Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Read online

  He laughed ruefully. “Acton will kill me.”

  “Or bust you back down to DC.” There; hopefully that was just the right touch and did the trick; he would think she hadn’t believed him even though every word had been true. Mother a’ mercy, she thought—more seething undercurrents. She remembered Munoz had once said that everything was usually about sex; Doyle was beginning to believe—rather to her dismay—that Munoz was right.

  She sat and spoke with him about the case and what was needed, working very hard to restore their former tone even though she wanted nothing more than to find an empty hospital bed and pull the sterilized covers over her head. By the time his parents arrived, she believed she’d succeeded, and so retreated to the back of the room to lean against the wall whilst they reassured themselves that he was stable, scolded him, and then thanked Doyle for her actions. Williams’s mother was a very refined and gracious woman—just the type to own horses, thought Doyle, who felt as though she was observing the Williams family from a different planet. The woman came over to speak to her after she was done with her son, and eyed her in a speculative and friendly way. “So—you are Kathleen.”

  Faith, what a mess, thought Doyle; mother clearly had not been brought up to date. With a smile, she replied, “Yes, I am Kathleen Sinclair, Chief Inspector Acton’s wife.”

  “Oh,” mother answered with a blank look.

  Doyle smoothly steered the conversation back to Williams’s remarkable skills, which were instrumental in breaking a difficult case, and mother played along, still trying to sort it out.

  CHAPTER 14

  WHEN ACTON ARRIVED ON THE SCENE A SHORT TIME LATER, Doyle was ready to throw herself on his shoulder and weep with relief, but managed to refrain. She was still feeling wretched, although the headache had receded, and she was positively longing to lie down right here on the linoleum. He took a brief, assessing look at her and asked that she sit down and wait for him in the hallway; he would speak to Williams for a moment and then they would leave.

  When Acton emerged from the hospital room, he was brusque to the point of rudeness with Williams’s parents, and in no time Doyle was being escorted to the blessed Range Rover with its blessedly pre-heated leather seats.

  “Have you been able to eat anything today?” he asked as he started the car.

  “I will,” she assured him. “Let’s go home; I’ve had a crackin’ foul day, and I have a million things to tell you.” Leaning her head back against the headrest, she made an effort to put her thoughts in order. She was asleep before they hit the highway.

  Sometime later, she awoke as the car slowed down to exit the highway. Acton had clasped one of her hands in his on her lap, his thumb brushing the back of her hand rhythmically—she was frettin’ him to death again. “Michael,” she murmured. “I am sorry for bein’ so tiresome.”

  He looked at her for a moment. “Do me a favor.”

  “Anythin’.”

  “Don’t apologize to me anymore about this. Ever.”

  He meant it. She replied with some heat, “It is all your stupid fault for bein’ so virile.”

  He turned to watch the road again. “That’s my girl.”

  “I won’t go in to work tomorrow; I just want to stay in bed until the doctor’s appointment. And I will eat when we get home—my promise, Michael.”

  He seemed reassured. “And I will stay with you tomorrow morning; I can work from home while we’re waiting to hear whether Solonik’s been brought in.” Reminded, he added, “Starting tomorrow, we were to try out a new domestic—shall I cancel him?”

  “It’s a him, then? No, he can do for us, if he doesn’t mind moppin’ the floor around us while you lie atop me.”

  He smiled and lifted her hand to kiss its back. The compulsive rubbing, thankfully, had stopped. “That was good work today.”

  “It fell into our laps, more or less. Did you know that Solonik was lurkin’ about?”

  “No; but I am happy to discover that he is.”

  This was true, and was reassuring; she had thought it odd that Solonik’s vaunted name had not come up in any of their conversations about these cases—although there hadn’t been much in the way of conversations, truth to tell. She’d been worried that Acton was trying to hide something from her, but it was a false alarm, as it turned out. “I hope they can bring him in; Williams says he flies under the radar.”

  “It should not be too difficult; he’ll assume we have no reason to arrest him, and so he will not have gone to ground.”

  Idly, she watched out the window as they neared their building. “D’you think we’ll be able to pin any of the murders on him?”

  “We shall see; if we can, we can put him away for a long time.”

  She smiled at her reflection in the glass. “Wait until you see the witness, Michael; he’s a gnome.”

  “As long as he can testify, I don’t care if he’s a leprechaun.”

  “Definitely not a leprechaun—he dislikes the entire Irish race, and could barely bring himself to be civil to me.”

  “Hard to imagine.” He lifted her hand again to kiss it. “I missed you.”

  “And I you. Believe me.”

  They pulled into the gated garage, and took the lift up to their flat, Acton’s arm carefully around her. She ventured, “I have two things to tell you that you may not like.” May as well introduce the subject whilst he was being so solicitous.

  “You alarm me.” He switched on the lights and steered her into the kitchen, where she sat at the table, resisting the urge to lay her head down on the cool surface.

  “Toast?” he asked, opening the pantry.

  She thought about it. “Frosty flakes. It’s the only thing that sounds good, but I confess I’m leery after what happened this mornin’.”

  He poured her a bowl and fetched the milk, then sat across from her. “Tell me.”

  “I was sick this mornin’; Williams had to pull the car over. It was hideously embarrassin’.”

  He leaned on his elbows, watching her. “Is that one of the two things?”

  “No,” she confessed. “I’m tryin’ to stall.”

  “Let’s hear it,” he said firmly.

  She recited to him her experience that morning with the newspaper reporter, and how her cab driver had helped her. He listened without comment, but she could feel that he was trying to suppress his extreme displeasure. “You are supposed to be using the driving service, Kathleen.”

  She sighed, and rubbed her face with her hands. “I know, Michael—I know. It just makes me feel as though I’m puttin’ on airs, or somethin’. And my nice Rwandan man waits for me—he’s very kind.”

  Acton leaned back and crossed his arms, considering. “I will call the editor about the reporter; I know the owner, and that should be enough to put a stop to it. Let me think about the driving service—you’d be safer with them, and we could count on them to be discreet.”

  Cautiously heartened by his mild reaction, she teased, “I could always make up a fanciful tale for the newspaper reporter. You could have rescued me from a shark attack, or somethin’.”

  “You don’t swim,” he replied mildly.

  Faith, the man knew every detail about her—it was alarming, truly, although she was not alarmed at all, but was well-content. She ate the cereal, thinking that she did indeed feel a bit better.

  “And the other thing?” he prompted.

  She took a breath. “Michael, you know that I love you, and I always will.”

  He sat immobile, completely alert. “What has happened?”

  Nothin’ for it. “Williams has a crush on me, apparently.” She paused, waiting for the reaction. He said nothing, but kept his dark gaze fixed on her, unreadable. As it did not appear that he was going to hunt Williams down and kill him, she continued cautiously, “When he was sufferin’ from the insulin shock, he said a few things he shouldn’t have.”

  But Acton was not outraged, or even surprised. “You knew this,” she accused him in
wonder.

  He answered carefully, “I suspected.”

  She frowned at him, flummoxed. It made sense that he would be very sensitive to potential rivals, but his reaction, on the other hand, made no sense at all. She asked cautiously, “And you don’t mind?”

  “Do you?”

  She said honestly, “It’s a bit uncomfortable, to be sure. I’d rather not be spendin’ the day alone with him again, I think. Although I played if off as a joke, and if I do avoid him now, he’ll know I know, so I suppose I cannot, if you’re followin’ me.”

  Bending his head, he thought about it. “I doubt he will say or do anything to embarrass you again; this was an unusual situation. To the good, he will always put your interests above his own.”

  She was bewildered. “Are you not jealous?”

  He met her eyes. “Should I be?”

  “Not for a moment.”

  “Well, then.”

  They regarded each other. “You are a strange and wonderful man,” she mused.

  “If he steps over the line, let me know.”

  “I will do that,” she agreed, privately hoping that day would never come. “Now that I’m done confessin’, I don’t know if I have the energy to take a shower, but I definitely need one—I smell of the stables.”

  “I’ll help you,” he offered.

  She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t know if I have the energy for your brand of helpin’, either.”

  With a small smile, he cocked his head. “I promise I won’t expend your energy.”

  “Michael, you knocker; you can’t resist.”

  “Indeed I can. Try me.”

  She considered. “We can compromise; do you think there’s enough room in the shower to lie on top of me?

  “Definitely.”

  “Then let’s to it, man.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE NEXT MORNING DOYLE WOKE TO COMPLETE MISERY HER joints were aching again, and her head was positively pounding. She was rarely ill, and the experience was horrifying to her; she wanted to groan aloud, and if Acton wasn’t there, she would have. He was up and dressed and had made her some toast, which he offered to her in bed.

  “Strawberry jam,” he said, trying to tempt her, as it was her favorite.

  She felt she could not possibly take a bite for love or money. “In a minute, please. Let me wake up.”

  He sat beside her on the bed, looking worried. “Your color is not good.”

  “Michael,” she said crossly, “I am not good all the way down to my corpuscles, I assure you. I’ll come around, just give me some time.”

  The concierge buzzed to announce the arrival of the new domestic, and Acton went to the door to allow him entry. He was a short, slight, very neat-looking man of perhaps fifty years who was introduced to Doyle as Reynolds. He bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and Doyle apologized; she did not feel she could yet rise from the bed. Acton said quietly, “My wife is expecting, and is doing poorly today, I’m afraid.”

  Reynolds said in a measured voice, “Perhaps a heating pad, madam.”

  Doyle thought this a good idea, and the servant called the concierge and acquired one in no time. Doyle pressed the pad to her aching joints gratefully whilst Reynolds retreated to the kitchen and began to assess what was needed. Doyle whispered to Acton, “He seems nice.”

  “We shall see,” said Acton. “We have thirty days to decide.”

  At Acton’s request, Reynolds prepared iced ginger tea, and Doyle tentatively took a sip, then lay back. Impossible. Hopefully, when she saw him today, the obstetrician would give her something to make life bearable. Privately, she was shocked that women were able to live through this and want to do it again and again; Mother of God, she felt wretched. Acton was fretting, but she honestly couldn’t find the wherewithal to put up a brave front.

  “I’m goin’ to be sick, I’m afraid. Promise me you won’t annul this short-lived marriage.”

  “Let me help you.” He held her steady as she rose, and she swayed on her feet for a moment, but then with a monumental effort made for the bathroom for fear that she would disgrace herself in front of Reynolds, who certainly didn’t need to clean up that kind of mess his first day. After shutting the door, she retched until she was spent, and then sat on the cool tile floor, too exhausted to rise again just yet. And I’ve started my period on top of everything else, she thought. Grand.

  She then froze, remembering that she should not be having a period for many more months. No, she thought in horror; no, no, no, no. Fear made her spring to her feet, and the movement caused a gush of warm liquid between her legs. She grabbed a towel and applied pressure, then opened her mouth to call for Acton, but no sound came out. She tried again, and he was through the door in an instant, lifting her in his arms and bringing her back to the bed. As he set her down he called for Reynolds, and Doyle could see that the towel was soaked in blood. She lay back, stunned. “Merciful mother,” she whispered.

  Acton pulled out his mobile whilst Reynolds, without hesitation, replaced the bloody towel with a clean one and held it firmly between her legs. “Best not to look, madam,” he cautioned. “Breathe deeply.” He then held her eyes with his own and demonstrated. Doyle did as she was told, and felt her mouth trembling uncontrollably.

  Acton said, “Timothy is in surgery; I will ring up Dr. Easton.” Dr. Easton was the obstetrician she had not yet met. Doyle could hear Acton asking for the doctor, explaining it was an emergency.

  Reynolds said to her, “May I call your mother, madam?”

  “No,” whispered Doyle. “My mother is . . .” she could not bring herself to say the word. Reynolds seemed to know, however, and asked gently, “Anyone else? Your priest, perhaps?”

  “Nellie,” whispered Doyle. Nellie was her good friend from church who had taken a motherly role in Doyle’s life.

  “It’s in her mobile,” said Acton. “On the table.”

  Reynolds said quietly to Acton, “The bleeding seems to have stopped, sir.” Acton nodded, as he was in conversation with Dr. Easton. Acton then rang off and sat beside her, stroking her head and checking the towel occasionally. Doyle could hear Reynolds speaking in the background. “Nellie, we have not met, but I have an urgent request . . .”

  The doctor arrived to examine her, sympathetic and efficient. Nellie also arrived, pale but composed, and Doyle realized she had not yet told her she was pregnant. She found she could not say anything, but apparently, nothing needed to be said; Nellie pulled up a chair and held Doyle’s hand while in the other she held a rosary.

  The doctor explained that a surgical procedure was necessary to ensure no material was left in the uterus. To preserve her privacy, it could be done at his offices. Nellie helped Doyle clean herself up, and they drove to the doctor’s offices, Reynolds staying behind to mop up. Doyle had never been to a gynecologist and the experience was not a good one to serve as a first impression. After the procedure, she and Acton listened to the doctor explain how often this type of thing happened, and they were reassured that she appeared to have no other problems that would interfere with other potential pregnancies.

  They returned home in the late afternoon. A thoroughly wicked day, thought Doyle; it’s a fine test I’ve been given—in all things give thanks. She took her leave of Nellie with an embrace, and promised to ring her the next day. She then thanked Reynolds sincerely, and he offered to return in the morning. Acton closed the door, and she was finally alone with him.

  “Michael,” she said as he came to hold her close, “please let me say I’m sorry—just once.”

  “You’ve done it; that’s enough.” He pulled her onto his lap and they sat together, her head on his chest, staring out over the city as the light began to fade.

  He asked gently, “Is it the wrong thing to say that there will be others—as many as you like?”

  “Nothin’ you say to me is ever the wrong thing, Michael,” she answered softly. “Truly.”

  They sat very still as it grew dark, Acto
n stroking her head, again and again, while she breathed in the scent of him and tried not to think about the misery that seemed to have settled in the region of her chest. “I wonder,” she finally ventured in a small voice, “if God is punishin’ me because I didn’t want my baby.” There, the terrible words she had been thinking were out. She felt very bleak indeed.

  His arms tightened around her. “I can’t imagine that God would be so petty.”

  “No,” she said. “I suppose not.” She paused and then said the other unthinkable thing she had been thinking. “Do you think the baby knew I didn’t want it?”

  “You were taken by surprise, is all,” he said firmly. “You are an excellent mother.”

  She ran her thumb along his hand in imitation of his own habit.

  “Besides,” he added, “there was probably no baby; only a blastocyte that hadn’t properly enfolded.”

  “Tell me what you are talkin’ about, Michael. In plain terms.”

  He explained to her the process of early embryonic development and she listened, and felt better. “So perhaps it just didn’t take?”

  “Exactly.”

  “On the bright side, I have increased to three the number of men who have seen me completely naked.”

  “That’s more than enough,” he said dryly. “Are you hungry?”

  “You’d think I would be, but I still feel crackin’ awful.”

  “Let’s take it easy, then. What shall we do tomorrow?”

  “I would like to go to work tomorrow, Michael.” When she sensed he would protest, she added, “My mother always said the best cure for sorrow is work. She was right.”

  “As long as you have a care.”

  “I should be back to normal; that’s what the doctor said.” She went to shower, and hesitated for a terrible moment before crossing the bathroom floor. She felt numb, and drained, and so very, very sad. Time, she thought; this is going to take some time to recover from, which makes it all the harder to bear. Later they lay in bed, her back curled against his chest, and she found that the tears that she’d held back could be held back no longer. She tried to weep silently; Acton did not do well when she wept. He was awake, though, and cradled her closer, his forehead against the back of her head, his breath on her nape. Perhaps he wept also; she was too bereft to notice.