Murder in All Honour: A Doyle and Acton Mystery (Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard Mysteries)

by Anne Cleeland

  Leaning back, she rubbed her eyes in frustration. With respect to the prostitutes and the nuns, Acton knew something, and it seemed to her that he was protecting the killer. It was looking more and more like the killer was a man who argued with the victims shortly before they died, and in two of the arguments, the word “Dublin”—or something that sounded like “Dublin”—had been said. The dead nuns were radical, according to Timothy, and a bit naïve—which was often the case, truth to tell, when one was dealing with radical do-gooders.

  Why would Acton want to leave this alone? He wasn’t protecting Timothy—she was certain that he’d nothing to do with any of this. Therefore, it might have something to do with the corruption case that they were putting together—one of those tough situations, where law enforcement had to turn a blind eye, so as to protect the greater good. The records-room killer had some sort of immunity—so perhaps that same person was murdering the other victims, too?

  She crossed her arms behind her head, so as to stretch her neck—she’d been sitting too long in the same position. That theory—that it was all the same killer—seemed flawed six ways to Sunday. What on earth would the connection be? Why would someone undercover—faith, someone important enough to have protection from the Home Office—also be going about murdering nuns and pregnant prostitutes? There was nothing honorable about those murders; nothing that made you think that a balance was being struck by the higher-ups, to protect their agent in the field.

  Idly, she cast about for another theory. Perhaps the records-room killer had wanted to have a look-see into the records, to put together a list of pregnant murder targets—but that didn’t make sense, in light of the dead nuns; information about the nuns wouldn’t be in the patient records, and she knew that it was the same killer for both.

  She frowned at her reflection on the screen, and decided she didn’t know enough, and Acton always said when you can’t develop a working theory, you just follow where the evidence leads without the hindrance of a theory. And unfortunately, her only valid theory, thus far, was that Acton knew who the killer was, and was trying to cover-up for him.

  Pausing for a moment, she lifted her head. She knew one other thing, actually; while it was clear to her that Acton was throwing dust at PC Shandera—with all his talk of Santeria—it was also clear to her that he truly didn’t know what had happened to the stolen babies. So—strangely enough—Acton was content to give this murderer a reprieve, but was uneasy about what was happening to the missing babies. And he’d wanted the local clinics and charities checked, which meant that he seemed to think they survived somewhere, and weren’t being harvested for their organs on the black market. She put a hand on her abdomen, and decided she didn’t want to think about that, just now.

  If nothing else, Timothy had given her a useful clue, and so Doyle picked up her mobile and rang up the Community Family Center witness.

  The woman picked up, and Doyle surmised she must be at the grocery store, since she could hear voices, along with ambient noise in the background. With a great deal of enthusiasm, the witness greeted her, “Officer Doyle? My daughter told me that you were the bridge-jumper. Gosh, I wish I’d known; I wouldn’t have been so short with you. Can you come by for a snap, sometime?”

  “You weren’t short a’tall, ma’am, and I’m the one who should be beggin’ your pardon. I didn’t do a very thorough job, after I promised you that I would—I should have asked why you thought Sister Carmella wasn’t cut out to be a nun.”

  “Oh—well, she tended to buck the system, I suppose.”

  Doyle offered, “She was a bit radical?”

  But the witness hesitated. “I don’t know if ‘radical’ is the right word—but I’m not sure that she followed all the rules like she was supposed to; she’d complain about how strict and out-of-touch the Church was. She would help the enrollees by explaining about the different types of birth control, for instance.”

  Doyle blinked. “Oh? I suppose that would be considered outside the line.”

  “And she helped teach the Heartcare classes, when I think she was supposed to encourage adoption, instead.”

  Doyle frowned, trying to remember. “And the Heartcare classes were—”

  “They taught the first-time mothers how to apply for benefits, for health care, where the food banks were located—anything that would help them along.” The witness paused. “Carmella would have been happier as a social worker, I think—she said their Order was always knocking heads with the bishop.” In a joking tone, she added, “Maybe the bishop killed her.”

  “Now, there’s a twist that hadn’t occurred to me,” Doyle admitted. “I suppose I’d have to kiss his ring, as I read him the caution.”

  The woman laughed. “Well, if you do find yourself in the neighborhood, please stop by. My daughter would love to meet you, too.”

  “Will do,” said Doyle, and rang off.

  Thoughtfully, Doyle sank down into the sofa, her chin resting on her chest, as she stared at the screen. So—there was indeed a connection here; nuns who were trying to help new mothers were getting themselves murdered, and the new mothers they were trying to help were also getting themselves murdered—although why some were targeted, and some were not, remained a puzzle. Mayhap it had something to do with the babies, she thought—I should think about that angle. I should check to see if they were all male, or female, or red-headed, or something; we may have a psycho-father—instead of the usual psycho-mother—who was trying to replace someone. Her scalp prickled, and she paused, closing her eyes—what? Was that it?

  Sighing in frustration, she opened her eyes again. She was on the right track, but she’d no idea why—sometimes she felt that her perceptive abilities were as frustrated with her as she was with them. She’d best do some slog work, and look for commonalities between the stolen babies—although this would be a trick-and-a-half, since the ACC was guarding the clinic’s files like the Holy Grail.

  She heard a card in the front door lock, and turned her head hopefully, thinking Acton had come home early. Instead, she was met with the sight of Reynolds, looking a bit guilty upon beholding her. “Madam; I’m sorry if I startled you. I did not know you’d be at home.”

  “Whist, Reynolds; I’m typin’ up my hideously borin’ reports, and dyin’ for a distraction.”

  “Then allow me to ask your advice.” He carefully placed a bundle on the kitchen counter, and unwrapped the brown paper to expose a collection of holly branches—some as small as twigs—mixed with larger boughs. “I was not certain which size was correct, and the florist was not familiar enough with the custom to be of assistance.”

  A bit misty, Doyle approached to gently finger the spiky collection of greenery. “I am married to a lovely, lovely man, Reynolds. Never say he made you go out and get a candle for the window, too?”

  “Indeed.”

  They looked at each other, and Doyle couldn’t help laughing. “I can’t imagine anyone is goin’ to see it, seven stories up.”

  “Lord Acton told me it was a tradition in your family, madam.” He paused, and then added with the tiniest hint of rebuke, “I rather wish you’d mentioned it to me.”

  But Doyle only smiled and shook her head, as she untangled a likely bough from the others. “The sum total of my family was my mother and me, Reynolds. And when she put a holly bough above the door, it was officially Christmas—we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree.”

  The servant nodded in his precise way, and unbent enough to disclose, “My own dear mother hung a silver bell, on our front door knocker.”

  Doyle tried to imagine a young Reynolds, at his mother’s knee, but failed in this attempt. “You had a good mother, my friend.”

  “As did you; it is well-evident, if I may say so.”

  Doyle hid a smile, because this was not exactly true. Reynolds was not above a bit of well-placed flattery, however, as he knew upon which side his bread was buttered. And she could not be offended; he’d never met her mother, after all,
and very few people would have approved of a single mother who’d kept a child despite extreme lack of funds, and the disapproval of the Church. Faith, it was a good thing she hadn’t been living in an earlier age, when no doubt the fair Doyle would have been forcibly removed from her mother’s care with no further ado.

  Doyle’s hands stilled in the act of tying a ribbon around the bough’s stem, and she raised her gaze to stare out the windows. “Saints and holy angels; that’s it—I’d forgotten that it’s all about the bad mothers.”

  Reynolds lifted his head in surprise. “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  But she was too busy ringing up Williams to reply. “The babies are alive,” she announced into the mobile. “They’ve been taken from bad mothers, and given to good ones. The killer is sorry for it, but he had to kill the bad mothers because nowadays, they have every right to keep their children. And the two nuns were murdered because they were interferin’.”

  “Good afternoon, Kath,” Williams said, after a small pause.

  “Sorry—it just came to me, and I wanted to gabble it out, before I forgot.”

  “That’s very good work, Detective Sergeant. So, I suppose our working theory is that the killer had a childhood trauma of some sort—”

  “He must have had a bad mother.” With a mighty effort, she tried not to think about how Acton was a prime candidate for someone who’d had a bad mother.

  “And I suppose we can presume that the fetuses are still alive, somewhere.”

  “Acton certainly seems to think so—or at least that was the impression I get. Have you managed to find any leads?”

  “Nothing that matches, and there aren’t as many abandoned babies as you’d think, in a city this size.”

  “Well, we’ve got to keep lookin’, I think we’re finally on the right track. Should we brainstorm about a profile? You’d think a nun-killer would be a religious nut, but this puts a different light on it.”

  “We’re certain it’s a man?”

  “Well, the Dublin-arguer was a man, according to both witnesses.”

  But DI Williams was not so sure. “It just seems like such a woman’s crime.”

  She made an impatient sound. “Faith, Thomas; you’re sounding like Habib, with his men-do-this-sort-of-crime and women-do-that.”

  “That’s because—in general—it’s true, Kath.”

  Stubbornly, she insisted, “Well, I think a man is more likely to be takin’ children away from bad mothers, don’t you?”

  “All right. That’s a fair point, if that’s the motivation.”

  “So—we’re lookin’ for a man with medical trainin’ who thinks he’s savin’ these babies from a life of doom.”

  There was a silence, whilst they thought it over, and absently, Doyle fingered the holly leaves strewn on the kitchen counter. “If we could just find the babies, I bet the case would unravel—surely there must be some witnesses on their end, wherever they are. Where are they?”

  Williams offered, “I found a hospice called ‘Day’s End’, which sounds a little like ‘Dublin’. It’s near Cheltenham.”

  She frowned in disbelief. “‘Day’s End’ is the name of the hospice? Heavens, Thomas—that’s a grim name for a hospice; may as well call it ‘The End o’ the Line’.”

  “Or, ‘Luck’s Out’.”

  “Or, ‘Welcome, Pale Rider’.”

  “Or, ‘Good Run’.”

  Quirking her mouth, she steered the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Well, we could do this for a livin’, Thomas, but we’re gettin’ off-topic, and a hospice doesn’t seem a likely place to collect newborns.” She paused, and made a note. “We should check out the people who do private adoptions—there may be a doctor, or someone with a name that sounds like ‘Dublin’.”

  “Good idea. Who’s checking it, me or you?”

  Since he asked the question, she knew the answer he sought. “Me, I suppose. Poor you; are they puttin’ you through your paces, then?”

  He replied slowly, “I think there are some killers who are taking advantage of the fact that the CID’s major crimes unit is in its current state.”

  She tried to puzzle out what he meant. “Someone is doin’ shadow murders, d’you mean?” A shadow murder was the term used when a killer tried to frame another murderer for his own crime. “So, I suppose if I’m thinkin’ about knockin’ off an enemy, now’s a good time?”

  “That won’t wash—you don’t have any enemies.”

  “You’d be surprised, my friend. If I’m found strangled ʼneath my Christmas tree, you need look no further than Reynolds.” This said in a carrying voice, but the servant did not deign to respond, as he gathered up the unused greenery.

  Her mobile buzzed, and she saw that Acton was heading home to pick her up. “All right, Thomas; I’ll put it on the list of things I need to do—faith, all this paperwork is killin’ me.”

  “We have to make a thorough record,” he reminded her. “If the case goes cold, someone else might see something we missed.”

  “I know, I know; I’m just complainin’. And I’m going along with Acton to the church tonight, so I won’t be able to catch up there, either. Although I suppose I could hide my tablet in a prayer book, like I used to hide crossword puzzles.”

  “Is there another prayer service, tonight?”

  “No, Acton’s havin’ a meetin’ with Father John. Of all things, he’s goin’ on a religious retreat—right as all the walls are crashin’ in—which is another sure sign that the crack o’ doom is at hand.”

  “Yes, the retreat is this weekend—he’s mentioned it,” Williams affirmed in a casual tone. “He’s asked me to handle something for him, while he’s there.”

  For an astonished moment, Doyle nearly dropped the mobile because she knew—in the way that she knew things—that Acton needed Williams’ help on something that could not withstand the light of day—something having to do with the retreat. After a moment, she recovered enough to manage, “Oh? Can I help?”

  “No; I’ve got it covered,” he said, and it was true.

  18

  Yet again, Doyle was riding in a car with her husband, and trying to figure out how best to plumb his unplumbable depths. Honestly; marriage manuals were deficient in every respect, and no help a’tall. Her wayward husband was planning some skullduggery whilst he was at the retreat, and Doyle could only hope that excommunication wasn’t staring her straight in the face.

  “Where’s your retreat to be held, Michael—Holy Trinity?” This was a decent guess; if the retreat was at Holy Trinity, no doubt Acton would use the opportunity to inflict a little well-deserved mayhem, with Williams doing an assist.

  “No; I’m told there is a private school, near Eden Park.”

  “Oh? Is that near Trestles?” Perhaps the mayhem was to be inflicted closer to his ancestral home—that would make sense, also.

  He smiled, and reached to take her hand. “No, Eden Park is not close to Trestles. It occurs to me that geography is not your strong suit.”

  “Nothin’ is,” she noted fairly.

  “I beg to differ,” he teased, and gave her a warm look.

  Blushing, she laughed. “Well, that’s all very well-and-good, but now I’m well-and-thoroughly pregnant, and you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

  “Guilty as charged. How does Edward?”

  “Edward is an excellent child—never better. His mother, on the other hand, is not keepin’ up with her paperwork.”

  But as always, he wouldn’t hear of any failings. “You mustn’t exert yourself too much, Kathleen—not in your condition.”

  She saw her opening, and decided to cast a lure. “Tell that to the criminals who are runnin’ amok, my friend. Williams is worried the villains are committin’ shadow murders, thinkin’ that the Yard can’t keep it all straight.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he observed, as he maneuvered the car into the parking space.

  Whilst she buttoned up her coat, Doyle examin
ed his response, trying to decide if Acton was contemplating a shadow murder of his own—another thing the stupid marriage manual didn’t address. Suddenly struck, she raised her head. “Is it possible—is it possible that the psycho-mother murders are actually shadow murders? Someone only makin’ it look like a psycho-mother is doin’ the killin’, but who’s really goin’ after the victims for a different reason?”

  He raised his brows. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  I’m flummoxed, she thought with a twinge of disappointment, as she watched him come ’round to open her door. That was not it at all; Acton wasn’t covering up someone else’s shadow murders. She was still hoping that Acton wasn’t putting a stop to these crimes because something more was at play; something other than some kook stealing babies from bad mothers. But no; apparently, Acton was indeed covering for some kook who was stealing babies. And—lest we forget—murdering nuns. Not to mention that he had something nefarious planned for the church retreat—saints and holy angels, she was beginning to think the man was not ready for religious conversion at all.

  As they walked toward the church, she put her hand in the crook of his elbow, and brought up yet another dicey subject. “Did Reynolds mention that your mother rang him up?”

  “He did.”

  She smiled at the silence that followed his remark. “Mayhap we can compromise, Michael—I should take a trip to Trestles, anyway. There’s somethin’ brewin’, out there.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “Is there?”

  She frowned into the darkness, trying to put her instinct into words. “Yes—one of your ancestors is all up in arms, for some reason. And we should visit your mother—she’s Edward’s gram, after all, and if we go for a visit now, then we can bar the door at Christmas without feelin’ guilty.”