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

by Anne Cleeland

  Unspoken was the assurance that he’d not squeak to Acton. He had her back, did Thomas Williams—although he had Acton’s back, too, which oftentimes created quite the tangle patch for the poor man. “Much appreciated, Thomas.” Reminded, she asked, “Do we give each other Christmas presents?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” He chuckled, and she joined in. “I’m not good at that sort of thing, Thomas—I’d get you a tea cozy, or somethin’ and you’d feel compelled to use it, so as not to hurt my feelin’s.”

  “I’d draw the line, Kath.”

  She laughed. “Speakin’ of which, I think Munoz has decided you wouldn’t suit her.”

  “That’s good news—if I have to eat any more Danish, I’ll not make my weight.”

  But Doyle could only shake her head in sympathy. “It’s so sad—that she’s willin’ to admit defeat, so to speak; that’s not her style at all. She’s off her game, just like I am. Faith, she’s even agreed to go to the Everyday Heroes outreach with me, which is not in keepin’, at all.” Inspired, she turned to him. “You should come, too, Thomas.”

  Immediately, he looked wary. “What is this?”

  “It’s a church outreach for at-risk youth; I’m goin’ to speak about the whole miserable bridge-jumpin’ episode, for my sins. You should come, too—you were a fellow-rescuer, after all.”

  “I’ll pass. I’m not much for church things.”

  For some reason, Doyle was immediately incensed, and exclaimed with some heat, “Then shame on you, Thomas Williams. A lot of these kids are at-risk because they’ve no stability in their lives—no role models. You may just be the one who inspires someone—” she found, much to her surprise, that she was on the brink of tears, and could not continue.

  “All right,” he agreed, covering her hand with his own. “I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”

  Neither did I, she thought in bewilderment, and wondered why her scalp was prickling.

  36

  Father John rose as Doyle approached his table, and took her hand in his. Oh-oh, she thought in deep dismay; not good—not good at all.

  “Thank you for meetin’ me, Kathleen; I know you’re busy.”

  Doyle sat down with a sense of foreboding, and noted that the scones and Irish butter arrayed before him had gone untouched. “Never too busy for you, Father.”

  The priest carefully clasped his hands on the table. “I’ll get right to the point, lass; I’ve been puttin’ if off, and prayin’—it’s a hard thing for me to be confessin’.”

  No, no, no, she thought, and closed her eyes briefly. My poor little church; the scandal will be horrific, and the newspapers will have an absolute field day.

  “I’m ever so grateful for all your husband has done—” He paused, obviously struggling with the next words.

  With a sinking heart, Doyle filled in, “But there comes a time when this terrible sin can’t be covered up, anymore.”

  He raised his gaze to hers, and protested, “Not such terrible sin, perhaps. Born of love, after all.”

  Doyle leaned forward, and said with all sincerity, “It’s a warped kind of love, then, Father. Surely, you must see that.”

  “No, I don’t see that a’tall.” The priest furrowed his grizzled brows. “Love lifts, and inspires. Love seeks the greater good.”

  With a heart full of sorrow, Doyle said gently, “This is not that kind of love, Father.”

  The priest held her gaze with his own for a moment, then reached to take her hand. “Marriage is not always an easy road, lass. And its early days, after all.”

  Doyle blinked. “What?”

  He held her hand between both of his. “I’d not realized how you felt—more shame to me. Should we go for a walk, and talk it out?”

  “I love my husband,” Doyle protested. “Wait—what are we talkin’ about?”

  He looked at her in confusion. “I thought we were talkin’ about your husband’s Confirmation.”

  Seeing an entirely new hazard, rearing its ugly head, she lowered her voice in dread. “Has he made a full confession?”

  “I think—I think he’s not yet ready for his Confirmation, Kathleen.”

  Doyle stared at him.

  The priest continued, “Usually, we see this situation when a Catholic weddin’ is wanted, and one person isn’t a member of the Church, but is willin’ to convert, for the sake o’ the weddin’. The Church looks for a true conversion of the heart, so we’re reluctant to proceed, when it appears the convert is merely seekin’ to please another person.”

  Struggling mightily to keep up, Doyle sank back, and knit her brow. “So, you think that Acton is only doin’ this to please me.”

  “I do.”

  This, of course, was undeniably true—there was not a chance in a million that her husband would have decided to give Roman Catholicism a go-round, if he hadn’t met his mackerel-snapping bride. She offered a bit lamely, “He’s tryin’ to better himself—he told me so.”

  “As are we all. And it is clear to me that you’ve been an enormous influence.”

  You don’t know the half of it, she thought—although my record, as of late, has been a bit spotty.

  The priest continued, “I was wantin’ to discuss it with you first, because I think that he’ll do whatever you wish him to do.”

  “And you think I should ask him to wait.”

  He offered, “We could reassess at the child’s Baptism—perhaps a bit more time is all that is needed.”

  “Tuigim,” she said slowly. “Aye, then, Father.”

  He watched her with sympathy for a moment. “Are ye very disappointed, lass?”

  “No. I feel a bit stupid, actually.”

  “May I ask,” he ventured tentatively, “—what terrible sin it was, that you were referrin’ to?”

  “Murder,” she replied absently. Doyle found that she couldn’t bring herself to confess that she’d suspected him of these heinous murders, and so offered a bit vaguely, “I was thinkin’ about these poor women, the ones who’re havin’ their babies stolen.”

  “Any leads?” The priest leaned forward slightly, as he had an avid interest in sensational crimes, and this one was as sensational as they come.

  “I think,” she offered slowly, “—that the killer is takin’ the babies, because he thinks the mothers aren’t goin’ to be good mothers. He thinks he’s doin’ the only honorable thing.”

  “Ah—is that so?” The priest sank back into his chair, and shook his head gravely. “There is no substitute for a mother, child; we can only help those who struggle, and offer them strength through faith.”

  Doyle was reminded that Father John was something of a naïve do-gooder, himself. “But these victims didn’t seem very interested in salvation, Father.”

  “Then the church failed them, lass.”

  Doyle looked up. “What? Were they all Catholic girls?”

  He nodded. “Yes—although two were from out of town.”

  Straightening up in her seat, she stared at him. “That’s the commonality, then; they were lapsed Catholics—like the murdered nuns.”

  The priest regarded her with some alarm. “Is there more than one murdered nun? I hadn’t heard.”

  Doyle debated how much to tell him, then offered, “I’m followin’ up on another one, and I suspect she was murdered, too. What d’ye know of the Sisters of the Sacred Cross?”

  He sighed in mild-mannered distress. “I’ve heard that the Bishop may apply to decommission the order—I’m afraid they are indeed a bit lapsed, as you say.” Again, he shook his head with great regret. “You can’t just pick and choose which doctrine you fancy, and then ignore the others.”

  “Amen,” she said, thinking she’d had a very similar conversation with Acton, and on many an occasion.

  Having apparently eased his own mind, the priest reached for the butter tub. “I’m that sorry about Michael, Kathleen. Often, it’s the opposite problem—in my experience,
converts tend to be fanatical about their new faith.”

  “No; I appreciate your honesty, Father.”

  They spoke of less weighty subjects for a while, and then parted, Doyle deep in thought, as she made her way down the pavement. It was a huge relief to discover that Father John was not the killer—not that she’d truly believed it for a moment, of course. It did seem clear, however, that there was a religious aspect in play, and perhaps she should see if the behavioral people at the Met could come up with a profile—the problem being that her husband was doing his level best to throw dust in everyone’s eyes, and presumably the last thing he wanted was for the Met to create a profile that could help to identify this killer.

  She closed her eyes, briefly. Yet again, she was firmly skewered on the horns of a dilemma; the fact that the cases were related was important, and would—one would think—go a long ways towards helping to identify the killer. On the other hand, Acton had some stupid debt of honor that meant he was wanting to handle it outside of regular channels, and—most importantly—she’d no evidence, anyways; the only link between the cases was the mention of the word “Dublin” by the arguing man, and her own sure knowledge—knowledge that couldn’t be explained to anyone, without them thinking she was barking mad. Faith, only imagine the dust-up, if a countess-to-be had to be burnt at the stake, or whatever it was they did, nowadays.

  In any event, the professionals were hardly needed, since the profile seemed to be a simple one: They were looking for a man, with an Irish accent, who was killing bad mothers and bad nuns—all of them lapsed Catholics. Someone who didn’t seem a likely suspect, since the witnesses tended to discount him. And someone Acton would be willing to cover for—although she was fast coming to the conclusion that this last criterion may cover half the population of London.

  “You forgot about me.”

  She stopped in dismay, and waited until Williams caught up with her. “Oh—oh, I’m that sorry, Thomas. I was distracted.”

  He fell into step beside her. “It didn’t look like it was good news.”

  “No, but it wasn’t what I thought. I don’t think he knows anythin’ about the killer—he didn’t know that another nun had been killed.”

  He eyed her sidelong. “Technically, neither do we, Kath.”

  “Well, she’s been killed, poor thing—never doubt it. And I’ve come up with a workin’ theory—the victims are all lapsed Roman Catholics. Some bad mothers, some bad nuns, but all lapsed Catholics.”

  Frowning, he put his hands in his coat pockets, and contemplated the sidewalk as they walked along. “How can nuns be lapsed Catholics?”

  She blew out a breath. “Don’t ask me; the only nuns I knew were rock-ribbed, like Jeremiah-down-the-well.”

  They’d come to the car, and he paused for a moment. “So—are we back to the killer being a religious nut?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “But I think it’s someone who’s miserable.”

  He made a skeptical sound as he opened the door for her. “You always think the killer is miserable.”

  “Do I? Maybe miserable is not the right word, but from what we know, he knew the victims, and tried to turn them away from their wicked ways. He can’t be happy that he wasn’t successful, and was left with murder as the only option.”

  “That’s a strange way of looking at it, Kath.”

  But she was certain that she was on the right track. “For you and me, maybe, but not for him—he thinks he’s doin’ the only honorable thing.”

  “Well, news flash—he’s not.”

  “Definitely not,” she agreed absently, as he started the car. “Where are these babies, Thomas? If we can locate them, presumably we’d have another batch of witnesses from that end of the stick, and someone must know somethin’.”

  He shrugged slightly. “They’ve disappeared into thin air. Officer Shandera has been checking, but so far, no leads have played out. He thinks the killer may not be sending them all to the same place, so as to make it harder to trace them back.”

  While this made sense, Doyle knew why such a thought had never crossed her mind; she’d no doubt that the babies were all in the same place—and presumably on the path to a better life, according to this killer. But where? She asked aloud, “Is there an RC orphanage in London?”

  “I don’t think there are any orphanages anymore, Kath. But Shandera’s checking every place listed on the Health Council’s list—he seems to be doing a thorough job on this. I’ll mention the RC angle, though.”

  She glanced over at him. “Shandera wants to be a detective, you know.”

  Her companion replied in a neutral tone, “Then I hope he gets his wish.”

  Alert, she waited, but as nothing further was forthcoming, she prodded, “So what is it that you know about him?”

  Williams, as always, was reluctant to engage in gossip. “He’s had some run-ins with the law, when he was younger. I think he has a record.”

  Doyle stared at him in surprise. “Truly? He seems so bright-eyed, and upstandin’.”

  “I think he’s turned his life around, and good on him. But after this scandal, I imagine that the Met is going to be very careful about who becomes a detective, and who doesn’t.”

  “Whom,” she corrected.

  “No, it’s ‘who’, both times.”

  With an impatient thump, Doyle bounced her head back against the head rest. “Stupidest language in the history of languages,” she declared.

  “No argument,” Williams agreed mildly.

  37

  “Reynolds, did you know that Acton is Lord Aldwych’s heir?”

  “Of course, madam.”

  “No one ever tells me anythin’,” Doyle groused.

  The servant paused in his dinner preparations, and regarded her with polite surprise. “I was not aware that you did not know this, madam.”

  “You’d think you’d have mentioned it,” she continued, very much put-upon. “Honestly; what if someone’d brought it up? I’d have looked like a witless knocker.”

  “I believe,” he offered with some delicacy, “—that there has been an estrangement, and so it is not common knowledge.”

  “Everyone’s strange in this little morality play, Reynolds. Tell me what you know.”

  “A falling out,” he offered. “Lord Acton’s father, I believe.”

  “The one that disappeared.”

  “The very same.”

  She eyed him for a moment, wondering how much he knew. “Maybe Aldwych is the one who killed Acton’s father. Do they have duels, still?”

  But Reynolds was not going to banter about such a subject, and pursed his lips in disapproval. “The reason behind the estrangement is not clear, I believe.”

  Just as well, thought Doyle, with some relief. It’s a flippin’ doozy, and would no doubt shake even Reynolds’s faith in the exalted peerage. Watching him from her perch on the sofa, she teased, “Just think on it, Reynolds; when Acton inherits the other title, you’ll have to re-do all the Christmas ornaments with a new coat of arms—unless you just need to add-on another unicorn, or somethin’.’”

  “No, madam. An earl’s coronet has eight strawberry leaves.” This information was recited with a tinge of precise and extreme satisfaction.

  But Doyle was not having it, and exclaimed with some heat, “Strawberry leaves? Mother a’ mercy—such a pack o’ nonsense. Why do bloodlines matter so much? It should be miles more important if you’re clever and brave in the here-and-now.” She couldn’t help thinking of Acton and his RAF grandfather, as two excellent cases-in-point.

  Reynolds donned his baking gloves. “I suppose, madam, that there is the hope that heroic traits will be inherited by future generations.”

  “Well, in practice it seems to have the opposite effect—havin’ a title ends up excusin’ non-heroic traits, in future generations.”

  “Well, titles are often bestowed as a sort of absolution-by-battle.”

  She eyed him yet again. �
�Reynolds, I haven’t a clue what that means.”

  Carefully, the servant transferred the marinated lamb chops into the oven. “The title is given as a reward for extraordinary service to the monarch; the idea being that such service will act as a counterweight, for any future wrongdoing.”

  Doyle frowned, thinking this over. “Like whatever-that-was in the old days, when you could bribe your way out of a sin, by payin’ the church.”

  “Simony. Absolution-by-penance,” he agreed, setting the timer.

  But Doyle could only make a sound of extreme derision. “As though you can force your way into heaven—another pack o’ nonsense.”

  Suddenly struck, she slowly sat upright, staring at him. “That’s it—that’s it; it all fits. He’s absolvin’ them of their sins.”

  The servant gazed at her in surprise. “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  “You’re a crackin’ genius, Reynolds.” Doyle could scarce contain her excitement, as she scrolled up Williams on her mobile.

  “Happy to be of service,” the servant replied, and bent to peer through the oven’s door.

  Williams picked up. “Hey.”

  “It’s not just about the babies, Thomas. He’s absolvin’ the victims—that’s what’s happenin’ with the candles. That’s why the scene is so peaceful.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, Kath; let’s start again.”

  With an effort, she gathered her racing thoughts together. “Since the mother won’t mend her ways, he absolves her of her sins, and immediately kills her, so that she’s assured of heaven.” She paused. “He’s forcin’ God to take them, so to speak.”

  He was silent for a few beats. “Is that how it works?”

  Doyle made a wry mouth, but said, “Technically, I suppose. It’s like a deathbed confession, when all is forgiven in the nick o’ time.”

  “So—we’re looking for an Irish priest?”

  She blew out a breath. “Maybe. Although anyone can perform a sacrament, if it’s considered an emergency.”

  He hesitated, then reluctantly stated the obvious. “There aren’t that many Irish priests in London, Kath.”

  “It’s not Father John, Thomas. Truly, it isn’t.”