Murder in all patience, p.8
Murder in All Patience, page 8
Williams introduced them, and the man greeted Doyle with a bow of his head. “Lady Acton, well-met; I have heard so much about you.”
This, said with the tiniest nuance and Doyle had the immediate sense he was subtly trying to needle her; it didn’t land, mainly because she was well-familiar with this type—the type who needled for the sport of it, and then would act hurt if anyone dared to call them out. And so, with an easy smile she replied, “I’m wearin’ my ‘Officer Doyle’ hat this time around, sir, but I wish I wasn’t here as law enforcement. I’m that sorry to hear you were assaulted.”
“No more than I,” he agreed in a rueful tone. “Not what one would expect, certainly.”
Oh, she thought; he’s bamboozling—and here’s why Acton was keen on my coming along.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Williams asked, as they settled into chairs.
With a regretful sigh, the elderly man contemplated his gnarled hands, resting in his lap. “It was Tuesday last. It is my habit to walk along the riverfront in the evenings—got to keep the old bones moving.”
Williams prompted, “And then?”
Delenger made an embarrassed gesture. “I’m not going to be very helpful, I’m afraid. I was seized from behind, and wrestled into the water.” With a self-deprecating grimace, he added, “I was caught by surprise, and didn’t put up much of a fight.”
Making-up the tale out of whole cloth, thought Doyle. I wonder why?
“How many assailants?” asked Williams, putting-on what Doyle called his ‘concerned’ face as he began to take notes on a tablet.
Ah—he’s not buying it, either, she thought. I may as well have stayed home—not to mention in the usual course of things, it’s the support-officer who would be taking the notes.
“Only the one, I believe. I’d the sense he was a young man—overpowered me easily.”
“And you were alone?”
“I was.”
Oh, thought Doyle; another lie—someone was indeed with him, for this fanciful struggle. That’s of interest—although he may have needed someone to help him stage his injuries.
This thought was almost immediately confirmed when Delenger grimaced. “I suffered some bruising, but thankfully nothing serious.”
“Good on those old bones,” Doyle offered, unable to resist.
Hiding his annoyance, the witness chuckled, and lowered his gaze. “Indeed.”
She intercepted a glance from Williams, and then lowered her own gaze. Right—button your lip, and no counter-needling, she warned herself. Obviously, there’s more going on here than meets the eye.
“If you could show me on a map—” Williams said, and leaned forward to display his tablet.
“Just there,” the other said, placing a bony fingertip on the map. “And then I was rescued over here.” Again, he indicated.
With his concern-face well in place, Williams said, “You did well to fight the river current—it’s very strong, along there.”
“Fortunately, I still held my cane, and managed to wedge it between the pilings on the dock.”
He patted the cane fondly, drawing Doyle’s gaze to it; it was yet another old-school antique—some sort of dark wood, with the silver head of a beast as a handle. “Oh,” she said in sudden realization; “Isn’t that the horror-hound, from the Baskerville story?”
Very pleased, the elderly man lifted it so that she could see it clearly. “Very good, Lady Acton. “A wonderful contrivance; it has a gun, hidden within.”
“Does it?” asked Williams with a show of keen interest. “That’s very clever, I must say.”
“The Victorians were very clever people. The handle twists off.” He added, “The mechanism has been disabled, of course, to abide by the law.”
Not true, thought Doyle. With a show of naïve admiration, she exclaimed, “A fine thing; lucky you are, that the robber didn’t take it.”
But this bit of needling—which earned her yet another admonishing glance from Williams—did not discomfit the witness, who only nodded in agreement. “Yes. And so, it does not appear that robbery was the aim.”
“Exactly—this attack has the CID a bit concerned,” Williams explained in a serious tone. “You are a potential heir to your daughter’s fortune, and one of the other potential heirs has recently been killed. It may be unrelated, but nevertheless every precaution should be taken.”
With a frown, the witness slowly shook his snowy head. “I can’t think the two incidents are in any way related, Officer. There’s little chance that I would inherit; instead, my daughter’s estate would go to her husband’s heirs.”
“The Forfeiture Rule might come into play,” Williams pointed out. “Bradford Song did try to murder her.”
“But he didn’t succeed, and his own heirs are certainly innocent,” the older man pointed out in a reasonable tone. With a heartfelt sigh, he lowered his gaze for a silent moment. “My poor, dear girl.”
He’s being over-theatrical, thought Doyle with a touch of distaste; but on the other hand, I suppose that’s the mark of a successful barrister.
As though struck by a sudden thought, Williams asked, “Is it possible your assailant was Bradford Song, himself? No one can seem to find him, and perhaps he is trying to muddy the waters with respect to the inheritance.”
“Perhaps,” the older man agreed with a thoughtful air. “I could not identify him as such, either way—it all happened very quickly, and I was taken unaware.”
He’s smirking to himself, and thinking we’re both idiots, Doyle thought.
“It’s worth looking into, certainly,” Williams offered as he closed his tablet, and then sheathed it in his rucksack. “It does look to be an attempted murder.”
“Why didn’t you report the attack, sir?” Doyle couldn’t help but ask. If the whole thing was staged for some reason, the failure to report didn’t make much sense.
“I was embarrassed,” Delenger confessed, holding up a rueful palm. And there was no lasting damage.”
“Thanks to your fine cane,” Doyle agreed.
“A very useful ally,” the elderly man declared, with a fond pat to the silver beast-head. “And a prized possession. That, and my clock.”
He lifted a hand to indicate to the old-school wooden clock that sat upon the fireplace mantle—incongruously out-of-place, in the modern setting. “Do you like it, Lady Acton?”
“Very nice,” said Doyle dutifully, even though she didn’t, much.
“Perhaps not to your taste,” he said kindly, as though speaking to a child.
Hastily, Williams preempted any response from his support officer by offering his card. “Please contact me if you see anything suspicious, sir. Be certain to secure the doors and windows—and here’s hoping for a quick recovery.”
“Yes—such things take longer than they used to, I’m afraid.” He then addressed Doyle. “I regret that I must decline your kind invitation, Lady Acton. I had hoped to attend the Trestles gala.”
“Your cane would have loved it,” Doyle offered with a smile.
With a sigh, the elderly man lowered his chin. “So many selfless causes; it will be a fine evening.”
“One’s not so very selfless,” Doyle joked, “since Acton’s representin’ the Police Benefit Society.”
There was a small silence. “Yes,” the witness replied in a brittle tone. “It was one of my poor daughter’s favorite charities.”
Now, that’s interesting, thought Doyle; he’s gone suddenly wary, behind his hooded gaze, but I haven’t the least idea what I said that made him so.
“Thank you for your time,” Williams said, as they rose. “And please—keep a sharp eye out for anything unusual. This attack is very troubling.”
Well, that’s not true, thought Doyle, as she solemnly nodded along.
CHAPTER 17
Once Doyle and Williams were safely within the confines of the car, she immediately declared, “Faith, what a load of malarky.”
“Yes,” Williams agreed, as he lifted a hand to acknowledge the guard at the gate.
She frowned. “What’s his aim, though? If this fake-attack was meant to be some sort of misdirection-play, it seems odd he didn’t report it to the police.”
“I think he didn’t want to be the first reporter—it looks better for him if he wasn’t.”
But Doyle wasn’t following. “Looks better why?”
Her companion was silent for a moment, and so she added in an ominous tone, “If I’m to be worked like a rented-mule, Thomas, I deserve to know why.”
Coming to a decision, he disclosed, “Acton believes Delenger was behind the murder of the first heir.”
Doyle turned to stare at him in surprise. “Truly?”
“Yes; and apparently Delenger realizes that Acton suspects as much, and so he staged this attack to make it seem as though he’s just another one of the victims.”
“Mother a’ Mercy,” Doyle exclaimed, “It is like an Agatha Christie story.”
Williams smiled a bit grimly. “I suppose you could say.”
But Doyle knit her brow, not quite following this working-theory. “I don’t know, Thomas—you could knock this fellow over with a finger, and he’s eighty if he’s a day. Doesn’t seem a likely murderer.”
“He has a gun in his cane, remember.”
“True—and he was that pleased to draw our attention to it—smirkin’ all the while. All right—I will concede he’d opportunity, since the heir’s murder was here in Richmond, but what would be the motive? It’s very unlikely Delenger would inherit, no matter how much he plots and schemes—not to mention there’s every chance he may not even live another seven years.”
Williams explained, “It helps to understand the context. Much of Mrs. Song’s fortune was inherited from Sebastian Moran.”
“Right,” Doyle remembered. “Her first husband—another barrister.”
“And Moran was from the same Inn as Delenger. In fact, Delenger was the member who supported Moran’s entry.”
This was of interest, and Doyle raised her brows. “Before or after the man married his daughter?”
“Before.”
Doyle blew out a breath. “Faith, it’s just like the aristos—tryin’ to preserve their power through arranged marriages, and such.”
“I suppose you could say that. Delenger did have a great deal of power, back in his day.”
“Not anymore, he doesn’t,” she declared with satisfaction. “For like the grass, they will soon wither.”
But Williams didn’t appreciate going off-topic. “As I was saying, Kath.”
“Oh—sorry. Go on.”
“Sebastian Moran, if you’ll recall, was involved in the judicial sex-trafficking scandal.”
“Oh,” she breathed, as the penny dropped. A few years ago, they’d broken-up a nasty rig that preyed on immigrant women—women who were falsely sent to prison by conspiring judges. The victims were then forced into prostitution in order to secure their release. “And you’re tellin’ me that Delenger was involved, too?”
“Yes. In fact, Acton believes most of the money from that rig wound-up parked with his daughter—the money she inherited from her first husband was a means to hide the illegal proceeds from the sex-trafficking rig, after the rig was exposed.”
Doyle frowned. “Faith, that’s sneaky. Was she aware of this, d’you think?”
“Unclear. She did try to divorce Moran, if you’ll remember, but he died before she initiated the proceedings.”
Doyle’s detective-instinct immediately reared its head, and she turned to him. “I wonder if her father was behind her husband’s death?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. A lot could have been exposed, in a divorce proceeding.”
Slowly, Doyle shook her head. “Holy Mother, but they’re a horrid slate of people.”
He glanced over at her. “What’s interesting is there is no record of any of her money going back to her father—no indication that she’d returned it to him, after Moran’s death. And meanwhile, Mrs. Song was a major benefactress for the Police Benefit Society.”
“Oh-ho,” Doyle breathed; she’s playin’ keep-away from her awful father—giving him back his own, mayhap.”
“Yes. He was not happy when you mentioned the charity—did you notice?”
“Aye; that was the only time his mask seemed to slip.”
Williams drove for a few minutes, whilst Doyle contemplated these revelations as she gazed at the passing scenery. “So now we’ve got corrupt judges involved in the artwork-rig, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it is the same group that was involved in the sex-traffickin’ rig.”
“Right.”
“They were all restin’ easy, but then Bradford Song’s disappearance threw a spanner in works—shinin’ a spotlight on both these scandals, and the connections betwixt them. And meanwhile, Acton is settin’-up a charity-gala that seems custom-made to entice Delenger to Trestles—he was tryin’ to kite the man into the stunbox.”
Williams laughed aloud. “Now, there’s something I never thought I’d hear you say, Kath.”
Doyle smiled, but continued with her musings. “But Delenger has now side-stepped the gala by faking this attack—and at the same time, he’s muddying the waters with respect to the first heir’s death. He’s wary, and won’t be trapped.”
“I think that about sums it up.”
Puzzled, she turned to him. “Judge Oliver doesn’t seem to be afraid to beard the lion in his den, though—wouldn’t he want to sidestep the gala, just like Delenger?”
“Maybe he thinks he’s untouchable—he’s that kind.”
Thoughtfully, she nodded. “Aye. Or he and Delenger haven’t compared notes, mayhap—Delenger is miles more wily than Oliver.”
“I would agree—and you can see Delenger’s hand behind both rigs; the key to the success of the sex-trafficking rig was that type of victim would be reluctant to come forward, and the key to the success of the artwork-rig was that it’s not a crime to sell overpriced artwork. Delenger knows what evidence the prosecution would need, and he knows how to counter it.”
She added, “Not to mention it’s a sleeveless task, to try to get a conviction when the judges are bent.”
“Exactly.”
But Doyle couldn’t forget that there was another factor, here, that was important; Acton was being blackmailed by stupid Gerry Lestrade, who’d been up to his ears in the artwork-rig even though the lead officer on the case—who now sat beside her—didn’t seem to know this extremely pertinent fact.
After debating whether this was another one of those times that she should button her lip, she ventured, “Thomas, it is possible that Lestrade was involved in the artwork-rig, but you didn’t know it?”
“No,” he replied bluntly, glancing over at her. “We knew who all the players were, by tracing the artwork and the money. Our problem was proving that it was deliberate money-laundering instead of just overpayment.”
Stubbornly, she persisted, “Then, could it be possible that Lestrade was pig-a-backin’ the rig, and makin’ some money whilst the sun shone?”
This was the term for a scam-artist who posed as part of a larger criminal enterprise so as to skim-off some of the profits. Pig-a-back scamsters tended to have short life expectancies, however, depending upon how ruthless the players in the actual enterprise were—and the players in this artwork-rig had been as ruthless as they came.
On the other hand, Gerry Lestrade had a potent ally, and Doyle added, “He may have felt that he’d never face the fiddler, since even if they found out he was scammin’ them, they wouldn’t dare go after Savoie’s brother.”
Williams thought about this for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible, but it’s hard to believe that Acton wouldn’t know about it.”
Tentatively, she ventured, “I think Acton does know about it.”
Raising his brows, Williams glanced at her. “And he didn’t want to tell me?”
“Aye. Mayhap he felt it was best to allow this particular sleepin’ Lestrade-dog to lie.”
“Because of Savoie.”
Suddenly realizing that she was treading on fragile ground—her wretched, wretched tongue—Doyle pleaded, “Forget I said, Thomas. I may be speakin’ out of school.”
“No problem—I’ll be happy to stay out of this one.”
This, because there was no love lost between Williams and Savoie—not to mention that Williams would be rightfully annoyed if he hadn’t been informed that Lestrade was involved in the case, somehow—even as a pig-a-backer.
As an excuse, she offered, “I think Acton’s hands are tied—Lestrade’s being who he is.”
Williams nodded in concession. “Right. Although the difference between the two brothers is pretty stark—Lestrade doesn’t have a patch on Savoie.”
“That’s exactly what I thought, too; Lestrade makes an unlikely kingpin—it’s amazin’ that anyone would give him the responsibility.”
“He’s more a minion—more a Watson than a Holmes.”
She laughed. “You’ve got the Baskerville story on the brain, my friend.”
“I suppose I do.”
“Well, let’s get ourselves back to Agatha Christie, for a moment; explain to me how Delenger’s killin’ the heir is goin’ to help him lay hands on the money—if he was never eligible to be an heir in the first place. And explain it slowly, as though I was a first-year.”
“Ask Acton,” was her companion’s reply.
She nodded, since this was only fair play; she couldn’t tell Williams some things—only see how she’d stepped in it with the Lestrade wrinkle—and Williams couldn’t tell her some things, since it should be left to Acton to decide how much the man’s wedded wife would be told. After all, she’d been known to jump over the traces and spoil Acton’s finely-wrought plans, if she thought it needful, and she’d the feeling—based on the appearance of a certain ghost—that she was being primed to do just such a thing again.
