“You needn’t worry at all—please don’t.”
He squeezed her hand gently, and said no more—not that she’d expected him to; his walls were firmly in place. She’d once thought of him as a fortress within himself—just as she was a fortress, in her own way—and usually she just accepted it. He was who he was, she was who she was, and by some miracle, they’d found each other, and were the better for it. But—but there was something that rang false, here, and she wished she could put her finger on it. Aloud, she reminded him, “You can be yourself with me, Michael, remember? Your true, honest self. It’s a hardy banner, I am.”
He was silent for a moment, and she realized that this was what was bothering her; she’d had the feeling, in recent days, that he was being reserved—well, more reserved than his usual. That the two of them were never going to be sharing their innermost thoughts was a given; there was too much to hide. But they did have an amazing bond; they were both freakish, in their own way, and they’d found something—something reassuring in the other. But lately, he’d been careful around her. Too careful.
Whilst she was entertaining these thoughts—rather profound, for her—he offered, “I am making an effort to better our circumstances, and to better myself.”
This was true, and she turned to him in all sincerity. “As are we all, but I like it miles better when you are honest with me, Michael. Or as honest as you are able,” she amended—can’t be asking for too much, after all.
There was a small pause. “I’m afraid I cannot always be honest with you.”
This was also true, and so she offered, “I’m not goin’ to abandon ship, Michael. No matter what.”
He lifted her hand to kiss the back. “Nevertheless.”
With a sigh, she sank back into her seat. “Then your work is cut out for you, my friend. It can’t be easy, always worryin’ that I’m goin’ to catch you out.” She’d made this point before; despite his best efforts at secrecy, she always seemed to unearth his misdeeds, and—as she was the only person on earth who could persuade him to mend his ways—she didn’t think it was a coincidence.
Because they were stopped at a light, he turned his head to regard her for a moment. “Yes; you’ve had a hard time of it, since you married me.”
He was evidently referring to the series of catastrophes that had been visited upon her, and hearing the nuance of regret in his tone, she protested with some heat, “Whist, man; I wouldn’t change a blessed moment, and shame on you for even sayin’ it—you mawkish knocker. And besides, you’re forgettin’ that since we’ve been paired up, the evildoers are bein’ driven into the sea.”
The light changed, and the car started forward again. “I cannot disagree. Look what you set in motion, when you threw out Solonik’s name.”
In truth, this thought had already occurred to her, although she tended to shy away from it. As a direct result of her randomly fingering Solonik as someone to cast blame upon, events had been set in motion that culminated with the take-down of the entire corruption rig—a take-down that impacted the highest levels of government. Doyle resolutely tried to convince herself that it was nothing more than a fortunate coincidence, but as she was a-discerner-of-that-which-was-hidden-away, this seemed unlikely. And there was no arguing that the ghosts at Trestles seemed to think she was some sort of link, between themselves and Acton. It made her very uncomfortable; she didn’t like to think that her husband had been deliberately steered her way, and that their pairing wasn’t just your ordinary romance between an illustrious-peer-turned-famous-detective and an obscure Irish shant.
Hastily, she concluded, “Well, I won’t hear any more nonsense about who deserves to be married to who—whom. It just goes to show that we’re a good pairin’, despite what everyone thinks. We bring out the best in each other, even though we’re so different.” She paused. “We’re like that ying and yams.”
Fondly, he took her hand in his lap. “Indeed, we are.”
Glancing over at him, she decided there was no time like the present to bring up yet another touchy topic, and affected a light tone. “And you may be the more important one between us right now, but if they throw you out of the House of Lords, I’ll be the one who has to keep us afloat. I’ll have to open a psychic’s shop, and wear a mysterious veil.”
There was a small silence, as she waited for his reaction. One of the ghosts at Trestles—a peevish, annoying ancestor—had intimated that Acton was not Lord Acton at all, but was actually an imposter. The first time she’d broached this subject, her husband had steadfastly refused to discuss it, and today’s response was no different.
“As appealing as that sounds, I can assure you I will not be thrown out of the House of Lords.”
This was true, and so she decided that she should leave the subject alone—it didn’t matter a pin to her whether he was Lord Acton or plain Mr. Nobody-Important. Reynolds would be devastated, of course, but it was only what the man deserved, after coming up with such pretentious Christmas ornaments.
Fondly, she leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder as he navigated them home. Mayhap Acton was right, and discussions were overrated—God alone knew what would happen, if they ever started being completely honest with each other. Of course, the fact her husband had been willing to engage in a bona fide discussion was itself an indication that something was up—he was over-compensating for whatever it was that he was hiding.
Thus reminded, she warned, “When you make your confession at the retreat, make sure the priest is sittin’ down, first.”
“I will.”
Hearing the amused irony in his tone, she lifted her face to tease him. “Admit it; you never thought in a million years you’d be goin’ on a religious retreat, like a penitent pilgrim.”
“I cannot disagree.”
With a smile, she rested her hand on her bump. “I hope Edward never says to me, ‘I cannot disagree’. It would take me ten minutes to figure out what he meant.”
He chuckled, and she laughed in return, as they turned into the gated garage. “Speakin’ of fancy-talk, I hope Reynolds has cooked up something edible for dinner.”
“I have every confidence,” he replied, and set the gearshift.
11
Reynolds had put up an elaborate, artificial Christmas tree, framed in all its glory against one of the huge windows that lined the wall. The servant had covered it with elegant, gold-colored ornaments, many of them bearing the coat of arms for the House of Acton. Doyle hated it.
She was gloomily contemplating the stupid tree whilst the servant cleared away the dinner plates. Acton had retreated to his desk, no doubt trying to catch up with his neglected workload. She’d seen on the news that a CID Superintendent had been arrested by the ACC, and she’d noted that her husband’s gaze had rested on the telly for a bit longer than his usual.
“How many will we have for Christmas Eve, madam?”
With no small disquiet, she lifted her gaze to regard Reynolds. “What’s afoot, my friend? You’d best come clean.” Timothy and Nanda were coming over for dinner before Midnight Mass, but Reynolds was vexed about something, and Doyle didn’t have the wherewithal to handle any more vexations, just now.
The servant paused to wipe a nonexistent spill with the tail end of the tea towel. “I had the felicity of accepting a telephone call from the dowager Lady Acton, madam. She inquired about the household Christmas plans.”
Doyle stared at him with undisguised horror.
Smoothly, the servant continued, “I informed her ladyship that I would pass along her inquiry.”
Acton’s mother, the dowager Lady Acton, hated her daughter-in-law with the heat of a thousand suns, and indeed, it was as yet unclear whether she’d been involved in any of the various plots that had gone forward to do away with the fair Doyle—this being another touchy subject to bring up with one’s husband. With this in mind, the last needful thing was for Doyle to spend the High Holy Day with the crackin’ antichrist. “Whist, Reynolds; can
’t she go over to your house, instead?”
“I will be here, madam,” he reminded her.
Struck with the unfairness of this, Doyle was instantly contrite. “Oh—oh, I hadn’t thought about how we must be interferin’ with your own plans, Reynolds, and I beg your pardon. If you leave me somethin’ to heat up in the oven, I can manage—you should take the evenin’ off.”
“No matter, madam—I’ve been given Christmas Day off, and Boxing Day, besides.” He condescended to nod in a precise gesture of appreciation. “Lord Acton has been most generous.”
Acton must have shoveled him a mighty Christmas bonus, which reminded Doyle that she’d best shake her stumps, and find out whether one gave a Christmas gift to one’s butler. Christmas had never been quite so complicated, pre-Acton.
“If I might suggest. . .” the servant trailed off delicately. “Since an heir is now expected, perhaps the dowager Lady Acton is attempting . . .”
“Trust me on this, Reynolds,” Doyle interrupted. “Although I truly appreciate your push to promote family peace—it bein’ the holidays, and all—she’d no more offer an olive branch than she’d fly to the moon.” She then played her trump. “And Acton wouldn’t allow it, not for a moment.”
“Then I shall say no more on the subject. After all, you can’t choose your relatives.”
Doyle stared at him, her scalp prickling, and wondered why this this struck her as important. How could you choose your relatives? Although if Acton was some sort of imposter, that would be an excellent case-in-point. But when he’d said he wouldn’t be drummed out of the House of Lords, it had been true. It all made little sense, and she decided she didn’t want to think about it, just now.
The servant made ready to retreat back into the kitchen. “May I offer you anything, madam?”
Doyle glanced over at Acton, who was deep in thought, staring at his laptop screen. “No, I’ve got to start workin’ on my reports—unless I can think of somethin’ to put it off. I’m miles behind on my work.”
“Would it help if I ran your Christmas errands, madam? Have you ordered a gift for Lord Acton?”
Doyle was not fooled; Reynolds was worried that she wasn’t organized enough to remember this basic wifely obligation. She couldn’t take offense, of course, because this basic wifely obligation had not yet crossed her mind.
She regarded him in mock-surprise. “I’m givin’ him an heir, aren’t I? You’d think that would be enough, for the love o’ Mike.” Not exactly clear if Edward was a legitimate heir, but apparently, this was nothing to be concerned about. Although Reynolds would probably be hugely disappointed, what with his coat-of-arms ornaments, and such.
“Quite so,” said the servant, who hid his dismay behind a wooden expression.
Reminded, she asked, “Can you tell me which ones are the good schools, here in town?”
He straightened up, emanating extreme satisfaction that she was making such a pertinent inquiry. “The Royals attend Wetherby; it would certainly serve until Master Edward is old enough for Eton.”
“Oh; oh—I meant Catholic schools, Reynolds.” For fear of giving him an apoplexy, she hastily explained, “It’s for a friend, who was askin’.”
But apparently, the servant has already anticipated this possibility, and answered without hesitation. “St. Margaret’s, madam. It is very well-run.”
“Then they may not be subject to bribery,” she mused.
“One would think not,” the servant agreed. “But I cannot say, one way or the other.”
“Thank you, Reynolds; I will take it under advisement.”
But the servant was not quite finished, and inquired in a neutral tone, “Shall we discuss the Christmas Eve dinner menu, madam?”
Now, here was a crackin’ minefield, as Reynolds was always wanting to put on a show, and Doyle was more of a tinned-meat sort of person. “Find out what Kensington Palace is servin’,” she teased, “—and copy them. Hard to go wrong, there.”
This sally was greeted with a polite but determined smile. “I believe the Cornish hens were a success on the last occasion, but we would not want to be predictable. Perhaps coq au vin, instead.”
“That would be just as good,” said Doyle, who hadn’t a clue
Eying her reaction, the servant was seen to mentally gird his loins. “Perhaps there is a traditional dish that you’d prefer, madam? One from your homeland?”
“Oh, no; we’d have ham for Christmas, Reynolds—we were on the church’s list for a free ham.” For a moment, Doyle’s absent gaze rested on the view, overlooking the city. “We’d make it last for a week, between my mother and me. It felt like Kensington Palace, to us.”
“A glazed ham, then,” the servant offered, without batting an eye. “An excellent choice, madam.”
Touched, she offered, “We can always have the cocovans for dessert.”
He bowed. “As you say.”
After Reynolds had tidied up and left for the evening, Doyle looked over at her husband, and contemplated potential diversions so as to avoid having to start in on her wretched reports. Hitting upon a likely plan, she called out, “Should we try a spot of role-playin’, d’you think?”
As could be anticipated, this question attracted his immediate attention, and he lifted his head to stare at her in surprise. “If you wish. What sort of roles where you contemplating?”
She stood, and stretched her arms over her head in a leisurely fashion. “I thought you’d be the neighbor, and I’d be the neglected wife who’s been forced to go door-to-door to find some kind man to service her.”
He smiled, and shut his laptop with a click. “I’ve been neglecting you, have I?”
“You have.” She’d realized this at the same time she’d realized he was being too careful around her; usually it was a battle to keep him at arm’s length, but lately he hadn’t been as interested in sex—or more correctly, he was still interested, but striving mightily not to act on that interest. “I’m beginnin’ to wonder if you’re not really meetin’ with the ACC all this time, but that instead you’ve got a girlfriend, on the side.”
Loosening his tie, he rose to approach her. “How do you know the girlfriend is not with the ACC? It would be two birds with one stone.”
But she scorned such an absurd idea, as she wriggled her jumper over her head. “Because they are all miserable, bitter people, and wouldn’t have the first idea how to flirt, that’s why.”
“I’d fit right in, then.”
With a smile, she wrapped his discarded tie around her own neck, and helped him unbutton his buttons. “Well, that’s true—you’re not what anyone would call a flirter. Are you miserable and bitter, too?”
He bent to place a lingering kiss on her neck. “Becoming less and less so.”
“Is that so?” With a giggle, she pushed him down on the sofa, and climbed atop.
A very satisfying space of time later, they sat together on the now-disheveled sofa, Doyle forced to share her bowl of ice cream with her husband, which is what always happened when he said that he didn’t want any. “Speakin’ of the ACC, I saw on the telly that they’re lowerin’ the boom.”
He paused, whilst she fed him another bite. “Yes. It will be a while before it all sorts itself out.” He didn’t like this, she could tell; he’d much rather lower the boom on his own terms, so that justice was rough, swift, and more to his liking.
So as to take his mind off it, she asked, “Do we give each other Christmas presents? Reynolds is worried that I’m goin’ to miss the boat.”
“Not at all necessary.”
The words were said matter-of-factly, but she knew him very well, and fondly leaned her head against his arm. “Knocker. Confess; what did you get me?”
“Nothing of consequence—a family item.”
She gazed into the fireplace flames, and sighed. “Then I suppose I can’t just get you a tin of toffee.”
“It would make no difference to me, Kathleen.”
Laughing, she
shook her tousled head. “Liar. You keep that stupid Trendelberg book on your desk, front and center.” It was the only gift she’d ever given to him, back when she was his junior officer.
He bent to kiss the top of her head. “I will take the toffee, then, and put it in pride of place, next to the book.”
But she held up two forefingers, so as to frame the Christmas tree. “Oh, no, my friend; now I’m thoroughly on my mettle. I’ve got to go search out a gift worthy of that tree.”
There was a small pause. “Shall we dismantle the tree, and pitch it out the window?”
Trust Acton to have noticed that she didn’t like the fancy tree—which was silly; she was such a baby, sometimes. In a light tone, she teased, “If we do, Reynolds is like to pitch me out, right after it.”
But this, apparently, was not a matter to be taken lightly, and her husband bent his head to meet her eyes in all seriousness. “If he is a problem, Kathleen, you mustn’t hesitate to tell me. He has no business making you feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh, no—it’s not like that, Michael.” Frowning, she tried to search for the right words to explain. “I don’t mind him at all. I feel that we can trust him.”
He looked at her for a long moment, aware that the words meant more than they seemed. “That is good to know.” He took another bite of her ice cream.
She relinquished the bowl to him, so that she could nestle into the crook of his arm. “But he’s goin’ to blow a gasket when I tell him I’ve already found Edward’s nanny.”
Surprised, he raised his head slightly. “Have you indeed?”
“Yes. She’s a witness that Williams and I met over at the projects—a young woman with a stepdaughter. She may seem a bit unsuitable, but we can trust her, too.”
He bowed his head for a moment, and then said almost apologetically, “I’ll have to run a thorough background check.”
“Have at it.”
“Are you certain she’s available?”
Murder in All Honour: A Doyle and Acton Mystery (Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard Mysteries) Page 7