Murder in all patience, p.7
Murder in All Patience, page 7
“Oh,” said Doyle, who remained clueless.
“And just like in the story, the hound is fake.”
She blinked. “The horror-hound, d’you mean?”
But she found herself awake, her heart beating in her ears as she stared at the bedroom ceiling.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning, they were walking Edward to school when Acton got a call, and dropped back to take it. Seizing the opportunity, Doyle asked Reynolds, “What’s an ‘NPC,’ Reynolds; d’you know?”
The butler raised his brows. “The National Planning Commission, perhaps?”
With a small frown, Doyle replied, “No—it’s a type of person, I think. It may have somethin’ to do with video-games.”
If the butler thought the topic unexpected, he gave no sign and instead consulted his mobile phone. “Allow me to look it up, madam.”
After a moment, he revealed, “An NPC is a non-playing character. A character who does not advance the action.”
Her brow cleared. “Oh—that’s it, I think.”
And it made sense; Acton was regrettably unconcerned with how his plans might affect the bystanders who were caught up in his wake—it was all part of that ruthless-smiting problem. So; the ghost wanted her to try to temper this tendency—which was a huge ask, since “mercy” and Acton were not even nodding acquaintances. Although in the same breath, the ghost had said that Acton was loyal to those who’d saved him—a strange sort of thing to say, since that group would appear to be so small as to be nonexistent. He trusted very few people, too—although one of them was the butler who walked beside her, so mayhap he could serve as a starting-point.
Thoughtfully, she asked Reynolds, “Have you ever saved Acton? I mean aside from helpin’ him stay organized, and such.”
The servant raised his brows. “Saved Lord Acton, madam?”
“Aye,” she persisted. “Saved him.”
“I would humbly suggest that I have saved him time, madam.”
“I don’t think that’s what was meant,” she mused. “I think he was talkin’ about epic battles, and life-or-death.”
“And who is this, madam?”
“Never you mind. Can you think of anyone who has? Saved Acton, I mean.”
“I will admit that no one comes to mind, madam.”
“No,” she agreed a bit crossly. “It’s a crackin’ puzzle, and I’m sick to the back teeth of always havin’ to sort-out crackin’ puzzles.” Although she suddenly remembered that the ghost had given her a mighty clue, and so mayhap she should delve into it. “Remind me about the Basketville story—wait; what’s the name again?”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles, madam.”
“Right; but there was no hound—it was fake.”
“There was a real hound,” Reynolds corrected. “But it was not supernatural—it was painted with phosphorus to appear so, in an attempt to frighten a man to death.”
Doyle considered this. “And why was this necessary? Why not just shoot the fellow, and be done with it?”
“I believe the author wanted to make the story more compelling, madam.”
In all fairness, she conceded, “I can see that—nothin’ more compellin’ than a ghost-dog.” And Doyle knew of which she spoke, having made her own acquaintance of one.
“And a more obvious, outright murder may have raised questions; the plot involved a hidden heir, who was hoping to secure a fortune.”
“Right,” said Doyle, who vaguely remembered this. “I do like hidden-heir stories.”
“Indeed, madam. A common plot device.”
“Well, we’ve a hidden-heir situation in real life, what with this Song case. It’s a huge pile of money, and nobody knows who it’s goin’ to, yet.”
“A very good point, madam.”
“What’s this?” asked Acton, who’d returned to join them.
“I’m brushin’ up on the Basker—the Basketville story,” Doyle said. If the man loved her little misspeaks, who was she to deprive him? “Reynolds is tellin’ me about the ghost-dog, and the hidden heir.”
“Reynolds did an excellent adaptation of the story,” Acton said.
“Thank you, sir,” said Reynolds in his usual butler-voice, but Doyle knew he was pleased as punch; in the mysterious ways of aristos and their servants, praise was rarely given and just as rarely expected.
They’d arrived at the school gate, and as they watched Edward noisily meet his mates, Acton informed her, “An assault has been reported in Richmond, and I believe there may be a tie-in to the Song case. I would ask you and Williams to handle the victim-interview, if you would.”
“Oh-ho,” she replied, regarding him with great interest; “What’s afoot? Never say it’s another heir?”
“Possibly. The victim is Vincent Delenger.”
In some surprise, Doyle asked, “Delenger, the dodgy barrister?”
“The very same.”
Confused, she asked, “How can someone so old be a Song-heir?”
“He is Mrs. Song’s father.”
Her brows shot up. “Is he? Faith, there’s a wrinkle. But isn’t that backwards—how’s her father her heir?”
He explained, “If Mrs. Song’s husband cannot inherit—because he attempted to murder her—then her fortune goes to her own next-of-kin. Because she had no children and her mother is deceased, her next-of-kin would be her father.”
Doyle regarded him with a skeptical brow. “That seems a bit of a stretch, Michael.”
“Nevertheless, it is a possibility. I would like you to go along with Williams for the interview, if you would.”
“So; you’re suspicious of this old fellow?” This was the logical assumption, if he wanted his trusty truth-detector to listen-in.
“Delenger makes an unlikely victim,” was all he offered.
“And he’s known to be a bit slippery,” she prompted.
“And he is known to be a bit slippery,” he agreed.
“All right—I’m willin’; what’s the report?”
“Delenger was walking along the river’s edge when an assailant pushed him in. He managed to grasp on to a piling and call for help, and was subsequently treated at hospital for minor injuries.”
Doyle considered this. “Faith, that whole family is a rollin’ ball of bad luck.”
Acton tilted his head. “Whether or not it is luck of any sort remains to be seen.”
“Happy to winkle-out the truth, then. Do I call Williams, or do you?”
“He will come to pick you up shortly, if that is agreeable.”
This was actually a happy coincidence, in that she was hoping for an opportunity to pick Williams’ brain about her ghost. Although it was possible that Acton knew a thing or two about gamers—he seemed to know everything about everything. Therefore, she offered in a casual tone, “Williams plays video-games; the ones where everyone’s fightin’ epic battles, and people join-in from all over the world.”
“Perhaps not to my taste in entertainment.”
“Aye—me neither; I’ve enough trouble keepin’ track of all the characters in my own life. But you’d be good at it, I think, and it’s just as well that you never tried your hand—I think it winds-up takin’ up all your time.”
He put a fond arm around her. “Perhaps when I retire, then.”
“Are you ever goin’ to retire?”
“Eventually. I could keep bees.”
With a frown, Doyle asked, “Does Trestles have beehives?” Surely, she would have noticed such a thing.
“Not as yet.”
With a touch of exasperation, she dropped the subject and thought; he thinks this is all very amusing, for some reason. The ghost is right; he’s enjoying himself—and when Acton’s enjoying himself, Katy bar the door.
Which reminded her of her ghost’s request—a big ask, but it was important, for reasons unknown. Therefore—mentally girding her loins—she began, “You know, Michael; please try to remember that you can’t just sacrifice people if you don’t think they’re important. I know that’s how it used to be—back in the olden days—but I hope you learned a lesson, what with the Gabriel situation. You were movin’ the chess pieces to suit your own notions instead of straight-up makin’ an arrest, and poor Gabriel wound-up payin’ the price. It’s far better to just arrest people who are in need of arrestin’—otherwise innocent people might suffer.”
He was listening thoughtfully, but noted, “Unfortunately, arrests require evidence.”
She paused, because this was true, and one of the main frustrations of law enforcement; the whole point of an investigation was to find enough evidence to prevail at trial, and oftentimes such evidence simply did not exist, so that even those who were obviously guilty got off scot-free.
Stubbornly, she persisted, “Aye, but there are plenty of times that you’ve a plan goin’ forward, and you don’t much care that your target has got targets of his own. People shouldn’t be pawns, to sacrifice as you see fit.”
“I understand your point, Kathleen, but oftentimes my hands are tied.”
But Doyle wasn’t having it, and scoffed, “Your hands are never tied, my friend; you can’t pull the wool with me—I’ve been sittin’ in the front-row for far too long. You take the palm at settin’-up an evidence trap—whether the evidence is valid or not.”
He tilted his head in concession. “I suppose it would be more correct to say that I have to pick my battles, then. Regrettably, I can’t save everyone.”
But—even though his words were sincere—she protested, “I don’t know, Michael; I think we’re supposed to try—no matter how much we think it might cost.” Fairly, she added, “Although I suppose that’s the difference betwixt us; you’re practical-ruthless and I’m naïve-unruthless.”
He smiled. “I suppose that is a fair assessment.”
“Apt,” she agreed. “Although you’ve definitely tempered your ways, Michael, and don’t think that I can’t see it. You went through a bit of a rough patch when I got conked, but then you straightened yourself out—savin’ Sir Vikili, and Savoie too, even though in the old days you probably wouldn’t have lifted a finger. It was all very well-done.”
“Thank you,” he said, and kissed her temple.
She blew out a breath. “I will concede that this whole justice-business is miles more complicated than you might think.”
“I would agree.”
Reminded of her original purpose, she added firmly, “But the point is this, Michael; you’ve got to think about the innocent bystanders who are caught-up in the crossfire. We should try to save them—as much as we are able.”
Curious, he bent his head to hers. “Is there anyone in particular to whom you refer?”
She sighed. “No—no ‘whoms’ that I know of. I’m just rattlin’ on, like I do.”
“Rattle away, then,” he said, and kissed her again.
CHAPTER 15
Doyle was in the car with Williams, getting a briefing on their way to the address in Richmond. “The report came from the hospital,” he related. “It seems that Delenger himself was reluctant to draw attention.”
“Probably because he is the late Mrs. Song’s father,” Doyle guessed. “And he doesn’t want even more attention piled atop the last miserable round.”
“Right; and he’s somewhat notorious in his own right—at least, within the Inns of Court.”
“Aye; Acton said he was known to be a bit slippery.”
Williams nodded. “A brilliant legal mind, but he used it to represent a lot of questionable defendants, back in his day.”
“So; he was Sir Vikili before Sir Vikili was Sir Vikili.”
“I guess you could say that.”
She blew out a breath. “Acton’s wondering if he’s shammin’ this attack, but with that kind of history there are probably tons of people who are dyin’ to push him into the river. Mayhap that’s the real reason he was reluctant to bring attention.”
But Williams shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know, Kath; he’s been retired for a while. You’d think anyone wanting revenge would have acted by now.”
“Right. A robbery got bad, then? Mayhap someone saw an old man in a wealthy neighborhood, and decided to take advantage?”
“Could be,” Williams offered in a neutral tone.
Quirking her mouth, she glanced over at him. “Well, that’s not true. I take it you agree with Acton, and think this Delenger fellow’s up to somethin’ underhanded.”
“The story does seem a little unbelievable.”
Since he offered nothing more, she pressed, “So—what do we think is afoot, then? Acton says he might be an heir to Mrs. Song’s fortune, but that seems unlikely and I don’t see the angle; why would he fake an attack, even if that were the case?”
“We will have to see,” he replied.
Annoyed, she blew a tendril of hair off her forehead. “Keep your secrets then, DI Williams. Only remember that if I’m in the dark, I’m likely to blunder about and put paid to all your careful plans.”
He chuckled. “Don’t think I’m not aware of this.”
“No need for that attitude, my friend—I’ve saved your bacon, many a time.”
“And I saved yours. I think we’re even.”
Reminded, she frowned slightly. “Have you ever saved Acton?”
He glanced at her. “Saved him?”
“Aye.”
“Not that I am aware. Why?”
A bit lamely she replied, “I was just thinkin’ about it—Acton’s not one who needs anyone ridin’ in to his rescue.”
“Shandera saved him,” Williams offered.
Doyle raised her brows. “Oh—oh, good one, Thomas.” When the artwork-rig had come crashing down, DS Shandera had allowed Acton to escape custody so as to go rescue the fair Doyle.
Williams glanced over at her. “And speaking of that, have you heard? Shandera’s getting kicked upstairs—he’s landed an administrative job in Central Command.”
“Has he? No, I haven’t heard.” She thought about it for a moment. “It’s a good fit for both sides, though; he’s a good face to put forward for the Met, and he’ll be out of the field—I don’t think he was very happy, knockin’ heads together.” Shandera hailed from the West Indies, and had been a key player in several Doyle-adventures.
“Yes—I can see him winding-up with the brass; he’s good with people.”
“Aye,” she agreed, and thought; and now we’ve another Acton-ally, firmly planted in the higher echelons. I can see Acton’s fine hand behind this—not that it’s not well-deserved, of course.
Since they were nearing their destination, Doyle decided she’d best get on with her quest, or escort-mission, or whatever it was. “You play video-games, right?”
“When I have the chance—not a lot of time, lately.”
“NPC means non-playin’ character.”
“Right. Characters in the game who just stay in the background.”
“Do they get killed?”
“Sometimes.” He glanced at her. “What’s this about?”
“I wish I knew,” she confessed. “Is there any way to identify the other gamers in London—people who play the games with you?”
“No—everyone’s anonymous. You get to make-up names for your character, which is part of the entertainment.”
With a knit brow, she said slowly, “I think there’s a gamer who’d been killed. But I don’t know why it matters.”
“All right,” he said, glancing at her with a serious expression—Williams knew to pay close attention to such things. “I’ll keep my ears open.”
“Thanks. I wish I could tell you more. He’s late twenties, and seems well-educated.”
“That narrows it down to just about everybody on-line,” he advised in a dry tone.
“Right; I’ll see if I can come up with anythin’ else.”
They’d come to the address—a residence building within a gated community, and—after the guard checked his notes, they were waved through.
Doyle glanced at Williams. “Seems unlikely this was a chance assault, if you have to get through the gates.”
“Good point. Although the assailant may have come from the river side.”
“I suppose. Which just goes to show that havin’ heaps of money doesn’t protect you against bad luck. Same with his daughter, and her bad luck in pickin’ husbands—faith, it’s a bad-luck family.”
“Just like in the story,” Williams observed, as he parked the car.
Doyle slid her gaze to him. “The hound story, d’you mean?”
“Yes—the Baskervilles were supposedly cursed, and so the killer used the legend to his own advantage.”
“Now, that’s very interestin’,” said Doyle thoughtfully.
CHAPTER 16
The door to the upscale townhouse was opened by a home-health worker, a capable-looking woman who explained, “Mr. Delenger is expecting you, officers; if you will follow me?”
They were escorted into a sitting room—open-spaced and modern, with a fine view of the river. Rather incongruously, the room was packed with antique furnishings—the man must have downsized when he retired, but kept his favorite pieces. Doyle wasn’t much for antiques, but it seemed to her that the elegant, old-world furniture was on par with the stuff at Trestles; Mr. Delenger was wealthy—or had been, once upon a time—which lined-up with what Williams had said about his rather questionable career.
Delenger himself was seated in a massive wing-chair near the windows, a shawl over his lap and a cane leaning against his leg. “Forgive me if I do not rise,” he said, a slight rasp to his voice.
He was indeed an elderly man—early eighties, Doyle guessed—although oddly enough, she’d the sure sense that he was more robust than he presented. He’s playing the part of an invalid to gain some sort of advantage, she decided; mayhap having this helpful home health-care worker.
And despite his neutral expression, Doyle had the immediate sense that Delenger was assessing them shrewdly, and with a fair measure of contempt. He’s thinking it will be easy to run rings around us, Doyle decided; Acton’s right—he’s pullin’ the wool, somehow. He’s the type who lives for such things—thinks he’s miles smarter than everyone else, and very much enjoys hoodwinking lesser beings. Small wonder he was a successful criminal defense attorney—he was bred to the bone for it.
