the night through.
CHAPTER 26
He remembered how his grandmother was mganga, and
his father did not allow her to live in the house with them
because of it. Then, when the Hutu came, she was one of
the ones killed, because she was alone and there was no
one to defend her. He was very young at the time, and he
learned you should not speak of mganga, or else no one
would defend you.
THE NEXT MORNING DOYLE WOKE EARLY TO FIND ACTON LEAN- ing over her, dressed and ready. She remembered their plan to call upon the traitorous Marta, and said sleepily, “I’ll be ready in two shakes, Michael.”
“No, you have time yet. I wanted to tell you I’m delivering the samples to the lab and then I’ll be back—I wanted to get her started on the testing before the other personnel came in.”
So; his operative in the lab is female, like Fiona, thought Doyle. I hope she doesn’t think she’ll fulfill the same role in his personal life; not on my watch, she won’t.
He continued, “I researched the poisons that Timothy mentioned; as long as it’s caught early enough, you should have a complete recovery. The liver scan will give us an indication, and he’ll let us know as soon as he can review the results.”
Sitting up so that the sheet fell away, she pulled his head toward hers to kiss him. “I’ll be fine, Michael.” He was still in a state, and in an attempt to distract him she held his head in her hands for a moment in invitation, but for once the sight of her naked form did not ignite a heated reaction, and he gently removed her hands, kissing her palms one at a time before he left. She watched him go and worried; she’d best hang on to his coat tails for awhile until he calmed down.
Doyle showered and dressed, feeling remarkably better already. Her appetite continued absent, which was just as well because everything in the kitchen was now under quarantine. A respectful knock at the door reminded her of another complication ; Reynolds had arrived. Best consult with Acton. She opened the door to the domestic with a bright smile. “Good mornin’ Reynolds; please don’t go into the kitchen until I’ve had a chance to ring up Acton.”
“Very good, madam,” said Reynolds with a slight bow, as if this were an ordinary request. A very fine sort of servant, Doyle thought, and not
for the first time.
She phoned Acton and he answered immediately, as he usually did when she called his private line, unless he was doing something uninterruptable. “Michael, Reynolds is here.”
There was a pause while he thought about it. “Do you think he can be trusted?”
She thought about it in turn; she hadn’t entertained any qualms about Reynolds thus far, and her instinct was usually very accurate. “I do.”
“Then tell him as little as you can; we’ll need new food and he should be made aware. Warn him of Marta.”
“Right then; shall I meet you downstairs?”
“Yes, twenty minutes.”
She rang off and walked over to where Reynolds was organizing cleaning supplies. “Reynolds,” she began, “We believe somethin’ in the kitchen is poisonous, and Acton is havin’ the food tested to see what it is.”
He straightened up and looked at her, then folded his hands across the front of his apron. “I am very sorry to hear of it, madam.”
“I would appreciate it if you would dispose of all the food and replace it; Acton has already taken samples.”
“Very good, madam.”
She added as an afterthought, “Best wear gloves. Don’t eat anything.”
“No,” he agreed with a little nod of his head.
Trying to appear matter-of-fact, she continued, “We believe the woman you saw at the door may be responsible, and since you saw her here, you may be in danger. If you see her again be very careful; don’t allow her to be alone with you.” She could easily picture Marta braining him with a frying pan when his back was turned; Marta was a wily one.
The servant continued unperturbed. “Thank you for the warning, madam. I will be careful.”
Doyle went downstairs to meet Acton out front. Aiki was leaning against his cab, waiting for her, and he smiled his flashing smile. “Not today, Aiki,” she explained. “My husband is comin’.” She should learn how to say a few phrases in French; it would be a friendly gesture to this nice man who was always so nice to her. She had made great strides with her English vocabulary since she met Acton; no reason to stop there.
Acton pulled up to the curb and Aiki hurried over to open the door for Doyle, saluting Acton with a gesture. She smiled her thanks and said to Acton as she slid into the car, “Perhaps you could teach me a few things in French to be sayin’ to him.”
“Better he improved his English.”
“I don’t think he understands my English very well, though.”
“Better you improved your English.”
She punched his arm lightly as he drove away. “There is nothin’ wrong with my English, my friend. It is everyone else who has a very strange accent.”
He nodded but said nothing. Not good, she thought, and redoubled her efforts. “Fine, don’t help; but then all I will be able to say to him is beaux yeux.”
This managed to inspire a half-smile. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t encourage your cab driver to proposition you.”
She laughed, in part because it was rather funny and in part because she wanted him not to feel like a volcano about to erupt. “He’s got a wife and baby—I’ve interpreted that much. And I get the feelin’—” here she frowned, trying to decide what she was trying to say, “I get the feelin’ he is a little afraid of me; or afraid for me, or somethin’.”
Alert, Acton looked over. “Do you think he’s a danger to you?”
“Oh, no,” she said with certainty, then shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m thinkin’, Michael, but I like him very much. I feel that we are both strangers in a strange land, together, if that makes any sense.”
“Have a care, is all.”
“I will, Michael. I am feelin’ much better.” She had the distinct impression, as a matter of fact, that she was feeling much better than he.
He took an assessing look at her, but the planes of his face did not soften as they usually did when he looked at her. “Yes, I think you are recovering already.”
“I am; I think a lot of it is mental—knowin’ it’s all over.” After a small pause, she put her hand on his arm. “It’s over, Michael.”
“No,” he said in an implacable tone. “It is not over.”
“We may not like where this leads, my friend.”
He glanced at her, and she saw that he was carefully hiding his emotions. “I can assure you that whoever is responsible will not like where this leads, either.”
Faith, she thought; there’s going to be no one left in London, if this keeps up. “I think we need to speak about what’s to be done, and come to an agreement together.”
“No,” he said, and meant it.
“It won’t be a discussion,” she promised. “We’ll just decide together.”
“I’m afraid this is not a subject that is open for a non-discussion, Kathleen.”
Trying to tease him, she insisted, “I’m the one who was poisoned, and forgiveness is a virtue.”
“I will take that under advisement.”
Simmering, she thought in dismay; almost to a boil, he was. “Michael, I’m thinkin’ of myself here; if you wind up in prison, the conjugal visits will be few and far between.”
“I will keep that to mind, also,” he answered evenly.
She lapsed into silence, and wished she knew how to handle this—she very much feared he was descending into another black mood, as he had done when Fiona was murdered. It was a chilling and fearsome thing, and she’d felt helpless against it—all the more because she felt it so acutely. I should try to stay with him, she thought; he does better when I am present, I think.
They drove to the middle-class residential area where Marta’s cousin lived, and found the address. A woman answered the door, took one look at Acton, and was immediately defensive. Can’t blame her, thought Doyle; he’d scare the cows out of milk, he would. Acton showed his warrant card, and asked to speak to Marta.
“She is not here.”
Doyle brushed her hair back, which was her signal to Acton that the woman was not telling the truth. He paused, debating. They were not here in an official capacity and had to be careful; they dared not behave in a way that could draw a complaint to the CID. He pulled his card from his wallet and handed it to the woman, who was clearly reluctant to accept it. “It is important that I speak with her as soon as possible. Please have her contact me at her earliest convenience.”
They drove to work in silence. His mobile rang, and he checked the ID and took the call. “Acton,” he said, and listened. He rang off, and then said quietly. “It was the cereal.”
Acutely dismayed, Doyle breathed, “Holy Mother of God.” Although she had guessed as much, it was a shock to have it confirmed and it also made it clear the poison was administered by someone who knew that Doyle loved frosty flakes and Acton never touched them; aside from the two of them, only Marta would know this. Doyle suddenly found she sympathized with Acton’s foul mood—it was a despicable act, for the love o’ Mike. And Acton was right; it seemed unlikely that Marta would have decided to do it alone; if she hated Doyle that much she would have simply quit and gone back to Trestles. Unless she was nicked, amended Doyle; there was plenty of that going around, too.
Once at the Met, they came to the lifts in the lobby, Acton still distracted and Doyle worried about his state of mind. “Can I work from your office, perhaps? Or can we meet for lunch in a couple of hours?” She bestowed upon him her most beguiling smile.
Unfortunately, it didn’t have much of an effect. “Solonik is to be interrogated; I will text you if I am free.”
This was of interest. “Do you want me in the gallery, to listen in?” The gallery had a one-way mirror that allowed someone to listen in, unseen.
“Not necessary at this point; but I will text you if you are needed.”
But now she knew that the summons would never come; he’d keep her well away from it, because he didn’t want her to know that Solonik’s protestations of innocence were, in fact, true.
“Be certain to eat,” he reminded her, and watched her step into the lift.
CHAPTER 27
DOYLE WAS ACTUALLY FEELING A BIT PECKISH, AND DECIDED TO take the current while it served and visit the canteen before descending to her cubicle. After wandering in, she looked over the offerings and for some reason the prepackaged fruit pies looked delicious, even though she’d never had one before. Making up for lost calories, she thought. She bought a cherry pie and was tucking into it when her mobile rang, the ID showing it was home. “Hallo?” she answered, licking her fingers—faith, these things were crackin’good.
“Madam,” said Reynolds. “I am very sorry to disturb you at work.”
“Not at all, Reynolds,” she replied. “What’s afoot?”
“The concierge desk has phoned to say there is a plant left for you downstairs by florist’s delivery.”
She remembered her warning to him. “Do you think it is suspicious, then? Who is it from?”
“It is from the dowager Lady Acton, madam.”
Doyle froze, the pie forgotten. Reynolds obviously remembered her comment and didn’t think the dowager would be delivering floral tributes to Doyle. Neither did Doyle.
“Don’t go get it, Reynolds. Stay where you are until further notice, please, and don’t let anyone in.”
“Yes, madam. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
Saints and holy angels, thought Doyle as she rang off. Their building ran all incoming packages through a screener—which was an unfortunate but routine reality in this day and age—but this was a seemingly harmless plant, and wouldn’t receive that treatment. Unlikely it was a bomb, anyway; poison was the weapon of choice.
She looked at the time; no doubt Acton was hip deep in Solonik’s interrogation. She debated, then rang him on his work line, but he did not answer. She pondered texting him on his private line; they had an emergency symbol and he would respond to that in an instant. She remembered his volatile state, however, and decided this did not qualify as an emergency—she would call for reinforcements instead. She rang Williams.
Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Page 15