Murder in Retribution (13 page)

W
HEN
D
OYLE ENTERED THE FLAT, HOWEVER, IT WAS TO DIS
cover that Acton was to be given a reprieve in the form of a visitor. Father John and Acton were seated before the fire, drinking scotch, and Acton rose to greet her, approaching to kiss her cheek. He paused. “What is it?”

“It can wait,” she replied, and hoped this was true—although surely, as long as he was here with her he was not arranging to murder people, left and right. Or one would think.

“I thought we were to go to Candide’s,” he chided her gently as he helped her remove her coat.

“I completely forgot; I was too busy sleuthin’. Has Williams reported?”

“No.”

It was the truth. Interesting, she thought—Williams is going to stay well out of it. Perhaps he has divided loyalties; after all, his mother likes me. “Is it instruction night?” Occasionally Father John and Acton met at the flat for Acton’s instruction ; more often they met at the church.

“No; he wanted to come speak to both of us.”

Reminded of the probing questions the priest had asked at the end of lunch, Doyle found this to be ominous—faith, it never rained but it poured—and indeed, it seemed the clergyman was not his usual self as he rose to meet her. “Kathleen ; I’m sorry to be disturbin’ you at home.”

“Not at all, Father; I’m that glad to see you again.”

“Come sit down,” suggested Acton, and Doyle could only sink gratefully into the sofa next to her husband, resisting an urge to put her head in his lap like a child, and sleep away every unsolvable problem.

The priest hesitated, and Doyle could see that he was deeply troubled. “I am not certain how to go about broachin’ the subject.”

Oh-oh, thought Doyle, and remembered his questions about Acton’s fidelity. Merciful God, she pleaded; no more bad news, please—a body can only bear so much. She sat up straighter and sidled closer to Acton. No matter what, she thought as she firmly took his hand in both of hers, I’m his wife and I love him.

Acton glanced at her in surprise before addressing the clergyman with his best interrogation technique. “Why don’t we start with explaining what you were doing, and then we can explore what it was you saw and heard.”

“Oh,” said the priest, startled. “It’s not that I’m a witness, or anythin’. Well, not in a manner of speakin’, anyway.”

Doyle reminded herself that she should not be impatient with a man of the cloth, even if he was taking forever to get to the point and it was something very bad—she could feel it. She clung to Acton’s hand and closed her eyes to ward it off, whatever it was.

“I hope you’re not thinkin’ I’m a foolish old man,” Father John continued, apologetic. “I read a lot of mysteries and it puts ideas in my head, sometimes.”

“What is it, then?” prompted Doyle, who had opened her eyes because she was thinking rather optimistically that this didn’t much sound like an adultery speech, thanks be to God.

“I’m wonderin’,” said the priest, “if Kathleen is bein’ poisoned.” There was a profound silence for a moment, whilst Doyle stared at the priest in astonished silence. “Look at her nail beds,” the clergyman urged Acton.

Acton snatched up her hands and walked over to the floor lamp, Doyle necessarily following. He studied them under the bright light.
“Christ,”
he breathed.

“You mustn’t blaspheme, Michael.” And in front of a priest, no less. She tried to look around her husband at her nails, which were bitten embarrassingly short.

Acton pulled her around without ceremony and held her face to the light, turning up her eyelids one at a time whilst she winced from the brightness. He then held her head in both his hands; closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. Rattled, he was, and he was not one who was easily rattled. Gently she placed her hands on his arms and squeezed them. “It’s all right, Michael; it’s a hardy banner I am, and I’m goin’ to be fine.” I hope, she added silently. She was shaken herself, but had to put on a brave front for her husband, who had a tendency—apparently—to overreact when something went badly for her.

Father John stood at a small distance, bewildered. “Who would be wantin’ to do such a thing?”

Acton pulled back to look at her, carefully shuttering his reaction. She knew they both harbored the same thought; the dowager Lady Acton had been at the flat, unsupervised. He replied, “I don’t know. We should isolate the source and perhaps that will be indicative—it may be the result of a mistake.” He didn’t believe this, and neither did she.

“I haven’t been eatin’ much lately.” She thought about it. “Mainly the lattes at work, the ginger tea, and the cereal.”

“Any of which I don’t eat,” Acton pointed out. “It must be one or a combination of them. We will have them tested.”

“Will you be callin’ the police?” asked Father John, equal parts horrified and fascinated.

They both looked at him in silence. “We
are
the police,” Doyle pointed out gently.

“Of course, of course—forgot for a moment,” said the priest in flustered apology. “All the excitement.”

Excitement is not what we need, thought Doyle. “Father, it may be best to say nothin’ of this until we know a bit more.”

“Kathleen is right,” Acton agreed. “We may need to set up a trap and seizure, if someone is attempting murder. We shouldn’t let him know we are on to him.”

Father John completely understood this strategy, as it was a common ploy in murder mysteries. “Not a word,” he agreed, nodding.

Doyle assured him, “As soon as we know somethin’, I will bring you up to speed.” Hopefully there would be no need to bear false witness to a priest, which must be some sort of double sin.

Acton explained they needed to seek immediate medical attention, and Father John took his cue to leave. They saw him out the door, Doyle embracing him as Acton thanked him for his sharp work.

“Thank yourself,” said the priest practically. “If you hadn’t called me I wouldn’t have had the chance to notice.” He paused and put a hand on Doyle’s arm. “I’ll be prayin’, lass.”

“Go raibh maith agat, Athair.”

As soon as he shut the door, Acton pulled Doyle into his arms, holding her so hard it was difficult to breathe. She cautioned, “Don’t forget that you can break my bones.”

He loosened his grip, but she had a quick impression of fury, white-hot and frightening in its intensity. The last time she’d seen such a glimpse, the ensuing wreckage saw the demise of half the criminals in greater London. “I’m goin’ to be fine, Michael. Truly.”

He buried his mouth in the side of her neck and murmured against it, “How did I miss this?”

“We assumed it was the pregnancy makin’ me sick,” she said soothingly, stroking his back and hoping he’d ease up a bit, or her fingernails would be even bluer. “You’d have noticed, sooner or later.” She could only imagine his chagrin; he studied her constantly, and he must feel that he had failed her.

“What now?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact. No need to point out that the next step needed careful consideration.

He was thinking, and had thankfully loosened his grip. “First, we need to assess the damage; you may need treatment.”

She nodded. “Do we keep it private, or go to the hospital?” She had a feeling that she already knew the answer.

“We’ll ask Timothy.”

She made a sound of acute embarrassment. “He’ll think you married a walkin’ disaster, Michael.”

But Acton had already pulled his mobile. “We need to keep it quiet, but you must be examined immediately.”

This was unarguable, and she bowed to the inevitable. “All right, then; ask him if we can get some sort of discount.”

Acton met her eyes, but she could see that he didn’t appreciate this attempt at gallows humor. Don’t be flippant, she cautioned herself; he’s hiding it now, but he’s still simmering on the edge of an eruption, and if he does erupt, Katy bar the door. To soothe him, she began gently stroking his arm, in a manner similar to his own as he waited for Timothy to pick up.

“Tim, can you come over at your earliest convenience?” Acton glanced at Doyle when listening to the response. “No; no need for the surgery kit this time.”

Doyle suppressed an inappropriate urge to giggle; God only knew what Timothy thought was going on over here at the House of Acton.

“He’ll be over.” Acton lifted her hand from his arm and kissed it. “Come into the kitchen, I imagine that milk is a good idea.”

“Unless it’s poisoned,” Doyle cautioned. “I put milk in my cereal, and you don’t drink it a’tall.”

This gave him pause. “Water, then; and plenty of it.”

He sat across from her whilst she obediently drank a large glass of water without protest; she was shaken by the discovery but was trying to bear up so that Acton didn’t run amok. He watched her, his dark brows drawn together. “I wish I knew how long.”

“Not long, Michael,” she assured him. “My symptoms changed; I started gettin’ a splittin’ headache, and my bones would ache.” She thought about it. “Less than a week, I think.”

There was a small pause while he regarded her with an unreadable expression. “You didn’t tell me this.”

“No.” She found that she didn’t want to explain why she hadn’t wanted to tell him; he hated any sort of discussion about his condition, and the last thing she wanted, just now, was a discussion about his condition since she may be forced to confess about Solonik and she
truly
wasn’t up to it. Not yet.

He regarded her for a silent moment, and she had the lowering conviction that he knew exactly what she was thinking. You are a coward, she chastised herself—you are married to this man, and you mustn’t tiptoe around him.

“A week,” he repeated, breaking the silence, and she knew neither of them wanted to say what was uppermost in their minds—the wicked dowager had visited about a week ago. Doyle pointed out, “Marta would know the items that only I would be eatin’ and Marta didn’t like me much.”

“So Marta may or may not have acted alone.”

Doyle thought the same thing and was silent. She wondered what Acton would do if it could be shown unequivocally that his mother had tried to murder her.

“And Marta tried to get back in yesterday.”

She had forgotten about this. “Holy Mother,” breathed Doyle. “Another dose, d’ye think?”

“Or an attempt to remove the evidence; we will soon know. I intend to visit Marta tomorrow to seek some answers.”

There was no question he was fit to murder—which was not a good thing, as apparently he was well-practiced. “Then I should come also, Michael, so we know if she’s lyin’.”

He looked like he might protest, but finally had to agree with the wisdom of this plan. “Right. I have her address—assuming she still lives with her cousin and has not yet returned to Trestles. We can go in the morning.”

They conferred, and decided to tell Timothy that Doyle had shown symptoms but they weren’t certain of the source. Acton said he would take samples into the forensics lab early tomorrow and when she looked up in alarm, he assured her that he had someone at the lab that would do the testing off the record for him. So, she thought with interest as she examined her bitten-and-blue fingernails; there were other loyal foot soldiers—aside from Williams—scattered about the Met. And small wonder he wanted to keep it off the record; it was entirely possible that his mother was poisoning his wife. Faith, thought Doyle; like a Greek play, it was.

T
IMOTHY APPEARED IN SHORT ORDER, LOOKING CALM AND GE
- nial, and as though being called to address yet another home-bred emergency at Oakham Mount Mansions was completely routine. He became quite serious, however, when the situation was explained. “Poison?” He stared at Acton, incredulous, but Acton only nodded.

“She has the symptoms, and has been doing poorly.”

Timothy immediately regained his composure. “I see. Well then; let’s have a look.” He walked briskly to the kitchen to wash his hands, and Doyle was reminded that he handled all manner of strange cases at his free clinic; it probably took a lot to shock him.

“Am I back on the sofa?” she asked nervously. She hated doctors, but did not hate Timothy, so she harbored mixed emotions.

“Please sit here right here, Kathleen—under the light.”

Pulling up a chair, he examined her, gently probing along her throat with his fingers and taking a look under her eyelids as Acton had.

“Have you had any secretions from your nose?”

“No—not to speak of.”

He reached in his bag for one of those things with the light bulb to look down her throat. Thus far, he had given no indication that he was going to give her a shot, and she was cautiously optimistic that no needles were slated to make an appearance.

“Have you felt confused, or unable to concentrate?”

“No more than my usual,” she teased, and he smiled in response, but she could tell he was alarmed beneath his kindly manner.

He applied to Acton. “Have you noticed any problem with her mental faculties?”

“Not at all.”

The doctor sat back in his chair, regarding her. “That’s good news; it does not appear to be anything that attacks the nervous system. Arsenic, maybe; or an organophosphate pesticide. It could be the devil to figure out how you got it.”

Doyle and Acton carefully did not look at each other.

“I’ll take some blood and hair follicles for testing, just to verify, but you are right, she does have the symptoms.” The doctor glanced at Acton. “A blind test; no names.”

“No need,” said Acton. “I will make the arrangements for testing.”

“Timothy,” Doyle ventured in a small voice. “Is the blood test truly necessary?”

“Perhaps not,” said Acton immediately.

But Timothy took her hand in his. “I should do a multiple screen, Kathleen; I must rule out liver damage, and check for other indicators.”

“Oh.” For the first time, she felt the prickling of tears. Don’t cry, you knocker, she chastised herself; you’ve been poisoned, for heaven’s sake.

“Don’t watch.” Acton gathered her up into his arms and she ducked her head into his chest, gritting her teeth while the tourniquet was deftly twisted around her arm. I am such a baby about this, she thought; and rubbed her face back and forth on Acton’s shirt when the needle pinched. I think it comes of feeling that I am a fortress, or something, and I don’t much like being breached. Unless it is Acton, doing the breaching in bed, of course. This seemed such a profound thought that she almost forgot her present misery.

“Almost finished,” said Timothy.

I tend to stay very much within myself, she realized, because of the—of the gift, or the sight, or whatever it is; but Acton scaled my walls and planted his flag despite this, and I am very happy he did. We are alike, in that way; he stays within himself too—even with me—but he is in turn very happy I breached his walls. We will sort this marriage business out, between us; we are not your ordinary mister and missus, after all.

“Well done; do you need to lie down?”

“I am fine, Timothy. Truly.”

She disentangled from Acton while the good doctor rooted around in his bag. “Good—I have some charcoal tablets in my kit—rarely see the need for them, of course. Take them—it can’t hurt—and it will also help to eat sulfur products; eggs and such.” He paused. “Best not to eat any of the food on hand; I imagine something is tainted and until we know, don’t take any risks.”

Acton nodded. “I will take care of it, Tim.”

The doctor reached to take Doyle’s hand again. “Please don’t be alarmed; as long as there is no damage to the organs—and I don’t believe there is—this type of thing will clear up in no time.”

Mustering up a smile, she assured him that he relieved her no end.

He had not made any reference to her miscarriage, but now offered, “I haven’t had a chance to offer my sympathy for your sad loss, Kathleen; I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “So am I.”

Acton swiftly interceded to engage the doctor in a conversation about a his caseload, and Doyle thought with relief that she would hear sympathy from only one person more, and then she could be done with it. With a stab of guilt, she offered, “I must call Caroline—I have neglected her.”

“Don’t worry about Caroline,” Timothy assured her. “She’s a brick.”

Yes, Caroline was a brick and they were lucky that they have each other, thought Doyle. She wondered why neither had married, as they were about Acton’s age, in their late thirties. Caroline could be a little trying, but some men liked that type of officious, managing woman, and as for Timothy, not only was he a kind man, he was a doctor, to boot. Of course, Timothy had little chance for romance, with Caroline constantly about, but if any of the four friends had wanted to make a push to get married, presumably it would have happened. Yet again, she tried to imagine a young Acton, attending classes at university and becoming the man he was today, but fell short in this exercise. Perhaps it was because he never spoke of his past, his family, or even his estate, and she respected his fortress in the same way he respected hers. She knew instinctively that she made him vulnerable, and so was very reluctant to press him; to use her power to control him. On the other hand, murder was murder—despite what everyone else seemed to think—and she should make a push to curb some of his more bloodthirsty tendencies.

They thanked the doctor and saw him out; then Doyle made ready for bed while Acton gathered samples from the food in the pantry to be tested tomorrow, his movements quick and efficient as he worked in silence. He wanted to be busy, she could sense, and although his manner was carefully controlled, beneath it all simmered the white-hot rage. She waited for him, thinking she’d have to tell him about raving-lunatic Owens soon, but not just yet; tomorrow was soon enough. They had already wrestled with a basketful of drama tonight, and mainly she wanted to soothe him; he was in a state, was her husband.

As Doyle watched him from the bed, she realized that she felt relieved in a strange way. There was a good reason for her recent misery; it wasn’t just her body showing an exasperating frailty. And God had not broken faith with her; an evildoer had interceded. Doyle may not understand God’s mysterious purpose, but she could well-and-away understand murder; it was her job, after all. She fell asleep before Acton came to bed, and for the first time in a week, slept the night through.