Murder in Thrall (24 page)

C
HAPTER
37

 

Dr. Timothy McGonigal was a genial man about Acton’s age who came through the door carrying two black canvas bags. Doyle smiled at him from her perch on the sofa, nervous. She hated doctors but was forced to make an exception for Acton’s friend—the first one she’d met. She would rather have held him off at gunpoint.

“Kathleen, may I present Timothy McGonigal. Timothy, my wife, Kathleen.”

She had never heard Acton refer to her as his wife and she found it very agreeable. If the doctor was surprised, he hid it well, shaking her hand in a friendly fashion. “Very pleased to meet you, Lady Acton.”

I will never get used to that if I live to be a hundred, she thought.

“Now, let’s take a look.” Putting on his glasses, the doctor pulled up another chair. He asked Acton to reposition the lamp, and the two decided they should bring the reading light from the desk over also. Once this was arranged, he unwound the bloody towel and examined the wound. Doyle looked out the windows at the lights and Acton sat next to her, running his thumb over the back of her hand repeatedly.

Feeling the toes on her right foot, the doctor asked her to wiggle them. He then took her blood pressure. He asked no questions at all, other than to inquire if she had any allergies and whether she was pregnant, which made her start guiltily and blush to the roots of her hair.

“Not that we are aware,” answered Acton smoothly.

The doctor then leaned back and addressed them both. “I’ll need to clean it out pretty thoroughly, and with this kind of thing we like to do a debridement. We’ll leave it open for four days or so and then give it a stitch or two. A strong dose of antibiotics should keep any infection at bay. I’ll give you a shot of medication that will help to take the edge off the pain along with a tetanus shot—you’ve lost some blood but I don’t think it’s necessary to have an infusion. Drink lots of water and rest. You’re young; you’ll do.”

When he pulled a pre-filled syringe from his bag, Doyle turned her face into the back of the sofa. Don’t be such a baby, she scolded herself; you’ve been shot, for heaven’s sake.

“Where are you from, Lady Acton?” Doyle was not fooled; the doctor was trying to distract her about the shot. Doctors were wily.

“Dublin.” She gritted her teeth as she felt the needle, her answer muffled by the sofa back.

“A fine place—I was at Trinity College for a Fellowship.”

“Never been inside.” She realized she was being rude and temporized. “I’m sure they are very friendly.” She wasn’t certain what a Fellowship was.

Acton, bless him, interceded. “How are you, Tim? I’ve been remiss.”

“Not to worry; you’ve been distracted.” The doctor was amused and thankfully was taking his vile needle away.

“Yes,” agreed Acton, who was also amused.

He is pleased Timothy is here, Doyle realized—I must pull myself together. “How do you know Michael, Dr. McGonigal?”

“Timothy, please. We suffered through school together, although I suffered a great deal more than your husband.”

Bemused, Doyle tried to imagine Acton in his youth, having a friend like Timothy and attending class, but she failed in the attempt. Having only known him in his formidable adulthood, it was impossible to imagine formative years, anything other than the man beside her. Just as well; she would have been in grade school wearing a plaid skirt and braids.

Acton said, his voice somber, “You’ve heard about Fiona?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, and the two men were grieved. A mutual friend, Doyle realized.

Timothy continued, shaking his sandy head, “It was so senseless—I think that makes it worse.”

Acton said nothing, nor did Doyle; it was not so senseless to them.

“How does Caroline?” Acton asked.

“Good; saving the world. She’d love to see you—speaks of you often.”

“We must find time to visit, then. I will see to it.”

It was true, and if Doyle were not so sleepy, she would be faintly alarmed at the prospect of meeting more of Acton’s friends; although this one did not seem to be hiding any dismay upon making her acquaintance. A peaceful lassitude was stealing over her and she asked, “Is Caroline your wife?”

“My sister. I am unmarried.”

“And you such a kind man,” she observed in wonderment. “It’s a wretched shame, it is.”

“Not everyone is as lucky as your husband.”

Touched, she said, “I thank you for the compliment.” She was having trouble keeping her eyes open and so decided to close them. “You are very good.”

She was dimly aware that the doctor placed a shallow tray under her leg and then inserted another needle near the wound, but this one did not seem as objectionable. He gave some instruction to Acton, asking him to hold her leg a certain way. She then lost interest but could feel some tugging that bordered on the uncomfortable. As she murmured in protest, Acton stroked her forehead. “Hush, Kathleen; it will be over soon.”

She dozed while the doctor continued his ministrations, but then recalled herself enough to tell Acton, “Munoz let me stay at her flat.”

“Did she? Did you break anything?”

“I did not,” proclaimed Doyle, unable to open her eyes. “We were very civil.”

“Shall I have her promoted, then?”

“No,” she said firmly, and the doctor laughed.

Falling asleep, she dreamed strange and disturbing dreams. She was trapped in a basement. Peering out a narrow window onto the street, she saw Acton searching for her and she tried to call out but found she had no voice. Pounding on the window with the heel of her hand she could see that Acton had given up; a limousine came for him and he left. A woman who looked remarkably like the queen but who was Acton’s mother told her to stop making such a fuss, she would wake the baby. Doyle tried to explain that she had been shot and Acton must be told, but the woman walked away in disgust. Taking out her mobile, she attempted to dial a number but it never seemed to connect no matter how carefully she dialed. I must get out, she thought, and kept trying, trembling with frustration.

Doyle awoke later and took a moment to orient herself. Her leg was numb and propped up on pillows, with something cold wrapped around it. She was having a hard time focusing. Acton’s flat; Owens dead.

Acton was standing by the windows, watching her with his hands in his pockets. The doctor had left and the flat was dark. “I’m awake,” she said to him. “The drugs are a rare crack.”

He approached. “Good. Try to keep still.”

“I wasn’t wearin’ my ring, Michael. Timothy will think we aren’t really married.”

“No. He knew we were married.”

“I showed Layton my ring.”

At that, he sat beside her, his feelings somewhere between amused and amazed. “Did you indeed?”

“I killed him. Not Layton; Owens.”

“I know. Try to rest, Kathleen.”

She wanted to smile, but it seemed too much of an effort. “I like it when you say my name.”

Running a finger along her wrist, he replied, “I like to say it.”

“I kissed you first, remember?”

“Yes; I’ll not soon forget.”

“I was afraid of the ring, so I put it in my rucksack. I didn’t lose it—I put it in the zipper compartment. I was very, very careful.” She couldn’t emphasize this enough.

He took her left hand and held it pressed between both of his. “You needn’t wear it if you don’t want to.” He meant it. Knocker.

“That’s a pint full o’ ridiculous.” She dozed for a minute, and then added, “I think I will buy you a ring.”

“I would like that very much.”

“The receptionist at Layton’s must see that you have a ring,” she said firmly.

“I will be certain to show it to her.”

She slept again, fitfully, and then awoke with a start to wonder if she was having another nightmare—the man who had shadowed her now stood by the windows where Acton had stood, watching her. She gasped and sat up, reaching instinctively for the weapon that was no longer on her leg.

“It’s all right, miss,” the man said in alarm, and called out, “Chief!”

Acton strode into the room. “Easy, Kathleen, he’s with me.”

She sank back, slightly dizzy and her heart still pounding. “You should have told me, Michael. It would have saved me a lot of worryin’.”

His brows drew together. “I’m sorry; I thought he was competent and you would be none the wiser.”

The man had the grace to look ashamed and so Doyle interjected, “It was only luck that I twigged him.”

Acton said nothing and Doyle added, “If I had known he was with us, I would have let him shoot stupid Owens.”

“He would have to stand in line.”

“It’s ironic, is what it is.” Doyle leaned back again and closed her eyes. “I told you that you shouldn’t go about killin’ people and then I am the one who does.”

But Acton would not allow her to bear a tinge of guilt over the events of the evening. “You were perfectly justified and I’ll not hear another word about it.”

“Just the same,” insisted Doyle, “it’s ironic.”

Opening her eyes, she saw Acton make a gesture to the other man, who nodded and moved into the spare bedroom. Acton leaned over to kiss her. “Stay here, we’ll be back shortly. Promise me you won’t move.”

“What will you do with him?” asked Doyle, who, although her faculties were not fully restored, knew very well what was afoot.

“I’m afraid that’s none of your business.”

Doyle decided this was grossly unfair, given the situation, but found she was too sleepy to protest.

C
HAPTER
38

 

Doyle awoke during the night in a cold sweat, filled with a nameless dread and wondering where she was. She tried to leap up but her leg hurt and she gasped. Acton was beside her, his arms around her. “Hush, it’s me.”

“Bad dream,” she explained, wincing as she sat again. “Wretchedly sorry.” She realized that he had been drinking, which, all in all, was not a surprise.

“How’s the leg?”

“Hurts,” she said succinctly. “What’s your poison?”

“Scotch.”

The room was illuminated by the lights from the street below, shining in through the expansive windows. He had been sitting in the large leather chair pulled next to her sofa and on the side table was a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch and a small glass. It was apparent that heavy inroads had been made.

“May I have a taste?”

“You don’t drink,” he said shortly. He was in a foul mood but was trying to hide it. Small wonder, poor man.

“Just a sip, to see what it’s like.”

She held out her hand and he hesitated, thinking to refuse, then handed her the glass. Tasting the amber liquid, she couldn’t conceal her extreme distaste and handed it back. “Ach, that’s foul. You’re on your own, my friend.”

“Just as well. You are supposed to take some antibiotics and another pain pill.” He rose, heading to the kitchen to get the pills and a glass of water.

She made a face. “I don’t like the pain medication—I think it gave me bad dreams.”

Leaning against the counter, he thought about it. “The pills may not do so—they’ll put you to sleep, which is probably beneficial at this point.”

A compromise was in order. “All right; I’ll take them only if I can sleep in your bed. With you. And you may bring the scotch.”

Tilting his head, he countered, “Only if you will not demand sex from me again.”

“Done.”

As she dutifully swallowed the pills, she rested her gaze on the bare floor where Owens had fallen. “You will need a new rug.”

“Christ.”
A world of anger was contained in the word.

“You shouldn’t blaspheme, Michael,” she admonished gently. She shouldn’t be so hard on him, he was struggling—she could feel it. “Come here and sit with me, please.” She held out her hand.

He sat beside her, his hand still clasping hers, and met her gaze. “We needn’t live here if you’d rather not. I’d understand.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Michael, have you
seen
your view? Don’t be daft, man. Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“And you call yourself an Irishwoman.”

She laughed, and he rose to walk to the kitchen to wash his hands and splash water on his face. Watching him, she offered, “Please don’t sober up on my account. I completely understand, and besides, I will be asleep in a matter of minutes.”

“You are a very commendable wife.” Toweling his face, he returned to sit beside her on the sofa.

“Well, I confess I am not much of a cook. However, I am handy with a gun, which as it turns out, is the more useful talent.”

This, however, appeared to be the wrong thing to say. He met her eyes in all seriousness. “Perhaps you should consider a different career path.”

Surprised, she didn’t know what to say for a few moments. “Michael,” she said gently, “I am a good detective.”

He dropped his head, stubbornly refusing to look at her. “It is too dangerous.”

She blinked. Mother a’ mercy, was he going to be all lord-and-master and put his foot down? Remembering that he was bosky, Doyle proceeded with caution. “Look, I know this has been very difficult for you—”

He lifted his head to interrupt her, his eyes blazing and his words clipped. “For me? Don’t say it; not with your blood all across the floor.” Unable to contain himself, he stood and paced. She had a glimpse of white-hot rage; then it was gone.

Although she was taken aback, she kept her voice steady. “It is true, Michael. You would wear me around like a coat if you could—I understand how miserable this is for you.”

He paused in his movements and she could see that he had mastered his momentary loss of control. The words were quiet. “You could be brought in out of the field.”

This idea was nothing short of alarming, particularly in light of how miserable she had been the past two days whilst out of the field; impossible to consider such an assignment stretching out endlessly. “I want to work with you, in the field. I am good at it, Michael—we are good together.” She tried not to sound like she was pleading; she knew instinctively that if she pleaded with him, she could get whatever she wished and that was not the way she wanted to deal with him.

Fingering his glass, he did not look at her. She reached up to wrap her fingers around his forearm. “I’m quite the hardy banner, y’know. Thank the holy saints for you and your illegal weapon; I swear I will wear it every day until I am eighty.”

He changed the subject. “Timothy will return tomorrow to check on you. He said you are to rest.”

“Readily. I’ll call Habib in the mornin’ and tell him I’m home sick.”

His eyes met hers and there was a challenge in them. “I have a better idea; I will call Habib and tell him we will not be coming in because we are new-married.”

Nodding, she replied in a steady voice, “Fair enough.” Perhaps he would capitulate on the work issue if she capitulated on this. Her two weeks were not up yet, but she had always heard that marriage was full of compromises. “Now, help me into bed.”

He slid his arms behind her shoulders and under her knees and carefully lifted her; she put her face into his neck and breathed in—he smelled of scotch. It was a novel experience; she felt like the heroine in a romance except that she was worried about forensics. “Owens was in the kitchen. Should we wipe it down?”

As he carried her to the bedroom, he put his cheek against her head. “Why would we do that?”

“Prints and epithelials?” she ventured.

He seemed amused as he lowered her into the bed. “Why would anyone be checking my kitchen for prints and epithelials?”

“Oh. I see what you mean. Will anyone wonder what happened to him?”

He took off his shoes, slid into bed beside her, and pulled the comforter around them, avoiding her leg. She noted he hadn’t brought the scotch. “I really don’t care.”

Although she was getting drowsy from the pain pills, she knew, strange as it seemed, that he was not telling the truth.

They lay quietly for a few minutes. “Security cameras,” she said suddenly.

“Taken care of. Try to sleep.”

Breathing in his scent, she slid her hand over his chest, then between his shirt buttons. After unbuttoning a button, she leaned over to gently kiss his exposed skin, her hair falling around her face. She could feel his intake of breath.

“I thought we made a bargain.”

“I missed you,” she said softly.

“Kathleen, we will make you pregnant if we keep this up.”

“Right you are.” She lay back down. “I’m a wicked temptress, I am.”

His arms tightened and he said nothing.

“I’m a murderess, too. I’ll have to go confess.”

He said carefully, “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Very wise,” she said sleepily. “You’ll see.”

“Why—exactly—did he decide you were next in line?”

An alarm went off inside Doyle’s befuddled head. As though speaking to a child, she said, “He was nicked, Michael.” That, she thought, and the semi-pornographic snaps you have of me in your mobile
,
which I must pretend not to know about. Apparently Section Sevens were thick on the ground in London; they should post a warning or something at the city limits.

“Did he tell you why?”

She had the certain conviction that he had waited until the drugs were working to ask these questions. He was a wily one, he was.

Doyle struggled to focus. She wouldn’t tell him; the irony was a little too sharp and she was still stinging from Owens’s comments. And Acton would be guilt-ridden, thinking he was at fault for her ordeal. Best leave the whole thing dead and buried with Owens—that would be the end of it.

“What did he say to you?”

Making an effort to string a coherent sentence together, she said vaguely, “I tried to keep him talkin’, to give me a chance to get a shot off.” She paused and added, “Like in those mysteries—Agatha Christie.” And the scheme had actually worked, she realized. Huzzah. Along with the fact that he had been reluctant to kill her to begin with—it really does pay to be nice to everyone just as the nuns taught you. She thought of something she was willing to tell Acton. “He said he killed my father.”

“Yes. What was his purpose, do you know?”

“Michael, he just did. He was sorry.”

“Why was he sorry?”

To throw him off, she managed to dredge up the name of a scapegoat. “He said he worked for Solonik.”

There was a pause. “Did he indeed?”