Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6) Read online

  Acton had mentioned the possibility of Sir Stephen’s challenging the succession, and he’d also mentioned that such matters were determined by some committee of lords in Parliament—thank all available saints and angels that Doyle had been paying attention, for once. I’ll outsmart him, she thought with a small sense of triumph. He thought he’d keep me out of this mess, but I’ll be there with bells on—nothing like a pregnant bride to inject some drama into a dull-as-ditchwater succession proceeding.

  In truth, Doyle didn’t care about the title either way. Being hardscrabble Irish, she was not one for tiaras or hereditary honors, but it was important to Acton, who was very fond of his estate and not at all fond of his vile cousin. Of course, matters were complicated by the fact that there’d indeed been a switch, when Acton’s great-grandfather had substituted the imposter.

  With a growing sense of alarm, Doyle realized that Sir Stephen would not have brought a claim in Parliament unless he’d dug up some decent evidence to support it, and so she urged the cab driver to hurry. If the ground was about to be cut out from under Acton’s feet, she needed to be there to support him—not to mention he might run amok, which he was wont to do when anyone crossed him, with the disappearance of a certain psychiatrist serving as an excellent case in point. She’d be needed to hang on to his coat-tails until he could calm himself down, and re-think any stray impulse he might have to lay waste to a roomful of peers. After all, he was also in the line of succession to inherit an earldom; it wasn’t as though they’d be forced to sell apples on the street corner, for heaven’s sake.

  Since Acton had said he hoped to be finished by lunch, she’d best hurry along and find wherever the hearing was as quickly as possible. Therefore, she was rosy of cheek and a bit out of breath when she was directed to the committees corridor, and after hurrying down the marble hallway with as much speed as her bulky form would allow, she paused outside the hearing room door to take a deep breath, and then quietly slip within.

  Her gaze was drawn immediately to her husband, who was seated at a table at the front of the room, and apparently in the midst of giving testimony. He met her gaze with all appearance of surprise, and then gestured in an apologetic manner to the elderly presiding officer who was seated near him, on a dais. “I must beg your pardon, my lord; my wife has made an unexpected appearance—”

  Miserable, conniving, black-hearted gombeen, Doyle thought in a gathering fury, as the sixteen members of the committee turned around to view her with open curiosity. I’ve a good mind to rend my garments and divorce the flippin’ sassanach on the spot.

  The elderly chairman looked upon her with extreme interest, as he motioned to the attending clerk. “Of course, of course; please see to it that our visitor is seated comfortably—”

  The clerk hurried forward to escort Doyle to one of the chairs that lined the walls, and as she was seated, she could see that Sir Stephen was eying her a bit sourly from his position at the petitioner’s table.

  As Doyle tried without much success to calm herself, the chairman viewed her pregnant form with polite concern. “May I offer water, madam?” Leaning forward, he offered a dry little smile. “Although, perhaps you’ve sworn off water, forever—I could scarce blame you.” He then chuckled as though he’d said something very witty, and all persons present dutifully chuckled in sycophantic appreciation of his extreme cleverness. Some months ago, Doyle had jumped off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames so as to rescue a fellow detective, and now she was something of a hero, since the papers had played up the incident to be much more than it truly was and nobody—nobody—could just let it go.

  “No—no, thank you, sir.” Doyle had a hard time maintaining a civil tone, as she was still coming to terms with the fact that her husband was a serpent-in-the-garden.

  “May we continue, my lord?” asked Acton’s counsel, in a polite tone.

  “Proceed,” nodded the chairman, although his gaze strayed briefly to Doyle.

  He’ll want a snap, she thought with resignation; they always do.

  Acton’s counsel took up the threads of his interrupted examination. “And your father, sir—the previous Lord Acton; he disappeared, and was pronounced dead by the High Court?”

  Acton bent his head forward slightly. “After the appropriate amount of time, yes.”

  “Did the police conduct an investigation?”

  There was the smallest pause, before Acton offered in a neutral tone, “My father’s death was not believed to be a homicide, at that time.”

  Good one, thought Doyle, listening with grudging approval. Create the implication that—on second thought—perhaps our petitioner, here, did him in.

  Counsel paused for a few beats, apparently deep in thought, and then turned to ask Acton, “Do you have any idea, sir, what happened to your father? Why he disappeared?”

  “None,” said Acton, who’d killed his father himself.

  “Did your father ever mention a—a discrepancy, in the succession?”

  “Never.”

  Doyle had to refrain from wincing at this out-and-out untruth. In point of fact, from what Acton had hinted, his father had been a miserable excuse for a human being and a bit mad—although Acton was a bit mad, himself, so his assessment may or may not be wholly accurate. In any case, his father had threatened to expose the succession-hoax, and had blackmailed everyone he could about it, until Acton—a young man, attending university—finally reached a had-it-up-to-here flashpoint and had murdered the wretched man. She wondered, for a moment, what had finally tipped the balance.

  “When were you first made aware of Sir Stephen’s claim that it is he who is the rightful heir?”

  Acton frowned slightly. “Sir Stephen is my current heir and will remain so, until my son is born.”

  With all appearance of regret, counsel spread his hands. “I beg your pardon, sir; that was a clumsy question. When were you first made aware that Sir Stephen believed he should be the rightful Lord Acton of Trestles?”

  “Only recently.”

  Counsel nodded, and then paced with his hands clasped behind his back. “And yet, Sir Stephen has been residing at your estate, all this time?”

  “Indeed.”

  Counsel paused to look up. “Has he contributed, in any financial way, to the upkeep of the estate?”

  “He has not.”

  Good one, thought Doyle again; portray him as an ingrate. Create the impression that the claim was brought by Sir Stephen only as an attempt to cling to his free ride, now that he’s about to be booted out.

  The chairman could be seen to jot a quick note before he glanced over at Doyle again, and offered his small, dry smile. Doyle realized that she should probably return his smile, and did so.

  “Respondent rests, my lord.”

  “Ah—well, then.” Recalled to the task at hand, the chairman checked his notes. “Has the next witness arrived, as yet?”

  Sir Stephen’s counsel stood. “Not as yet, my lord. I believe there are traffic concerns.”

  “Well, then; let’s adjourn for an hour—it’s nearly lunchtime.” The chairman rose rather hurriedly, and it soon became apparent that his intent was to speak to Doyle, as he made his way toward her chair.

  This was an annoyance, as Doyle was itching to berate her devious husband, but she swallowed her temper and tried to give all appearance of cordiality, as she greeted the elderly man. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Acton had made a beeline toward her also, no doubt hoping to prevent her from shoving the presiding officer aside so that she could lay into him like the rough end of a jack-saw.

  With courtly charm, the chairman took her hand. “May I say that it is a pleasure to meet you, madam. I clipped all the newspaper accounts of your heroic action.” He then leaned in to confide, “I must confess that I feel an affinity; my dear wife was a redhead.”

  “Of course, she was,” said Doyle, and then belatedly realized that she probably shouldn’t be flippant. “That is excellent.”

&n
bsp; “It would not be at all seemly, just now,” the man confided, after having apparently forgotten that he was still holding her hand, “but after this matter has concluded, perhaps I might have a photograph?”

  “Right,” Doyle agreed; and then, because she should boost Acton’s stock even though she’d just as soon strangle him, “I’m the one that’s honored, my lord.”

  The elderly man smiled with genuine pleasure, and then appeared to recall himself as he released her hand, and walked away with a stately tread.

  3

  She was breathtaking when she was angry.

  Doyle could scarce contain herself until the chairman was out of earshot. “Well, he’s hand-picked, husband, and well done, you. Do they send all the retired judges over here, thinkin’ they can’t muck it up too badly?”

  Acton didn’t respond, but instead gently took her elbow and leaned his head down to hers, as he steered her out of the room. “Please don’t be angry, Kathleen.”

  “Of course, I’m angry, you underhanded knocker. Should I’ve held a handkerchief to my pale lips? Honestly, Michael.”

  “I thought it might be helpful if it appeared that I was trying to protect you from this distasteful situation.”

  This was self-evident; Acton had wanted the pregnant bridge-jumper to make a dramatic and alarmed appearance, and she’d answered the call like a bucket boy to the fire bell. After taking a steadying breath, she continued in a low tone, “I don’t like feelin’ like I’m bein’ manipulated, Michael. You’re as bad as the stupid ghosts.” Unfortunately, Acton’s dead ancestors tended to goad her into taking action when she’d rather not, which was most of the time. For example, there was a knight at Trestles who was fit to be tied about something, but as she didn’t speak medieval-ghost, she was at a loss as to exactly what it was.

  Acton soothed, “Let’s have a bite to eat in the cafeteria, and talk it over.”

  She eyed him with deep suspicion because ordinarily, Acton would rather starve than eat in such a public place. With a mighty effort, she calmed herself—best not to start a donnybrook, here in the hushed hallway—and allowed him to lead her away. “Well then, be warned; I’ve half a mind to take up a chair and brain you with it, which wouldn’t help your cause.”

  He made no response as they retreated down the corridor, but instead smiled benignly at her, no doubt because they were the object of many a covert stare.

  Pinning on her own smile, Doyle admitted under her breath, “No; there I’m wrong. We could brawl like Sailortown shants, and it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. I’m heroic, you’re heroic, and Sir Stephen is a fool indeed if he thinks he’s goin’ to get anywhere with this.” She glanced up at him. “Is he goin’ to get anywhere with this?” May as well ask; no doubt Acton had taken his own assessment.

  “No. He will not succeed.”

  It was the truth, but she leaned in and warned in low voice, “I know you think you’re bullet-proof—what with this sorry excuse for a chairman, and your bridge-jumpin’ wife—but Sir Stephen’s counsel’s got a cat-at-the-cream-pot attitude, Michael, and it makes me uneasy. He’s got somethin’ up his sleeve.”

  “Then we shall see. I remain confident.”

  “You’re always confident,” she complained, as they entered the crowded cafeteria. “It’s wearyin’, is what it is.”

  Solicitously, he seated her at a table whilst the diners in their immediate area began to whisper in excited, low voices. “I wasn’t at all confident that you’d marry me. The fear of failure kept me awake at night.”

  She quirked her mouth, as he seated himself across from her. “Serves you right; I should have kept you guessin’ for more than twenty minutes.”

  “The worst twenty minutes of my life.”

  Because she couldn’t help it, she began to laugh, and then rested her head in her hands. “You’re killin’ me, here, Michael. Please tell me straight-out what’s afoot.”

  Acton lifted the menu to examine the offerings. “I think it’s obvious. Sir Stephen has brought a spurious claim to the title, and he will fail in his attempt.”

  She took a guess at what “spurious” meant, and peered through her fingers at him. “That won’t wash, Michael. It’s me, remember?”

  He lowered the card, and amended, “I’d like to settle all pending problems before Edward is born. It would be best if this unpleasantness was resolved.”

  “Unpleasantness” being his aristocratic way of referring to the unfortunate fact that Doyle had been the victim of a shooting, and it was as yet unclear whether the shooter had conspired with Sir Stephen to make certain that Edward was never born.

  Tentatively, she ventured, “Are you sure they’re goin’ to resolve it in your favor?” After all, the imposter-heir had indeed been substituted many years ago; perhaps Sir Stephen had managed to come up with some solid evidence, after all this time.

  “I am.”

  This was the pure truth, and she considered him for a moment, her brow knit. “I trust you, Michael—I truly do; but please keep in mind that you’re bearin’ false witness, all over the place.” Acton was going to be confirmed as a Roman Catholic shortly, and Doyle held out a faint hope that the occasion would not prompt the earth to open up and swallow her poor church whole.

  “I will make it right. I promise.”

  With a sense of resignation, she took up her own menu card and reviewed the items. “And—aside from the minor point of mortal sin—let’s try not to forget that the CID is flailin’ underwater, whilst we’re over here at the palace, fussin’ over stupid bloodlines. I had to dump a very interestin’ murder in poor Gabriel’s lap so as to hotfoot it over to this little holy show.”

  This caught his attention, because Acton liked nothing better than an interesting murder. “Oh? I understood it was a simple robbery-gone-bad.”

  Frowning, she fiddled with her silverware. “It looked to be so—the usual case, where the villain coshed the victim a bit too hard. But there’s something there, Michael—” She paused, thinking. “It has to do with how his shoes were stolen.”

  As her husband tended to respect her intuitive abilities even more than she did, he accepted this rather disjointed explanation without a blink. “Oh? How so?”

  She looked up at him. “I don’t know why it’s important, but it is. The victim was a wealthy man—we don’t have an ID, as yet—but he was in a seedy alley in Lambeth. Why? And the SOCO said that there was a John Doe in the morgue, and that his shoes had been stolen, too.”

  Acton watched her. “And you don’t think these are random, unconnected crimes.”

  “No—no, I don’t,” she said slowly. But I don’t know what it is I’m thinkin’, here.”

  “Williams is the CSM?”

  “Yes, but he’s wasn’t at the scene—he said he was runnin’ down a witness who was willin’ to talk on the Santero case.” A practitioner of the Santeria religion had been arrested for murder, but the CID was having problems building a case because those witnesses who would be most likely to grass were too afraid of the suspect to testify. There was not much protection the Met could offer, when it came to the fear of evil curses.

  Crossing his arms, Acton considered this for a moment. “Let’s find out who handled the John Doe case and have a look at the file—that would seem to be the place to start. Let me know as soon as we have an ID on today’s victim.” He checked his watch. “We’d best eat something; we’ve only another half-hour until we resume. I’ll fetch you a spinach salad—it’s quite good, here.”

  She made a face. “I’m not one for salads,” she reminded him, although he certainly should know this, by now. “Who’s the next witness?”

  He offered in a neutral tone, “I believe my mother is scheduled to testify.”

  Horrified, Doyle stared at him in abject dismay. “Your mother? Saints and holy angels, Michael—what is she goin’ to say? Mother a’ mercy, but this could get nasty.”

  But Acton did not seem to be the least bit out-of-
curl when presented with this possibility. “Indeed.”

  Doyle tried with little success to reign in her extreme alarm at the prospect of the dowager Lady Acton holding forth on the House of Acton’s secrets. “There’s such a thing as bein’ too confident,” she warned. “Do we know her aim, in all this?” Acton’s mother was a thoroughly unpleasant woman who hated her Irish daughter-in-law with the heat of a thousand suns. Not only that, but she also appeared to be very fond of the vile Sir Stephen.

  “We shall soon see. Let’s share the salmon, shall we?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, and Doyle watched in bemusement as he went to fetch the food, thinking that her poor husband was distracted indeed, if he didn’t remember that she hated seafood. Of course, it was no small surprise that he was distracted—what with having to defend his title on the one hand, and trying to out-fox the crooked ACC on the other. She should try to be a better helpmeet to the man; shame on her for sulking, and adding to his troubles.

  With renewed resolve, she smiled on her husband when he returned, and palmed a packet of saltines to eat later.

  4

  She had a low iron count, at the last doctor’s visit. He’d been assured that this was normal, and that no additional supplements would be necessary, but it was worrisome.

  One back in the committee room, Acton saw Doyle re-seated in her chair against the wall and then went over to take his place at the respondent’s table, with his counsel. Doyle noted that the two men didn’t speak, which was probably because they were well-prepared for each and every contingency. Acton’s counsel was a sleek, clever man who was very much enjoying his task despite his slightly bored appearance. Uneasily, Doyle wished she knew what made Sir Stephen’s solicitor exude such an aura of confidence—mayhap Acton’s mother, the dowager, would claim that Acton was not her son, or something. Nothing would surprise her, with this miserable bunch.