With a frustrated breath, Doyle blew a tendril from her forehead. Acton always said he didn’t believe in coincidences, and this one was completely unbelievable. Obviously, there was some sort of connection between the succession dispute, and Masterson’s murder. Her scalp prickled, and she teetered on the edge of going to ask Acton outright why Savoie killed Cassie Masterson, but then decided she’d try to be a bit more subtle, for once; Acton was actually starting to trust her, in fits and starts, and she didn’t want to demand that he confess more than he already had. She could always sound out Savoie, although she was not supposed to fratinize—or some such word—with Savoie. She’d have to duck Acton, and do it anyway; there was something that tied all this together, and she needed to sort out what it was. It was important, for some reason, that she understand it—the knight from Trestles certainly thought so.
After sitting idly for a few minutes, she stood, and went to search out Lord Aldwych, who was seating in the drawing room, his claw-like hands gripping the arms of the wing chair as he stared out the window. Small blame to him; the key witness for the plot to right all wrongs had been mysteriously murdered, and he was left with nothing but his bitter frustration.
“Hallo, sir,” she ventured. “I was wantin’ to speak with you for a moment, if I may.”
Stiffly, he rose to his feet, emanating waves of polite incredulity that she would dare to approach him. “Certainly, my lady.”
“I’m Irish,” she began without preamble. “And a bit fey. There’s a dead woman named Tess who’s worried that you’re gatherin’ together too many pills.”
The man stared at her without expression, emanating equal parts surprise and disbelief. “My wife,” he replied in a frosty tone, “was named Caroline.”
“This is not your wife,” said Doyle.
A small silence ensued, and after an inner struggle, the elderly man bowed his head for a moment. “I see. And what else does she say?”
“She’d like me to send along a snap of Edward, when he’s born.” This last wasn’t true, but Doyle decided a little embellishment in the translation would not be out of line. Poor Edward had a venomous group of relatives to contend with, and his mother should shake her stumps, and do her part to lessen his burdens.
“Sergeant?” Acton stood in the doorway, looking wary.
Aldwych was as yet unable to find his voice, and so Doyle asked hopefully, “Are we off, then?”
“We are,” Acton affirmed. Then, to the other man, “I will keep you advised as to the investigation’s progress. Unfortunately, we found no weapon, and we have no leads, as yet.”
Aldwych didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard; instead, he absently turned his back to them, to gaze out the windows.
Acton hardly waited until they were on the front steps, before bending his head to Doyle’s. “What did he say to you?”
She quirked her mouth, as they approached the Range Rover. “More like what I said to him, my friend.”
This gave him pause for a moment. “Which was?”
“I told him if he gave you any more sauce, I would personally throat-punch him, and don’t think that I won’t.”
He gave her a look, as he opened her door. “I would pay good money, to see that.”
“No, you wouldn’t—you’d be all horrified, and say, ‘tut, tut.’ You both would, more’s the pity.”
He came ’round to slide into the driver’s seat. “I think I can say, with all honesty, that I’ve never said, ‘tut, tut’.”
“I suppose that’s true, else I’d have throat-punched you, too.” She leaned in to raise her face for a kiss, and he obliged. She realized that she was being a bit too flippant, all things considered, but he was in a mood, was her husband, and she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“I’m sorry to have drawn you into all this, Kathleen.”
“Whist, man; never had a nicer time, I assure you.”
There was a small pause, as he backed the car down the drive. “You are not going to tell me what you said to Aldwych.” Very quick on the uptake, was Acton.
With a shake of her head, she declined. “No; you and I’ve each creeped the other out enough for one mornin’. Let’s go bowlin’, or somethin’, like an ordinary mister and missus.”
He turned his wrist to check the time on his watch. “As inviting as that sounds, I’m overdue at the ACC.”
“Are you, now? I hope the ACC realizes that they’re interferin’ with the new sex and scotch protocol.”
He did not reply, but reached over, and placed a gentle hand on hers.
Subsiding, she apologized. “I know—sorry; I’m thrown. It’s all a bit overwhelmin’.”
“Not at all. I am the one who is sorry.”
“Michael,” she warned, turning to address him with some heat. “No more kit gloves, remember? Instead, tell me to settle meself down, else you’ll give me the back o’ your hand.”
“Kid gloves,” he corrected, in mock-annoyance. “Try to get it right, next time.”
“That’s the spirit.” With a smile, she pretended to throat-punch him.
31
Upon arriving back at her desk, Doyle took one look at her queue of unanswered email messages, and promptly decided it would behoove her to take a walk. She’d already taken a walk this morning with Acton, of course, but that didn’t really count, as it wasn’t what one would call a healthful walk, as opposed to a hearing-cataclysmic-news walk. And in the end, Acton hadn’t had time for lunch, so she needed to find something to eat, being as she was in the family way, and truly should think about such things. With a last, unrepentant look at her email docket, she closed up her laptop, and shrugged into her coat, hoping it wouldn’t start raining, as she’d forgotten her umbrella.
Aside from taking a welcome break to track down a ham-and-butter sandwich, she also needed to spend some uninterrupted time thinking over all the things that needed a strong dose of thinking-over, including those poor murder victims who’d been shunted aside so that Acton could cover up whatever it was that he was covering up with Masterson’s murder, but which should not be confused with whatever he was covering up with the nuns-and-prostitutes murders. Not to mention the missing babies.
I’ve too much on my plate, she thought crossly, as she buttoned her buttons; I should be putting two and two together, but instead I’m flailing about, just trying to keep up with the ever-rising tide. I’m off my game, and since I’m not much of a slog-and-pencil-work detective to begin with, I’ve got to get back on my game, and do what I do best. The villains are winning, and it is past time I pull up my socks, and solve these crimes.
With this in mind, she resolutely sneaked over to Munoz’s desk to call Philippe Savoie on the other girl’s land line. The first order of business—although it was hard to put one ahead of all the others that were crying out for attention—was to talk to Savoie, and somehow confirm that he’d killed Masterson and the records-room clerk. There was something here that needed ferreting out, starting from the unlikely assumption that the Home Office was allowing an arch-criminal like Savoie to go about killing whoever he wished. Whomever he wished.
“Yes?”
Usually, it amused Savoie no end when she was forced to contact him, but today he sounded a little distracted, and small wonder; she wondered how he arranged for child care, on those occasions when he had to go off and murder people. “Hallo, Philippe. I was wonderin’ if I could meet with you off-the-record, so to speak.” She paused, and then added, “At the bookstore, not the church.” Best be clear.
“Bien. But tell me; do you know of le bon médecin?”
Doyle frowned. “The bone what?”
“The—” he searched for the word. “The médecin—the doctor.”
She blinked. “Oh. Are you sickenin’, then?” Mother a’ mercy, if she had to nurse Savoie back to health, on top of everything else, she’d call it quits, and hop the next train back to Dublin.
“Non, non, little bird. Emile, he needs l’immunis
ation—the shots. The school, it requires this.”
“Oh—oh, I see.” Now, here was a dilemma; the last thing she’d want to do is put Savoie in the same room as Timothy McGonigal, but he was the only doctor she knew. Except, of course— “There are free clinics, you know, who do immunizations. Holy Trinity Clinic does them.”
“Not the good place,” he replied with certainty, and her scalp prickled.
“Why is that, Philippe?”
Being as he couldn’t very well confess that he’d killed the records-room clerk, he changed the subject. “You will ask your doctor for a name—yes? It must be a good doctor for Emile—le meillieur.”
“All right,” she agreed a bit crossly. “I’ll find out, and tell you when I meet up with you. But it’s a two-way street, my friend.”
There was a pause. “Yes? What does this mean?”
“It means I’ll be needin’ information, too.”
Ah; now he was amused. “There are the things I must not tell you; many things that cannot go to the two street.”
Doyle looked up, and saw that Munoz was approaching. “I have to go; meet after work?”
“Bien sûr. Au revoir.”
She rang off just as the other girl stopped before her, looking thoughtful. “Is it because you don’t want anyone to hear what you’re saying to Acton? Is that why you sneak over here to use my phone?”
“Why—yes; yes, it is,” Doyle lied, thinking this as good an explanation as any. “I’m whisperin’ sweet nothin’s to him, and I don’t want anyone to hear.”
But the other girl scoffed at the very idea, as she slid her rucksack off her shoulder. “You wouldn’t have the first clue about what to say.”
“I rotated through Vice,” Doyle reminded her, stung.
But Munoz eyed her, having come to her own conclusions. “I think it’s more like you don’t want anyone to overhear who’s getting popped by the ACC, next.”
Hotly, Doyle defended, “Acton doesn’t tell me that sort of thing, Munoz, it would be very unprofessional. The investigation is kept very secret, for obvious reasons.”
Munoz smirked. “I suppose I can’t blame him; you are a weak link.”
“I am not.”
“Then who’s getting popped, next?”
Sinking back into the chair, Doyle reclaimed her temper. “Nice try, Munoz, but I’ve no clue—he truly doesn’t tell me anythin’.”
Munoz made a sound of irritation, and leaned glumly against her desk. “Well, I wish I knew. There’s no point in trying to impress an SIO, if he’s just going to wind up in prison.”
“A waste of a perfectly good flirtation,” Doyle agreed.
With an impatient gesture, the other girl indicated that Doyle was to vacate her chair. “Well, if you hear even a whisper, make sure to let me know who’s next on the chopping block.”
Stoutly, Doyle assured her, “If it’s you, Munoz, I’ll give you a head’s up, so that you can take a bunk.”
The other girl sat down, and ran her fingers through her hair. “I appreciate that, Doyle, but I can’t go doggo, just now; I have to attend family counseling with Elena this evening.”
“Oh—I’m sorry to hear it,” Doyle offered awkwardly. “D’ye think the counselor will convince her to wait on the weddin’?”
“Not that kind of counseling—it’s church counseling. They want to make sure everyone’s on board. Habib’s not RC, and they know that Elena’s pregnant already, so they want to make sure we’re all in support.”
Doyle ventured, “Not a bad idea, Izzy. It may help bring your mother ʼround.”
Munoz shrugged, with little hope. “We’ll see.”
It was yet another sign of the apocalypse that Munoz was so dispirited, and that Doyle was willing to try to cheer her up. “Want to go for a walk with me? I’ll buy you a bagel.”
“No, I don’t.” The other girl rested her head in one hand, and pulled her mobile with the other. “I wonder if Williams has lunched?”
“Ask him,” Doyle suggested, and it was a measure of her sympathy that she’d even suggest such a thing.
As she thumbed in a text, Munoz asked, “Anything new on the nun-killer?”
“Next on my list,” Doyle hedged, as she turned to leave. One of the things-that-needed-thinking-over was whether Munoz should be told about how all these cases seemed to be connected; presumably, the more people who knew, the more people who’d expect a task force, and Doyle was not yet certain whether this particular sleeping dog should be allowed to lie—she needed to know more, before she threw such an enormous wrench in Acton’s plans. “If Williams is not available, ring me, and I’ll bring you back a ham-and-butter sandwich.”
The beauty made a face. “How can you eat that stuff?”
Doyle smiled. “It brings back fond memories of sweet nothin’s, Munoz.”
With a frown, the girl examined her mobile screen. “Ugh—spare me the details. Cheers.”
“Cheers, Munoz. Chin up.”
“Always. This too shall pass.”
Doyle headed out through the lobby, and then dutifully walked a few blocks in the general direction of the Abbey, trying to clear her jumbled mind. Fortunately, the weather held, and when she’d decided that she’d exercised enough—there was such a thing as being too fit, after all—she ducked into a small corner deli. She found an empty stool at the end of the counter, and ate her sandwich with relish, idly watching the passers-by as she did so. All in all, she was rather glad to be alone—it had been a trying morning, and she needed to take a breather.
Pulling up her mobile, she found the number for the next-door witness to the Wexton Prison victim—the one who was slated to be Edward’s nanny, even though she didn’t know it, yet. When the woman answered, Doyle identified herself. “I was wonderin’ if we could meet for coffee some time, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course, Officer Doyle. I feel so foolish—I told Officer Williams I should have paid closer attention to what was going on next door.”
Doyle paused in surprise. “You’ve met again with Officer Williams?”
“Yes—we met for coffee, too. I couldn’t tell him much, though. He was very kind.”
Doyle blinked, as—except for the fact it was all true—the woman’s words made absolutely no sense. Williams had not mentioned a follow-up interview—there was no need for one, in the first place. And—more to the point—Williams was never kind to witnesses, having gone to the school of Acton.
“I’ll be happy to help with anything I can, of course.”
“No, this is not work-related.” Doyle laughed, self-consciously. “We Irish are a superstitious bunch, I’m afraid. At Christmas, we put a candle in the window, and then when the twelve days are over, the candle has to be put out by someone named ‘Mary’.”
“Oh,” the woman replied, as though such a request were completely routine. “I’d be happy to put out your Christmas candle.”
“Yes, well—I also wanted to discuss a—an employment opportunity, I suppose you’d call it. For child care.”
There was a small pause. “All right, then.”
They arranged for the meeting, and Doyle rang off thoughtfully. Why would Williams do a follow-up with this witness? And have coffee, and be kind? The obvious answer certainly couldn’t be the right one—the woman was married, after all. For some reason, though, Doyle couldn’t bring herself to call him, in her usual bull-in-the-china-shop fashion. If it was indeed something personal, he wouldn’t thank her.
Her mobile pinged, and seeing that it was Acton, she picked up cheerfully. “Hallo, Michael; I’m havin’ a ham-and-butter sandwich.”
“That sounds delightful.”
She smiled, because he was remembering the sweet nothings, too. “I’m comin’ back to headquarters, don’t worry. I just thought I’d take a walk-about, and practice bein’ a countess.”
“That is good news. I was a bit worried that you were reconsidering.”
“I’m not such a paltry creatur
e,” she scoffed. “But no more shocks for a day or two, if you please.”
She could feel him smile. “I’ll make no promises.”
“And if you’re goin’ to arrest Munoz, I told her I’d give her a warnin’, first.”
“I have no plans, at present, to arrest Munoz.”
“Well that’s a relief. Will you be late, tonight?” It would actually be helpful if he was; she had to nip in to the bookstore, for her clandestine meeting with Savoie.
“Not too late, I think. But please call the driving service, and go home early.”
“Mayhap I’ll walk home—I’m such a good walker, now,” she teased.
“Geography isn’t your strong suit,” he reminded her.
“Then mayhap I’ll use a map, and a compass.”
“Is that so? You amaze me.”
“It’s one of the things you learn when you’re on a retreat, Michael—haven’t they told you this? But be warned; they’ll take away your mobile.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Hide it with the candy,” she suggested, and giggled.
32
Yet again, Doyle was wandering around in the unfamiliar environs of the book store, and trying to decide if she could give Acton another book as a Christmas present, or if that was too craven, even for her. A book wasn’t very personal, but he was so very fond of the other one she’d given him, and it would be such a simple solution.
Impatiently, she checked the time; Savoie always ran a little late, no doubt because he warily vetted any public place before making an appearance. I’ve got to stop hanging about with criminal masterminds, she thought; although that would probably eliminate my husband, which would be a drawback, all in all.
Murder in All Honour: A Doyle and Acton Mystery (Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard Mysteries) Page 18